Chapter Text
You know, this whole time, Charlie’s been telling himself it’s fine. He didn’t ask for that producer to slide into his DMs on Instagram, but when he did, what, was Charlie going to say no to the chance to appear on a hot new reality TV show? Think how big this could be, and he’s not just talking about the potential prize pot.
A show themed around going to private concerts and meeting god knows how many famous bands for a whole month of filming? And if he wins, think of what the publicity could do for Charlie’s band. Surely Charlie’s got this show, whatever it is, in the bag. He’s a drummer. He knows music. He doesn’t need to know how the elimination criteria work to know that he’s going to easily win this thing.
Plus, the host is Jack Henry Maddox. You know, the famous English scholar-turned-keyboardist for Spare Parts? Charlie loves Spare Parts, and he loves Maddox—you know, a totally reasonable, heterosexual amount. Charlie’s allowed to admire other men, isn’t he? Especially when that man is hosting the show Charlie’s slated to appear on. Frankly, it would be rude of Charlie not to fanboy a little once the cameras are rolling.
So what if it also happens to be a dating show? So what if that producer wanted to make absolutely sure before signing Charlie that Charlie was also a total sex maniac? It’s not like he’s not. A total sex maniac, that is. And he flaunts it. If he’s not ashamed to tweet and Snap about being a player—all for the sake of getting more exposure for Queen Intentions, of course—then why should he be ashamed to say it on a Netflix show?
But he can’t deny that he’s maybe he’s a little bit out of his depth when he actually shows up on set for his first day of filming. Charlie’s so busy taking in the confessional room—black walls, black floor, and a backdrop of zigzagging LED tube lights barely illuminating a cushy black barstool halfway from the wall to where he assumes the camera will be—that he’s missing half of what the producer, Harry, is saying to him. When Charlie remembers to tune back in, Harry’s carrying on about the daily schedule—the in-home chef who will be cooking all their meals and the double beds Charlie will get to share with whichever beautiful women he wants.
“Never mind that,” says Charlie thoughtlessly. “What about the bands? When do we get to meet Jack Maddox?”
Harry snorts. “You’ll meet him soon enough. You’re the first confessional we’re doing, and from here, we’ll send you out to the villa along with the second one to start filming the meet-and-greet scene. Each cast member will join you once their confessional is done, and we’ll film a bit in between each. Then you’ll meet Maddox. He’ll explain everything about how the rules work, but not until tonight at your first party scene.”
Charlie decides that he already doesn’t like Harry, who’s coming across like he’s a bit too pleased to be in control of all the information that Charlie doesn’t have yet. Harry’s gelled brown hair makes him look sort of like a teenager, to be honest. A teenage bully. The kind that used to bully Charlie before he had his glow-up and became a famous drummer. Famous enough, anyway. Come on—Queen Intentions has two hundred thousand followers on Instagram. That’s certainly more than Harry has for his unknown little dating show that hasn’t dropped its first season yet. He should be thanking Charlie, really, for bringing all his fans here.
“So are all the cast musicians?” asks Charlie, trying to push down the bad feeling Harry gives him. Harry may be behind the camera, but he’s still going to have to interact with this guy every day for the next month: Charlie may as well not make that any harder for himself than it has to be.
Harry smirks. “You’re gonna have to find that out for yourself when you meet them.”
“No spoilers?”
“No spoilers. Come on, let’s get the camera rolling, gents!” he adds, raising his voice to the crew behind him.
One of them, who appears to be operating the extensive lighting equipment stretching up to the ceiling, rolls her eyes. “We’re not all gentlemen here, I’ll remind you, Harry.”
“Ignore her,” Harry tells Charlie in an undertone. “Singh always thinks she’s so clever, but she forgets I sign her paychecks.”
The bad feeling intensifies. Charlie frowns.
“Singh is our gaffer,” adds Harry, and he starts pointing between the crew. “Lange here is our mixer, and Ajayi and Farouk are our camera operators. That’s basically the core and covers everybody you need to know. PAs and rubbish don’t count.” (One of what Charlie assumes are the production assistants gives Harry a very dirty look when Harry’s not looking; Charlie grins at her.) “In fact, you don’t even need to know the core crew. If we’re doing our jobs right, you’ll forget we’re here catching everything on camera at all. That’s the most important thing, all right? You want to act natural. Don’t think about the fact you’re being filmed. I want you to ignore everyone here but me, all right? But when I ask you questions, don’t answer me. Look into the camera.”
“Uh, which one? There are two.”
“Mine,” says Farouk, an Arabic man who’s cocking his head toward Charlie. He has huge, bushy eyebrows and a stern gaze. “I’m the principal camera, so in confessionals, you always want to be looking straight at me. Ajayi will capture side shots, stuff like that.”
He says this so commandingly that Charlie gets the strong impression that Farouk is not someone to cross. The dark-skinned Ajayi, on the other hand, is smiling amusedly. “You’ll have to be patient with Farouk here. He forgot his people skills in the trunk.”
Farouk ignores this entirely, even as Singh snickers at him. “Go ahead and take a seat, Charlie. It’s going to take us a few minutes to get set up. We’re going to need to do a sound check on you, too, before we can really start rolling.”
So Charlie takes a seat on the barstool and attempts to pay attention to Harry’s prattling without losing his patience. Charlie used to take a lot of shit from guys like Harry, you know? And now that he doesn’t have to anymore, he doesn’t want to turn back.
Things are different now. He’s in a band that has two hundred thousand followers on Instagram. He gets a different woman in his bed every single night back at home, and he’s sure it’ll be the same here. However unpleasant Harry may be in here, in the confessionals, didn’t he just say that his job is to be invisible out there? Charlie’s going to get a month’s worth of private concerts and hot girls, and isn’t that enough to make this experience worth it?
That’s when he’s practically blinded as Singh turns on the overhead light. “Don’t mind me,” she tells him, pulling her brown hair into a sloppy bun at the back of her head before returning to the lights. Her smile is warm and inviting. “It’s going to take a few minutes to adjust these, but they won’t be so blinding in just a minute.”
“Right,” says Charlie, fidgeting. “Uh, I know Harry said to treat you like you’re invisible, but—”
“No chitchat,” Harry says sharply. “If you start now, you’re going to forget later that you can’t, and that can ruin a whole take if it happens out there in the villa in the middle of something that could have made it into the final cut. In here, I’m the only person who exists to you.”
Charlie bites his tongue very hard and purses his lips.
It doesn’t take as long as he expected before Singh announces that she’s good to go, and then Lange comes forward and hooks Charlie up with a microphone on a round black cord that goes over his head. “This thing is going to be on me—on all of us—in every take?” says Charlie in slight disbelief. “That’s pretty visible.”
“It’s a necessary evil,” says Lange cheerfully. “You’ll be in swimsuits most of the time, so you won’t have proper clothes on to hide mics behind, especially the men. Give me a sec to get back to my equipment, and then I just want you to talk at me for a moment, all right?”
“Talk at you?”
“Say anything. Doesn’t matter what. I just need to make sure the sound is good before we can really start rolling.”
“Right,” says Charlie a little self-consciously as Lange backs up a few pages and gives him a thumbs-up. “Um, I don’t know what to… say. I guess I—”
“That’s good,” interrupts Lange. “We’re good to start rolling, Harry.”
Harry smiles smugly. “Excellent. Charlie, walk off camera.”
“I—what?”
“We’re going to actually film you walking onscreen and sitting down. Walk off camera. Get to the left. My left—your right.”
“Oh. Okay.”
So Charlie walks off camera to the right, Harry’s left, and waits for Harry’s thumbs up. Feeling very stupid, attempting to walk normally and not seem too contrived for any reason under the sun, he then walks back to the stool and sits down.
“So quiet,” Harry complains. “This is a confessional. You need to be quipping at the camera, giving us workable material. Tell jokes. Laugh at them when you do.”
“I hope Jack Maddox isn’t as bossy as this,” mutters Charlie. “I was looking forward to meeting him, you know.”
He’s caught off guard when Harry praises, “Perfect. Lange, how was that for sound?”
“Good,” grunts Lange. “I caught enough of your line to be able to use it, I think.”
“I thought your dialogue wasn’t supposed to make it on-camera,” says Charlie, frowning.
“It almost never does, but we like to use it when jokes evolve organically in introductions sometimes,” Harry says. “So tell me about yourself. Tell me why you wanted to be on Sex, Love, Rock ’n’ Roll.”
Charlie clears his throat. Is it just him, or are these lights still really bright in his face? “Well, I wanted—”
“No,” Harry interjects.
Charlie frowns. “Um, what?”
“You always want to rephrase the question and speak in present tense. Remember, the audience is never hearing any of what I’m saying—or almost never. ‘On Sex, Love, Rock ’n’ Roll, I want…’”
“Oh. Yeah, okay. So—okay. On Sex, Love, Rock ’n’ Roll, I want to combine my two true loves, which are music and women.”
“But not falling in love with women?” Harry prompts. “Fucking women.”
It feels a bit crass to put it like that, so Charlie says instead, “Well, yeah. Playing the drums and playing women. Put it that way.”
“So serious. Give it to me with a bit of a laugh.”
Charlie summons all of the acting prowess he ever learned that one summer he did theater camp before deciding he wanted to be in a rock band instead. “Playing the drums and playing women,” he repeats, chuckling.
“Good. Talk to me about the drumming. Is that what you do full-time?”
“Yeah.” Remembering what Harry said about rephrasing the question, Charlie goes on, “So I’m a drummer for this band called Queen Intentions.” And then he parrots what he’s been saying about his band’s name for literally years now. “For the record, I did not pick the name, but it’s fitting enough. It’s thanks to this band that I get a different queen in my bed every night, after all.”
Harry smirks again. “That’s good, Charlie, but we’ll come back to the women. Tell me how long you’ve been doing it—how you think it’s going to help you on the show.”
“Well, I don’t know how it’s going to help me, do I? I don’t actually know any of the rules. I just know there will be concerts and fit girls.”
“Okay, but say that as if I hadn’t asked you about it. Make sure you’re looking at Farouk’s camera.”
Forcing himself not to roll his eyes, Charlie looks back into the camera. He tries to focus on Farouk, who has a much less annoying presence than Harry does. “I’ve been drumming since I was, like, fifteen? We started up Queen Intentions when I was nineteen, and I’ve been doing it professionally ever since. I’m hoping it helps me win the prize money this season, but I suppose I don’t actually know if it will. All I really know about the show is that there will be concerts and fit girls.”
While he’s talking, he can see Ajayi panning his camera around to the side, but Charlie tries not to let his eyes wander in Ajayi’s direction. The fewer reshoots he has to do, the better.
“And you said you’re a Maddox fan?”
“Oh, definitely. Huge fan.” A smile slips onto Charlie’s face. “I’ve been following him since Spare Parts’ first single.”
“Play it up for me. Make it dramatic,” says Harry. Right: this is a reality TV show. “But don’t sound so excited that it sounds artificial. You want to seem believable.”
“Oh. Uh—I guess I could definitely say I’ve got a bit of a man crush on Maddox. I don’t really fancy him—not in, like, a weird way—but I still have saved the autograph I got from him when I saw Spare Parts live when I was sixteen. I don’t know. Maybe that’s a bit weird,” Charlie says, forcing a laugh, trying to sound natural.
Harry grins. “Great. Doing great, Charlie. And what about the women? Fit girls, you said?”
“Fit girls,” repeats Charlie. “They haven’t told me much about the women who are coming on the show with me, but I’m hoping they’re alt rock fans. I do know they’re coming from all over the world, and I can’t wait to get some international girls in my bed on Sex, Love, Rock ’n’ Roll.”
“And you get a lot of that back home?”
“It’s not exactly hard for me to get girls back home, just not always the international kind. I mean, I go on tour with Queen Intentions half the year, but mostly just in Britain. I’m a sucker for an Australian accent, though.”
Harry narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “And what would you say your type is?” he asks. It’s funny, honestly, how ridiculous it is that he’s asking that so seriously.
“My type?” Charlie echoes. “Short blonde hair, dark eyes, sweet smile, small chest.”
“Small chest?” Harry raises his eyebrows.
Charlie shrugs. “Big boobs are overrated.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, Harry shrugs. “Okay, then. So you implied before that you’re something of a player. Can you tell me more about that?”
“Oh, I’m definitely a player. A different girl every night, just how I like it.” Feeling like he may as well commit to it, Charlie adds, “I’ve probably broken my fair share of hearts. I’ll give you the best night of your life, but I won’t come back. I get bored. My mum thinks I’ll settle down when I find The One, but I don’t really believe she’s out there. I’m having too much fun to find her, anyway.”
“And you’re looking forward to having fun on the show?”
“The only problem is there are only so many girls,” says Charlie, grinning. “I’ll run out in a week, two tops.”
“So you don’t plan on finding a serious relationship while you’re here.”
Snorting, Charlie repeats, “A serious relationship? Are you kidding me? I can’t imagine anything I want less.”
“Excellent,” remarks Harry. “I think I’ve got all the dialogue I need from you, Charlie, but we’re not quite done with you yet. We’ll need to get some sexy poses from you before we can let you go.” He says this so clinically that it, again, sounds bizarre coming out of his mouth.
Charlie raises his eyebrows. “Sexy poses?”
“You know, filler shots. Look enticingly at the camera. Give us some smiles. We’ll have you take off your shirt and get a bunch of shots of those abs. I know you’ve got some on you. We did do our research before we contacted you.”
Feeling intensely uncomfortable, Charlie shrugs one shoulder. “Um, okay. But I’m not going to kiss my bicep, all right?”
On Sex, Love, Rock ’n’ Roll, I want to combine my two true loves, which are playing the drums and playing women.
Electropop music begins to play in the background as a Spanish man, maybe in his mid-twenties, laughs and smiles at the camera. His curly black hair flops in his eyes as the camera pans down another shot of him, this one shirtless, lingering on his abdomen. While the music continues, letters start to flash on the screen from black to white within a neon purple outline: CHARLIE.
I’ve been drumming professionally ever since we started up Queen Intentions when I was nineteen. For the record, I did not pick the name, but it’s fitting enough. It’s thanks to this band that I get a different queen in my bed every night, after all.
The electropop music cascades down in pitch suddenly, like it’s emphasizing that Charlie’s just told a bad joke. Then a different song resumes, and Charlie continues to speak after a few more moments of images of him.
I could definitely say I’ve got a bit of a man crush on Maddox. Huge fan. I’ve been following him since Spare Parts’ first single. I guess I don’t really fancy him—the camera cuts to Charlie blowing a kiss at the camera—but I still have saved the autograph I got from him when I saw Spare Parts live when I was sixteen. I don’t know. Maybe that’s a bit weird. Charlie laughs again as crickets chirp in the background during another momentary pause in the music.
They haven’t told me much about the women who are coming on the show with me, but I’m hoping they’re alt rock fans. I do know they’re coming from all over the world, and I can’t wait to get some international girls in my bed on Sex, Love, Rock ’n’ Roll. I mean, I go on tour with Queen Intentions half the year, but mostly just in Britain. I’m a sucker for an Australian accent, though. Short blonde hair, dark eyes, sweet smile—the camera pans back to another shot of Charlie pouting—big boobs…
The camera continues to flash shots of him at various angles, mostly smiling, a few of them pouting, all of them shirtless. Oh, I’m definitely a player. A different girl every night, just how I like it. I’ve probably broken my fair share of hearts. I’ll give you the best night of your life, but I won’t come back. I get bored. My mum thinks I’ll settle down when I find The One, but I don’t really believe she’s out there. I’m having too much fun to find her, anyway.
I’m hoping drumming since I was, like, fifteen helps me win the prize money this season, but I suppose I don’t actually know if it will. All I really know about the show is that there will be concerts and fit girls. The only problem is there are only so many girls. I’ll run out in a week, two tops.
The music drops off in pitch to silence again as Charlie stares blankly at some point behind the camera. “So quiet. Tell jokes. Laugh at them when you do,” suggests a producer offscreen as the video cuts to an animation of more crickets chirping—then back to Charlie.
I hope Jack Maddox isn’t as bossy as this. I was looking forward to meeting him, you know, Charlie continues as another animation plays onscreen, this one of a heart enclosing Charlie’s smiling face beside Jack Henry Maddox’s, a big black signature scrawled over Maddox’s side of the screen, just like an autograph. He adds, Not in, like, a weird way. There’s a brief animation of a drum kit as you hear behind it two taps of a snare drum followed by the crash of a cymbal.
The camera jumps back to Charlie. A serious relationship? Are you kidding me? I can’t imagine anything I want less. How overrated.
Another shirtless smile—and that’s a wrap.