The cameras are rolling and I'm not even wearing my dress.

The production of For Richer and for Poorer stops for no woman.

"Don't you think they'll notice we're wearing the wrong clothes?" I whisper to my roommate, Mariah, when she sits down beside me on the couch and they turn the bright lights onto us both.

"Relax, Eugenie. If anyone says anything just pretend we didn't know which bag was meant for which of us."

I mean, who would think I'd look good in bright yellow and Mariah would look good in deep blue? It seems reasonable to say we were confused.

The suitcases in the corner of our shared room would disagree, as they have our names literally seared into the side.

Maybe we can claim we can't read? The producers do seem to really want to lean into the poverty angle. I wasn't expecting them to take the 'for poorer' part so literally, but at least the clothes they supplied seem to be of good quality.

Still, I feel like a monkey in a zoo, dressed up in a funny costume. But a contract is a contract and twenty thousand dollars could save us from homelessness. So, tight blue mini dress it is. We get through this interview and onto the show, we'll be well on our way to saving our home.

"Tell us a bit about home," the producer asks, sitting down across from us in a small folding chair her assistant carried in with them. "What's it like back in..." she pauses to check her notes, "What's it like back in Calgary?"

"Oh, Calgary really is beautiful," Mariah gushes. "I mean the culture and history is just so robust there's never a shortage of things to do there. And the biking and walking paths along the river are unrivalled."

"I've heard that, yes," our interrogator agrees. "But what is your home like? Tell us about where you live."

Mariah, who promised me she would do all the talking and I wouldn't have to say a thing, completely freezes. Like, staring into space, sweat beading on her temples kind of freezes.

It's a good thing I know the whole story better than anyone else alive. Pressing my fingernails into my palms, I throw on the biggest fake smile I can and turn slightly towards our producer, leaning in a little for effect, just like Mariah had shown me.

"Would you believe me if I told you we live in Mariah's family home?" I ask, pausing for our interviewer to gasp and flip through her notes. Probably second-guessing which side of the 'richer or poorer' we're on.

"It's a long story, really, but Mariah inherited it a couple years ago when her grandmother passed away. It's a beautiful Craftsman home almost at the center of town, which is a pristine location but very expensive. It's been difficult, but it's important to keep it in her family and I need a place to stay so here we are. Unexpected roommates."

Our interviewer seems to relax. She's slotted us correctly. Poor.

"Like I said, it's a beautiful home but with old houses of that kind, you know how it is. There's so much upkeep involved in maintaining the property. We're up to the task, though, and we're determined one day we'll see it restored to its former glory."

"What kind of repairs are we talking? Are you girls up on the roof replacing tiles or pulling up floors? Give us a sense of the renovations."

I explain some of the smaller projects and mercifully, Mariah's ability to speak returns somewhere in the middle of my explanation and she hops in to discuss the necessary work in the kitchen and the complications of having a home built back when electricity was barely even invented.

Our producer, who tells us her name is Susan, eats every bit of our story up like it's being fed to her off a silver spoon.

She asks a standard set of questions after that about why we're here and what we're hoping to find in a partner. We've answered these questions already maybe sixteen times on forms and interviews and all sorts of background checks, but apparently they want us saying it on camera.

Mariah embellishes everything, really spinning a tale that has even the camera operators wrapped around her finger. I'm just honest, telling her about my desire for a quiet life with someone who cares for me. Mariah will certainly scold me for this tomorrow, saying I need to be interesting to stay on the show. And I know she's right. We need the money. But a small part of me is hoping that if I'm just myself, maybe luck with be on my side.

Maybe I can really find someone.

I'm not giving myself a harder time than I need to. I'm going to be myself. Well, for Mariah's sake, myself with tight clothes, tidy makeup, and sexy hair courtesy of the woman herself.

I completely miss the end of the interview, letting Mariah and our producer talk for me, and next thing I know the lights are turned off and we're shepherded up and through the door to the hotel hallway. "We're going to get you girls down to dinner now," Susan's assistant says with a smile. "We're filming a sort of welcome gathering for you all before we really get into it tomorrow."

Welcome dinner sounds alright if you completely ignore the 'cameras everywhere' part. What made me think I could actually do this, again?

Down the hall, there's a narrow room at the back of the hotel where we meet yet another woman with a clipboard and about ten other people also dressed in yellows and blues.

"Mariah, if they colour-coded us—"

"Shh," she whispers. "Don't give us away. It'll be fine. I'm sure of it."

The woman with the clipboard waits until two more women join us and then claps her hands. "Excellent! We have all of blue and yellow with us."

We're definitely colour-coded. Shit.

"As you may have been told, we have a welcome dinner planned for you this evening. As you also know, we're here to get engaged."

The group erupts in cheers and I join in, hoping to keep flying under the radar and forever cognizant of the cameras lining the edge of the room.

"What you haven't been told is that you'll only have one week to find someone and get engaged. Anyone not partnered up by that point will be asked to leave the show and forego any future commitment."

My heart leaps into my throat. That can't mean...

"Including stipends and stipulations as to further compensation. I'm sure legal has explained all about what happens when you do or do not pass to round two."

They had. But I understood approximately six of the words they said.

"Right! Well we didn't think anyone would want to waste any time so we've organized special speed-date drinks for the blue group this evening with one of our billionaire groups."

More squeals.

"Yellow group, if you'll wait here, I'll be back shortly to explain your evening plans."

Groans and chatter fill the room as the woman turns on her heel and pushes open a panel in the wall like we're in a spy film. "This way blues. Let's get you set up for your dates."

"Mariah," I whisper-shout, holding onto her hand for dear life as the group splits in half. "This isn't even my activity."

"We can't tell them now," she shushes, eyes wide as though she's trying to tell me to shut up and fall in line. "Just go be yourself and charm the pants off those billionaires."

"We don't even have the same tastes," I remind her.

"Well, there has to be some crossover."

The producer leading the blue group away pops her head back into the room. "Miss... We're waiting for you."

"LeBlanc," I say, reflexively.

"Yes, Miss LeBlanc. Will you be attending our dating event?"

"Of course she will," Mariah answers for me. "She's just so overwhelmed with the idea of already being given such a wonderful opportunity."

"Of course. I'm coming."

It takes actual effort to pry my hand from Mariah's and walk across the room. I'm shaking in my heels by the time the door closes behind me.

There's no way anyone is going to believe I'm Mariah.

"Congratulations, blue team!" our producer says on the way through a narrow hallway. "Based on your pre-show questionnaires and interviews, you've been selected for the first round of dates. Of course that doesn't necessarily give you a head start on everyone else. You still need to make this count."

Murmurs of excited agreement swirl around me and I nod my head to fit in.

"You'll have been briefed on the rules."

Basically, there are none.

"As you'll remember, the only rule we really need to worry about tonight is that the premise of the show must be followed. That's why we're all colour coded this evening. You'll be looking to connect with members of the group wearing pink."

We all ask at once whether there will be other groups in the room but she doesn't answer, she just pushes her back into a heavy wooden door and leads us into a luxurious bar set up with eight tables. One for each of us.

"Good luck, participants. May you find someone to share your meal with."

"Wait, what?"

"That's what the speed-dating is about," the short blond to my left answers. "Remember? We're supposed to meet every member of the other group and submit the names of any we're interested in seeing more of. If they like us too, we go to dinner together. If not..."

I don't need that explained. Back to the dining hall with everyone who isn't on a special date tonight.

Wouldn't be that bad, actually, if it didn't involve eating in front of a bunch of people.

The doors on the other end of the room spring open and the service staff move in formation, setting chairs and snacks at each place setting and inviting us to sit down.

Everyone else finds a seat and I'm left with no choice but to sit down at table six.

The waiter pushes my chair in behind me, places a napkin on the table in front of me and leaves with a little bow. "The other group will arrive shortly," he says before he leaves.

Of course, we're the ones left waiting.

It isn't long before the doors we entered through open again and a group of people wearing way too much pink strolls through the door. One tall man draws my eye to his particularly unimpressed look. Does he think this is as ridiculous as I do?

His dark eye meet mine and narrow slightly, but his trajectory doesn't change. He walks right up to me with his dark hair and muscular chest and beautiful woodsy scent and picks up my hand in his own.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he says. "I'm Spencer Andrews."

Words. Make words.

"Uhh."

His hand still holds my own, but it slips slightly lower. I grip it to stop him removing it all together.

"I'm Eugenie LeBlanc," I say, clearing my throat to get the words out. "And the pleasure is all mine, I'm sure."

"You flatter me," he says, small smile slipping onto his stern exterior for a fraction of a second.

I'm surprised I manage to keep myself in my chair instead of following him around the table to his own chair like some kind of hypnotized doll.

"I broke my foot when I was eleven," I blurt before he's even fully seated. "And I read way too many books and hate peppermint."

Great! We're off to a wonderful start.