Writers' & Artists' Short Story Competition 2023: Shortlist and Winners Announced!

Once again, a big thank you to the 850 writers who entered our 2023 short story competition this year, with the general standard of entries across the board being very high indeed.

Decisions had to be made, though, and here is this year's shortlist, made up of eight entries, followed by two runner-up entries and our overall winner as selected by this year's judge, the brilliant Naomi Booth, whose collection of short stories, Animals at Night, is available to buy here.

Shortlist:
A Parcel of Rogues by Kerry Ryan
A Short Trip to Tesco by Shani Akilah
Alphabet Spaghetti by Alys Key
Botanophilia by Erin Brady
Caving by Abigail Moss
How to Find Love on the Internet by Dani Glazzard
The Island by Grace Robinson
Would You Still Love Me? by Lorna Martin

Runners-up:
Would You Still Love Me? by Lorna Martin
How to Find Love on the Internet by Dani Glazzard

Winner:
The Island by Grace Robinson

Feedback from Naomi Booth:
"Love is like a butterfly, the great Dolly Parton tells us. Which makes me think: difficult to pin down; at risk of extinction if we succeed. But it was a delight to read these short stories about love—in part because of their commitment to the surprising, the various, the ephemeral, and the difficult to articulate. There were brilliant stories in this longlist that focussed on the sharp and tender pain of lost loves; on the wordless dislocation of maternal love; on new friendships and the rush of fresh beginnings.

"My favourite three stories reveal something new—shocking, even—in their explorations of love. In ‘Would you still love me?’ a lover is transformed into a worm. This story is a brutally funny, at times absurdist, exploration of romantic devotion. It made me laugh out loud—and recoil, wormlike—in places. ‘How to Find Love on the Internet’ is a witty account of the ebb and flow of desire in a relationship. This story manages to be sharp and tender at once: caustically funny and tenderly romantic. In ‘The Island’, the search for love becomes a deliciously dark dystopia. This story is a satire of ambition that simmers with tension and sensuality. The sensory quality of the writing—the shimmering heat, bare skin, and rotten fruit of the island—make this a highly charged and deeply atmospheric piece. I loved reading these witty and revelatory fictions."

Huge congratulations to our overall winner, Grace, who receives the fantastic prize of a place on an Arvon Foundation Writing Retreat (worth £850), our runners-up Lorna and Dani, and also to each of the writers that made it onto the shortlist.

You'll be able to read each of the runner-up entries and this year's winning story in full by scrolling to the bottom of this post.

And for those of you that weren't selected for this year's longlist (or have designs on entering a future competition), do keep an eye on the site for further opportunities. We run a variety of different competitions and prizes throughout the year, so be sure to check back to our Competitions page: https://www.writersandartists.co.uk/competitions

With thanks once again for trusting us with your words,

The W&A Team

***

Would You Still Love Me? by Lorna Martin (2023 runner-up)

When I woke up, he was a worm. Small, pink, but unmistakable — the gentle undulations of his body the exact movements he made every morning just as he started to wake. A worm. It was a shock, but I couldn't help watching for a while. Slowly he flipped himself over, one end (his head?) questing left, while the other (his tail?) tapped the mattress once. Quickly, I pushed back the blanket so as not to crush him.
"Jeremy," I said. I poked him softly, the way I'd usually give his arm a squeeze. "Jeremy!" Only hours before he'd kissed me goodnight, his face still damp from the shower. I could still feel the warmth of his body against mine. Now I wasn't sure which end was which. "You're a worm, Jeremy. A worm!"
He suddenly went very still, and I knew he was awake.
"Listen," I said, panicking. "I'm sure it's not that bad. We can fix this."
He looked at me — at least, one end of him lifted, turning towards my voice. His little pink body began to shake, leaving small damp marks on the sheet.
Could I still love a worm? I decided I would try.

I put him in a teacup and went to the garden centre.
"I need a big jar," I told the shop assistant. "With earth, some leaves, a bowl of water. It's for a worm."
"If you want worms," she told me, "there's composting stuff at the back outside."
"It's just one worm," I said, and started to cry.
"Oh no." She came out from behind the counter, wiping her palms on her gardening apron. "Is it — was the worm someone you knew?"
I nodded.
"I'm so sorry." She smelt like earth and mint chewing gum. "We'll find the perfect jar and the tastiest earth, I promise. Do you want a lid with holes in?"
"I don't need a lid," I said. "He's my boyfriend, not a pet."
I put Jeremy in the jar and placed it on the dresser at the end of our bed.
"There," I said brightly. "Not so bad, is it?"
He looked at me, then around at his new home. He dipped his head and slowly turned over some earth.
"That's right. It's the very best. It'll always be the very best, I promise."
I felt like I was about to cry again, so I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When I got back, the jar was empty.
"Jeremy!" I scanned the floor frantically. "Jeremy?" He wasn't there. The floor was clear, the varnished dresser already dry — only a sprinkle of earth dusted its surface. I froze, unable to move my feet in case I trod on him by accident.
"Please," I said, "Where are you?" My helplessness caught in my throat. Then I saw him — a tiny pink movement behind one of my shoes.
"There you are." I picked him up carefully and put him back in the jar. "Please stay here. I couldn't live with myself if —" I couldn't get the words out.
Jeremy was still, his head tilted to one side. I didn't even know if he could understand me. But I loved him all the same.

"I need a lid." It was the same woman at the garden centre, and I was grateful. "He keeps trying to get out, and
I'm so afraid of something happening to him."
She nodded, squinting in sympathy. "I understand. Have you thought about talking to someone?" She lowered her voice, leaning forward with her peppermint breath. "There's a local support group, meeting every Wednesday. I know it really helped my cousin when he lost someone."

She handed me a bright yellow business card. It read:

Have you lost a loved one to insect transformation?
WE BELIEVE YOU.
Receive support and understanding from others in your situation.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

I thanked her and paid for my lid, slipping the card into my pocket.

"Fresh compost," I announced, lifting Jeremy out of his jar and placing him in a mug while I cleaned his living space. He'd pushed all his earth to one side, building a tall, sloping structure against the glass. "I hope it tastes good to you. Does it?"
I watched him for a sign. He was really writhing, round and round at the bottom of the mug. His body twisted and coiled over itself violently. It wasn't like him at all. Even as a human, he'd always been calmer than me. It was why we'd worked so well together.
"Well, it's the best, anyway." I lifted him back inside. I had to concentrate, because he was surprisingly strong, his entire body a muscle trying to twist itself from my grasp.
"I might be late tonight," I told him. "I've found a group that might know what's happened to you. If there's any way to fix this, they'll know."
He regarded me from behind the glass, his movements slowing, his tail burrowing under the fresh soil, and my heart was warmed. Maybe his distress was due to his environment; maybe I wasn't changing his soil as frequently
as I should. I vowed to change it every day from now on as I screwed the lid shut.

The meeting was held in a room above a pub. I made my way through the throng below and followed the handwritten sign at the bottom of the stairs. INSECT TRANSFORMATION SUPPORT GROUP, it read, with a spidery arrow pointing up.
Seven people sat in a circle of rickety chairs. It was a real mix. The eldest was a gentleman who could be in his 80s, while the youngest woman couldn't have been older than 20. I took an empty seat next to a man who looked about my age. His head was bowed, and he picked at his nails anxiously.
"Hello," I said. "I hope I'm in the right place."
He glanced at me without interest. "New here?"
"Yes."
"Who was it?"
I swallowed. "My boyfriend."
He nodded sadly, and met my eyes properly for the first time. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"He's called Paul," I told Jeremy. "His girlfriend turned into a beetle just a few months ago. And he doesn't even have her the way we still have each other. He realised what had happened, but he wasn't quick enough — she just flew away. Straight out of an open window, and he never saw her again. Well, how would he know? Isn't that terrible?"
Jeremy was quieter today. He seemed determined to push his earth back into the slope I had disrupted, and while I couldn't understand it, I was glad if it was giving him a purpose. I watched him for a while. There were small cuts around his head, as if he'd tried to push through the holes in the lid.
"Jeremy," I said. "I'm so worried about you."
He paused, and raised his head to look at me.
"What do you want?" I felt tears coming, and this time I let them rise. "What can I do for you?"
We watched each other for a moment. Then Jeremy began to burrow into the earth pile, wriggling under its dark cover until he was completely invisible, and I was alone.
We had taken to staying behind after the meetings and having a drink at the pub.
"I just don't know what to do," I said. "He's not happy, I can tell. I'm doing everything I can think of but he's just not happy. What else can I do?"
"Maybe he's lonely," Paul says after a pause. "There's nothing worse than feeling lonely."
He gazed into his pint glass, his fingers tapping against its surface slowly. I looked at them and thought about Jeremy, how his hands had always been warmer than mine.
I thought of his pink worm's tail tapping softly against the glass.
"I just miss her so much," Paul said, his hand coming down to rest on my thigh.
It was a fantastic idea. I carried Jeremy's jar to the living room, taking care not to drop it in the dark.
"Jeremy," I whispered. "Jeremy, I've brought you something."
I couldn't see him, but the top of the earth shifted, so I knew he was in there, waiting.
"I hope this is the right thing," I said. I could feel alcohol tipping my world up, warmth settling into my chest. "I really miss you," I whispered into the dark jar.
"Everything alright?" Paul asked from the bedroom.
"One second." I reached into my earth-smeared pocket and examined the garden worm. It moved haltingly in the centre of my palm, its cold body damp, and so soft.
"Here you go, Jeremy," I said. I wiped away my tears. "I don't want you to be lonely."
There were things I just couldn't give him now, and the thought broke my heart.

Paul left early. He had work, he said, but I think the shock of what had happened between us had finally sunk in. I wondered if he had thought of his beetle girlfriend the way I had thought about Jeremy. I was grateful, so
grateful, to have Jeremy still with me, even in his new diminished form.
"Jeremy," I called as I made my way into the kitchen. "How was your night?" But as I bent down to look into the jar, my hands began to shake violently, and I ended up kneeling on the floor, too afraid to look.
I had seen blood. The earth had been pushed into its customary slope, and the exposed glass floor was red.
"Jeremy!" My hand was over my mouth and my fingers were trembling. I forced myself to reach up, to take the jar down from the table and to face what I had done.
One of the worms had killed the other. I didn't know how it was possible, but long strings of shredded flesh were draped across the bottom of the jar, crossing over each other in a deliberate pattern. In letters.
I turned the jar and in blood and flesh read, LET ME GO.
I breathed out. Shaking, I stood and put the jar back on the table. As I watched, the tall slope of earth shifted, and Jeremy's little pink head poked out, stretching into the air, unmistakably meeting my gaze.
He was alright. His tail emerged, and it tapped the glass beside his message, a warning.
But I couldn't let him go. I loved him too much.
 

***

How to Find Love on the Internet by Dani Glazzard (2023 runner-up)

Step One: Build an authentic profile.
Start by going for drinks with Soraya. Notice she’s drinking Negronis and you’re drinking cider. Notice her Reiss blazer and blunt bob. Wonder if your insulated jacket makes you look square. 
“It’s like a game,” she says, “but the prize is hot women.” 
Don’t point out Soraya talks about women as if she’s not one, just slurp your pint. 
On the bus home, struggle to get the conversation out of your head. Consider buying a Reiss blazer. Download Tinder, just to see how it works. Add your name: Bex. Age: 29. Show me: Women. Nearly stop when the app asks you to add photos, but scroll through your gallery looking for a good one, one of just you. Opt for a beach in Thailand. You, smiling under a mop of sun-bleached hair and round, hippy glasses. It’s four years old and over-exposed but for some reason, you look better without a nose. Cringe over what to write in your bio. Something funny. No, not that. Something actually funny. Leave it blank if you can’t think of anything. Time to swipe. 
Slide your finger over smiling face after smiling face - women drinking champagne, flexing muscles, cradling tiger cubs. Reassure yourself you’ll tell Jo when you get home. Maybe she’ll download it too, as a joke. It could be fun to look together. 
Get a match. Cassie, 25, dimples. Fit. The thought that she swiped right on you. Another match. And another. And after three matches, can you really tell your girlfriend?

#

Step Two: Don’t just swipe, connect.
Wake up late and find Jo eating porridge at the kitchen table, poring over her phone. Her curls stick out in every direction, too matted to be artful. She’s wearing jazzy leggings and fluffy lilac socks that have mopped up enough dust to fill a hoover. 
Cross the room and kiss her neck. Breathe in her coconut shower gel and get a whiff of fusty t-shirt. Read over her shoulder. Rightmove pages. 
“Do you think we’d be mad to spend three hundred grand on a one bed flat?” she asks.
“Yes.” Put cold porridge in a bowl and resent Jo for it, even though it’s you that can’t be bothered to heat it up. 
Sit at the table and wait for something else to be said. Your phone vibrates. Someone likes you. Dash the notification away. Glance at Jo. She’s still scrolling through house listings. Open Tinder to look at the match. Adrienne, 28, beams at you from the front of a kayak. A tanned body squeezed into a life jacket. 3 miles and a world away.  
Stop yourself. Close the app.  Rub the top of Jo’s foot with yours. “Do you want to do something tonight? We could try that pizza place you fancied?”
“Don’t you think we should be saving?” She doesn’t look up. 
“It’s pizza.”
“I don’t really fancy it anyway. I’m so bloated at the moment. Look.” She stands and lifts her t-shirt to show you her swollen stomach. 
Give it a rub. “I think I felt it kick.”
“That’s right, I’m expecting a beautiful baby fart.” She sits back down. “You’re not bovved are you?”
You shrug but she’s already disappeared behind her phone. Open yours. Group WhatsApps, junk mail, a reminder to give your colleague kudos for his run. Jo complains you don’t do anything together but she never wants to do anything, apart from watch Bake Off or speak to mortgage advisers. Don’t think about that. Think about: Vanessa, 33, cuddling a massive Newfoundland. Swipe right just for the dog. Matilda, 31, looks like your secondary school art teacher. Right. Jemma, 29, an INFP looking for a good listener to have deep conversations. Left. Jason, 32, a man. Left. Right, left, left, right. 
Start to swipe with expectation. On the bus to work, in the Sainsbury’s queue, in the bathroom. Stay on the toilet until the seat is imprinted on your bum and Jo calls through to make sure you’re OK. Don’t reply to messages but do read them. Look back at the senders’ profiles. Angharad, 25, wears a boiler suit unzipped to her crotch and thinks you seem chill. Steph, 26, and her boyfriend who is not in her profile picture are looking for fun with someone new. Cassie with the dimples sends a gif of a bear waving excitedly. 
Allow the messages to put you in a good mood. Make an extra effort with your morning routine - new moisturiser, bit of foundation, mascara. Check yourself out in the hallway mirror - pull your shades down and pout. Leave the flat before Jo catches you posing. 
Smile at the barista, 20s, who French plaits her hair and gives you cocoa on your flat white. Hold the door open for a business woman, 40s, with a see-through blouse tucked into a pencil skirt. Give directions to a Spanish tourist, 30s, with a paper map and pretty eyes. Let the bus pass you by as you explain where she can see a Banksy that hardly anyone knows about. 
One time, see a colleague on the app and delete it immediately. Re-download it when you get an email about a new match - Tamara, 34, not sure if she’s the one on the left or the right but they’re both hot. 
Put your phone aside as you slide into bed. Jo’s back faces you. Try to figure out how many weeks since you last had sex. Is it months? Kiss between her shoulder blades, your mouth against the cotton of her t-shirt. Wonder if you’ll get turned on. Slip your arms around her waist and press yourself into her. Nuzzle her neck. She shrugs you off. 
“Bex, it’s nearly midnight.”
“So?”
“Not on a school night, babe.” Her back still a blank wall. Roll over and close your eyes. Are you disappointed? Or relieved? Wonder what Jo would say if she knew about your 63 matches. Think how much time you’ve spent on the app and feel a bit sick. Think about telling her. Decide to delete the app instead. Does deleting the app gets rid of your matches though? Decide to Google it first. Stuff your hands under your pillow to feel the cool side. Listen to Jo’s deep breaths. Feel irritated she’s sleeping when you can’t. Pick your phone back up. The room lights up a sordid pink. Swipe, swipe, swipe. 
Breathe and look back at Cassie’s profile pictures.  She has a big smile and a fringe like someone in an indie rom-com. Sod it. Decide to message her. 
Type: Heyyyy. Cute bear - is she yours?  How’s it going? xxx
Delete an ‘x’ and a ‘y’ and press send. Drop back onto the pillow.

#

Step Three: Send personal messages.

On the bus, cycle through your apps several times. No new messages, no new notifications. Not even from Duolingo. Open Tinder. Flick through your matches. Cassie, still smiling, still not messaging you back. Tamara likes music, laughing, friends, and having a good time. Which is a coincidence because so do you. 
Type: Hey. How’s it going? 
Send the message and feel good for a second. That nagging feeling returns. Look through your other matches. Copy and paste the message to all of them.  Realise you’ve missed your stop. Jam the bell several times and jump off at the traffic lights. Send the final message as you jog into work. 
Flop back onto the bus that evening. No replies. Reread your sent messages. Stare at the screen as if it might change. You thought the whole point was that these women already liked you. Decide the app is a farce, but somehow feel you are the farce. 
Google whether people reply on Tinder. Let the internet’s snark destroy you. 
Rule 1: Be attractive. 
Rule 2: Don’t be unattractive. 
Skulk home, feeling both sorry for yourself and that if you can just start over, you’ll win. Don’t ask what you will win. Don’t consider how much time or emotional energy you’ve already spent on this or why. Plan to get new matches. And this time message them right. 

#

Step Four: Find your perfect match. 
As you enter the flat, shout to Jo that you need a shower. Go straight to the bathroom and turn the tap but don’t get in. Open the app on Jamie, 27, waving in front of Machu Piccu and an assortment of other backpacker destinations. Swipe right. Sofia, 24, fake tan, shoulders back, arm popped, trying hard. Well, so are you. Gina, 26, has blue hair and elf ears. Swipe right anyway. Still no match. Swipe right, swipe right, swipe right. 
A familiar face. Big smile, masses of dark hair. Jo, 30, 0 miles away. 
Shit. Close the app. Shit, shit, shit. Put your phone down. Try to un-see it. Pick it up again – check what you saw. It’s Jo, it’s Jo, it’s your Jo.
A picture you’ve never seen before. Jo, bright eyed and laughing, curls tumbling over bare collar bones. 
Consider deleting your profile. Is there a chance she still hasn’t seen it? Google it. Scroll through online forums so quickly you can’t take the information in.
Look again at the picture. Don’t cry. This is okay. Really, this is funny. 
Who even took that photo?  
Flick through the other pictures. You know these ones. Jo on a moped in Vietnam the summer before you met. Jo drinking out of a pineapple on that hen do she hated. Oh God, Jo in Lisbon. That’s your photo. That’s that day. The sunset over the ocean, her head on your shoulder, her kisses on your neck. That’s not fair, that’s your photo. That’s, that’s-
Swipe right. 
The bathroom slants. 
Sit down. Stand up. Turn the shower off. Splash cold water on your face. Study yourself in the mirror: pasty-faced and dishevelled. You have toothpaste on your t-shirt. Daft twat. 
Wonder how long it’s been since you swiped right. Less than a minute. Open the app. Close the app. Fuck. 
It’s a match! You and Jo have liked each other!
Her face floats next to yours in a bubble on a black screen, smiling, frozen. 
There’s some movement outside the bathroom door.  
“Bex?” 
“What the fuck, Jo?” 
“Are you coming out?” 
 “I don’t know.” Look round the room for an answer. “I need a minute.”  
Close the app. Put your phone away. Re-tie your hair to smarten yourself up. 
“Bex, for God’s sake—” 
Open the door. Jo’s face is drawn, her arms crossed like barriers. Don’t dare to reach out, put your hands in your pockets. Was she on there to catch you out? Don’t ask. Not a good way to start. 
“Hey,” she says. She runs her hand through her hair, looks everywhere but at you, chews her lip. How beautiful she is. Just standing there. Feel sorry, so, so sorry for having forgotten. 
Catch her hand so she looks at you. Try for a smile. “Hey. How’s it going?”

***
 

The Island by Grace Robinson (2023 winner)

I

They took everything from me when I arrived here. The last of the day’s heat radiated off the tarmac runway as I handed over my phone and all of its valuable content. After some time, I was brought to this place where the other women and I were lined up like lambs for the slaughter while hungry eyes roamed across our bare flesh. I thought of PE class, praying not to be chosen last.

We were made to quarantine before they brought us here. For ten black days I paced a hot hotel room and when things got too bad my chaperone, Kelly, sat next to me while I scrolled on her dirty laptop, hungry for content.

The bodies of most of the women here have been modified. Some parts have been injected, leaving them soft and swollen like ripe fruit; others have been implanted, skin stretched taut over the plastic. In this market of flesh, our bodies are currency: the bigger the investment, the better the commodity. My own is almost a stranger to me now and I spend most of the day hovering above it, wondering how it is being perceived.

In the mornings we are woken by a harsh white light that floods the room when someone, somewhere, decides it is time for us to start the day. The man next to me groans, pulls the sheet over his head. We haven’t said much to each other since we arrived and we keep the morning chatter to a minimum. 

II

On a piece of land surrounded by water, I long for the sea. To know it is so close, simmering out of sight, is tantalising. At night I dream of home: the heaving Irish Sea and the Tower glittering above it all like a garish lighthouse. I wake with the taste of Blackpool Rock in my mouth.

It is hot on the island. We spend all day lolling in the white heat bouncing off the walls, our skin puckering and blistering. Sometimes the men work out, their sinewy arms rippling and shiny in the midday sun. It is hot elsewhere, they tell us, frighteningly so; our home country has declared a drought. They won't say more than that, though. Our world must be contained to these walls. 

In the evenings, I am usually ready before the others and I stand outside to watch the sun set. The land surrounding the place where we are kept is barren and arid, though the hum of the cicadas emanates from the dusty scrubland as the sky shifts through shades of pastel. Indigo hills smudge the horizon and I imagine their slopes to be thick with olive and fig trees, lemons dangling from branches like heavy earrings. I find myself wondering what it would be like to jump the wall and take off into the dusk. 

We have been here for just over a week now. I am craving strawberries but when I am given some to eat, they are overripe and pulpy and stain the tips of my fingers blood red. I wonder if they are grown locally on the island, somewhere beyond the compound. 

Wherever I go, the cameras trained on my bare skin make me feel jittery. I am often overcome with a sudden urge to cover myself up, but it is forbidden. Yesterday, I spotted one in the kitchen, little black dot nestled amongst the mugs, though I wished I hadn’t. They’re everywhere, of course, but it’s better if you don’t know where, specifically. 

Yesterday, two new people arrived. The others asked the strangers questions about themselves, their lives before this, but all I wanted to know was what they’d seen.

III

In the mornings, the women are herded upstairs and we make stilted, performed conversation. Bleary-eyed, I slump in the corner and let the cool morning breeze brush across my back, the sun already beginning to heat the white tiles. A violet dragonfly lands and vibrates gently on the wall next to me, metallic body humming for a few moments before it lifts off again. Its freedom makes my throat constrict.

I have found an ally, a woman called Hayley. She is two years older than me and worked as a shot girl in Barnsley before she came here. She has hard little breasts and a row of blinding teeth that she flashes liberally. 

At the start of this week, two people were allowed to leave for the day. I watched them go with a tight chest. They were allowed to leave because they have been playing the game well. I must try harder.

IV

We are only allowed two drinks per night, wine or beer, no spirits. I am not used to flirting without the flush of vodka rushing through my veins. I remember: our first kiss, the jangle of a bottle rolling along jagged wood, our legs dangling off the North Pier, your eyes glimmering gold above the roiling froth. I push the thought from my mind. Focus on the game.

I have chosen my prey: a plumber from Wolverhampton with a hard, muscular torso and kind eyes. He seems weak, which is exactly what I’m looking for. My type, though not on paper.

On Wednesdays, the clothes are delivered. Like seagulls flocking around a bag of rotting chips, the women squawk and tear at the bags. The cool floor is soon awash with labels; as I let the fabric spool through my fingers, I wonder vaguely about the hands that made it. I don’t feel guilty, though. We all have the same twenty-four hours in a day.

The choice we make each Wednesday is crucial for our future. The decision makes me think of wet winter afternoons, sprawled out on Shannon’s carpet in scratchy school uniforms while we dressed up her Bratz dolls and strutted them down the disco runway that my Mum could never afford. We spent hours tugging pieces of fabric over tiny plastic limbs, their bodies merely dummies for the clothes. Now, I am that dummy: marketing mannequin; deceitful little doll.

At the end of this week, we are moved to a different location. Only the women; the men must stay behind. 

V

This week is the apex, the climax. The welfare team steel themselves. I think of the meeting I had with the psychologist a week before my flight, of his insistent, unflinching stare.

We all know how this part works; we were avid watchers before. But it’s so easy to forget, when you’re here, and, gradually, the women let their guards down. They allow themselves to be pulled and grafted, kissed and cajoled. They justify their actions in thin voices and jump to conclusions about what is happening in the place we left behind. Far worse will be going on over there, I try to tell them. With men it’s one rule for them, another for us.

Then, we are told that it is time to return. 

I imagine our names buzzing around drab offices, people racing home to shabby terraces and scrabbling for the remote. It is deeply satisfying to know that my life will never be that small again, that the island will elevate me above the mediocrity and tedium that I have known. I imagine my body stretched onto a billboard in London or New York or Manchester, you stopping short outside the Arndale Centre. You’ll crane your neck in disbelief, your tiny body dwarfed as I rise up, beautiful, before you.

We are made to return one by one, and the other women are jittery as we wait. Hayley jigs her leg next to me and I place a cool palm on her knee. There are a few men here too, pawns in the game. My own sits beside me.

I clasp his hand as my heels clack along the snaking wooden decking. An audible gasp goes up from the others. The man I left behind stands alone amongst the other couples, a redness creeping up his cheeks. I feel a powerful thrill. The host’s face flickers in the light from the campfire as she questions my actions and I answer back, defiant. As I move to sit beside him, I glimpse the hurt in his face and I feel nothing.

VI

The days after we return are fraught and difficult. I feel more trapped than ever. I spend the days talking, reassuring, apologizing, a painful but necessary element of the game. The man I brought back from the other place leaves and I fake a tortured goodbye. I think of playing Super Mario Bros on my old pink Nintendo DS, little Mario hopping through levels and the gold coins bursting all over the screen when they were unlocked. I hold my nerve.

VII

I have managed to win him over, my unwitting accomplice. That is, I’ve made a convincing case for us being far more than that, and he’s lapped it up. I feel relieved; I can see the finish line.

Everyone is desperate to know their stats now and at lunchtimes, when the cameras stop rolling, the girls bay at the producers over their McDonalds. ‘Just Instagram, Tom, please!’ 

Yesterday we were awoken by a plasticky cry echoing from the next room. I gritted my teeth: I knew this was coming, but it was still hard. I thought of our old spare room, the plans we made, the animal mural you said you’d paint. I thought of how easily you left that behind. Men have an enormous capacity for cruelty, I reminded myself, as I flashed a smile and picked up the hard little thing from its cot.

We are called to gather around the fire for the final time. There is a sense of ceremony as we sit in a circle beneath the star-studded sky, sweaty thighs sticking nervously to the white leather. The woman they have sent to declare our fate stands before us and unease ripples through the circle as we remember her predecessor. 

VIII

The final days arrive. People’s parents are allowed in, soft middle-aged couples with thick accents and velcro sandals. When my own mum fetches up, her narrow eyes glint in the glare from the pool and she hugs me to cover up my microphone. ‘You’ve done it,’ she hisses into my ear.

On our last morning of captivity, the man I have been sharing my bed with for the past five weeks rolls to face me. His sleep-stale breath smells like fusty clothes in a charity shop. Furtively, he whispers about the things we’ll do when we leave the island: the places we’ll go, the loved ones we’ll meet. I nod my head sideways on the pillow, gazing into his earnest eyes, and wonder how he can be so naive.

The finale arrives. Audiences take their seats; viewers switch on their tellies. As we gather to await the prizegiving, I regard my fellow competitors. In the golden glow of the setting Mallorcan sun we are trophies: bronzed, shimmering, glorious. 

I take second place, Hayley third. We exchange jubilant glances: we have won far more than any cash prize. A young assistant producer told me that my stats are soaring, already over one million. Agencies have started to get in touch.

Before I came to the island, I was summoned to the capital for a meeting. I took a train down the spine of the country, pendolino rocking gently through the verdant flush, then weaved through the tall, glass city to a grey office filled with stained paper coffee cups. A man pointed bright lights and a camera into my face and asked me why I wanted to go to the island.

‘To find love,’ I answered, baring my teeth into the glare.