Chapter Two Dolly
Three interesting things about me? I’m a professionally trained chef, so you’ll never go hungry with me.
I have – hopefully now – over a million followers on Instagram and TikTok where I share lifestyle content, including recipes.
And I might have a cutesy-sounding name, but like Ms Parton herself, I’m no pushover.
Why did I come on Wedded Bliss? To find a partner, of course.
I’m very career driven, and I either want to find someone who will match that energy, or be happy to support me in that, you know, a cute little house husband with his own hobbies?
I’m mostly attracted to personality and drive, so no, I’m not afraid of forming connections without seeing them first.
Do I think my ambition might scare some people off? Boys, maybe? But I’m looking for a man.
Today is not the vibe.
Mediating in a traffic jam-causing cat fight between exes was not really how I expected to begin my first day of Wedded Bliss, but when did my life ever go to plan?
I feel sweaty. According to the mirror in my compact, my makeup is intact but I look rattled. I was going for the effortless, in-control look celebrities wear on the red carpet. In the great words of Paris Hilton, this is not hot.
God, I wish I could call my mum, even if all we’d do is argue about the show again. Our last conversation was about me making it to London. Not unloving, just a little terse because I know she’s just worried about me.
Come the fuck on, Dolly. Get your head in the game. You already triple-checked that the bills are paid. Auntie Carol is going to look after Mum. No one is going to find out you’re a lesbian.
That little internal pep talk does nothing. My head is not in the game. I am, quite seriously, wigged out. And I’m not the kind of person to be bothered – I pride myself on keeping calm. Usually.
Times like this, I wish I still had some proper friends to call.
I need to get it together. You’re on your own kid, and all that.
My driver’s phone loudly announces in a twangy accent the next directions, and it throws me for such a loop that I snap out of my funk.
‘Mike, what made you pick Australian?’
‘For what?’ He eyes me in the mirror with suspicion, like I’m about to jump out the car again to assist more women in distress. We didn’t get off to the best start.
I point at the phone. ‘Your phone. Are you Australian? You don’t seem Australian.’
‘It’s aspirational, isn’t it?’
‘To be… Australian?’
He looks at me like this is the most obvious fucking thing in the world.
‘Well, good for you.’ I can hardly yuck his yum considering the state of my life choices.
Though it is a little ironic, considering my main current touchpoint for Australia is the failed season of Wedded Bliss that ended up with only a single wedding out of a possible ten, during which the bride dumped the groom mid-vows. The show wasn’t renewed there.
With luck, I can help ensure the UK series is a success. That’s why I’m here.
If I can get my shit in order. Breaking up that fight, then the kiss and make up… It feels like the universe is sending a very pointed reminder of who I really am.
And I’m shutting that Dolly back in the closet, over a decade since I came out of it…
This will all be worth it. Focus on Mum. If I find the right man, our lives will be radically different.
I can do this.
The cute little redhead I’m going to be living with for the next few weeks could be a problem.
Hopefully she didn’t clock me. Straight girls rarely do. And I’m probably overthinking this. After all, why would she care what I’m up to when she’s got ten men lined up for her?
I’d forgotten how stressful living in stealth is; I had chalked much of it up to teenage hormone surges making everything feel more dramatic.
But then, I’m not out on my socials. That started as a privacy thing, really.
And, if I’m honest, I know that playing the tradwife straight men yearn for helps my views.
Bit of cake, bit of tit? I could be their not-quite-Nigella in the kitchen, mildly supporting their careers and not talking back to any of their rancid political opinions.
That’s part of the fantasy of it all. Everyone reads me as politically engaged, community focused. Presumed-Straight Dolly.
I know how to be her, I’ve been playing her a long time. And I can be her on television, full time.
I can do this.
I’m just terrified of production clocking that I’m perhaps not as heterosexual as I’ve claimed to be, because if they find out I’m a lesbian, I’m out (in more ways than one). I know production take pains to cast people who aren’t just there for the money. I’ve fooled them so far.
There’s no failsafe there. I don’t think claiming bisexuality (a different kind of lie) would play well either, because let’s be real, reality TV likes queer people as gimmicks and not much else.
I cannot afford to be edited down. I’m here to be a beloved main character. I’m here to start something.
My cousin Jas has tried to coach me on the ways of the heterosexuals.
It’s not like I’ve not been surrounded by straight people culture my whole life, but I’ve not had to actively pretend to be one either.
Well, not since I was about fourteen, though I’m pretty sure everyone saw through that, what with my scholarly interest in the work of Kristen Stewart.
Anyway, what I’ve gleaned from Jas is that many straight relationships sound abjectly miserable.
‘Me and this one, we’ve had our ups and downs.
’ Never mind the toxic masculinity of bill etiquette, I’m pretty sure many men don’t even like their partners.
Misogyny and patriarchy have a lot to answer for.
Too bad those kinds of men are reality TV bread and butter.
I can only imagine some of the absolute ding-dongs I’m about to meet.
I can see from the map on Mike’s Australian phone that we’re nearly at the ‘undisclosed warehouse location’.
My head is still in need of a good wobble. I go to wind down the windows for the breeze, and this time Mike really does lock the back doors.
‘Oh, come on,’ I groan. ‘I just wanted some fresh air.’
The door thunks with the sound of unlocking. ‘You won’t find that in East London.’
I quickly realise he’s not wrong, but then we’re pulling up.
The warehouse reminds me of the Albert Docks, regenerated industrial buildings for flats or trendy art spaces for the hip and middle class.
Though here, the windows are blocked out to make it easier to film.
That and it stops us tracking the time of day.
Production are in control of everything.
All the power is in their hands. It might not be Big Brother, but they’re always watching, or whatever the slogan was.
The door is flung open by my cheerily plummy handler, Louise (not Lou). I slide out with all the elegance I can muster, which is quite tricky when you’re in a body-hugging dress, are pushing six foot in heels and are categorically not built like a waify starlet.
‘Darling, hello!’ She welcomes me with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. Very European, very Chelsea. ‘How are you?’
And finally, I find myself again. On-Camera Dolly is all charm, and a bad bitch. I slip into her like an old coat.
‘Excited to meet my man,’ I say, flashing a smile. I will be the Nation’s goddamn Sweetheart, and everyone will believe I am desperately in love.
‘I bet you are,’ Louise laughs, throwing back her flowy, horse-mane hair. ‘Let’s get this party started, shall we?’
Mike unceremoniously dumps my things on the ground, and drives away in his Australian car.
‘Charming,’ Louise says.
I reach for my bags, which Louise whisks away from me. ‘Allow me. Let’s not ruck up that killer dress, darling.’
‘Thanks. How are you?’
‘Positively wired, I’ve had three espressos!’ She extends her perfectly manicured hand. ‘Now, let’s not make this more painful than it has to be.’ She wants my phone.
‘Can I just shoot my mum a last text?’
‘Naturally, sweets.’ Louise, after all, knows about my home life, and will be checking in with my family for me.
Dolly
Just arrived at the warehouse. Chat in two weeks. Don’t forget your meds. Love you xxxx
It’s still early so chances are she’s asleep, but I wish I knew she was okay. I’m not used to leaving her for long. I’m glad Auntie Carol and Jas have her.
‘Let’s take a selfie to document the first day?’ I suggest, and Louise gleefully agrees. We both know behind-the-scenes content always does well; I’ve seen Ariana’s many, many Instagram carousels of Wicked photos.
No reply from Mum, so I hand my phone over to Louise, who puts it into her back pocket. ‘Rather you than me, babe.’
After cultivating a whole career online, it feels very weird to be sans phone. My work phone is locked up at home because, frankly, I didn’t feel comfortable handing over my whole career, even to someone as seemingly reliable as Louise.
There’s not much on my personal phone beyond the possibly AI generated, heavily pixelated pictures overlaid with ‘great quotes’ Auntie Carol downloads from Facebook to send to Jas and me, and all my texts from Mum.
‘You’re the first girl going in,’ Louise tells me as we walk towards the front doors. ‘Slight change of plan: no filming today. We’ll reshoot arrivals tomorrow. Gives you a chance to settle in.’
That’s a bit of a relief, because the nice dress I’d worn for just in case is looking a little less nice now I’ve sweated and stomped and sat in the back of a cab in it.
‘Let’s go, I can stake out the best spots,’ I say with a winning smile.
After one last look at the sky, I follow Louise into the warehouse, and even though I have seen every publicly available series of Wedded Bliss, and read every article interviewing production, it’s still a little eerie to see the set replicated here.