Chapter Two Dolly #2
We pass the famous long corridor with its many doors, behind which are the date rooms. I hold in a squeak of recognition when I spy the setup for post-date interviews, with its strange fake set backdrop.
All these key spaces, little clusters of activity just waiting to happen.
I was right about the blacked-out windows and can feel my body craving vitamin D already.
After a kitchen area and some utility rooms, we turn to one last door.
The sign on it says Female Contestant Dormitory.
This is where I’m going to live for the next two weeks. Or well, two show weeks, which equates to about eight or nine days’ filming.
I can do this. It’s just another job, even if this job is being fake-married to someone for the next twelve months, or until six months after the show has officially aired (whichever is longer), as set out in the contracts that all of us signed. This is simply business.
I can do anything for twelve months, even marry a man.
For Mum.
‘Ta-daaa,’ Louise sings as she pushes open the door.
For a window-less space I need to share with nine other women, it’s nice in here. It very much looks like the ideal of a converted warehouse loft, with exposed brick walls and lots of negative space and good lighting. As expected, there’s not a single clock.
There’s a kitchen with a big island to sit at, another separate dining table, a living room made up of a few long velvet couches arranged like a seventies-style conversation pit, and around all that there are lots of little nooks to sit in with enough seats for two or three women, perfect for quieter conversations.
Right above it, is a camera nestled into the wall.
Louise leads me to the shiny kitchen and opens a very full fridge. ‘We’re well stocked with all the essentials, and if there’s anything in particular you’d like, we can get it in for you.’
There’s lots of fresh fruit, packs of fresh herbs, bits to put in sandwiches, about five kinds of milk. I realise that in all this planning, there was one thing I hadn’t checked. ‘Am I allowed to cook?’
Louise hesitates. ‘We have caterers for that, darling. You just need to focus on your dates.’
Ah. I had hoped to show off some skills for the brands, establish myself on camera as a cook you want to watch from home. How to spin this? ‘What if I want to cook for my dates? Perhaps as a gift?’
She instantly brightens. ‘Oh well, obviously that would be allowed!’
Good enough.
Louise tells me about the illustrious soft furnishings company I vaguely recognise from posh girl TikTok they used for décor, while I try to scope out the cameras. The only two places they don’t film in at this stage are the bedrooms and bathrooms.
Once you’re engaged, all bets are off, because dating shows love nothing more than footage of couples surreptitiously shagging.
‘You’ll never find them all,’ Louise says.
Ah. Bit too obvious. ‘I just want to make sure they always get my good side,’ I insist, and she seems to enjoy that.
‘Shall I show you the bedrooms?’ I notice a slight change here, a hesitation in her voice.
She stops in front of a door. On the other side, I see two twin beds. So, there’s that budget cut.
‘Due to constraints of the building, we have everyone sharing rooms in pairs.’
This is the first I’ve heard of this, of course. Ex-contestants from the first season did mention sharing a room, but I’d hoped that was left behind. Could be worse – at least it’s not ten girls to one room.
‘Oh, that’s fine,’ I say airily, determined to be the contestant who causes the least trouble. ‘It’ll be like Brownie camp.’
Louise looks instantly relieved. ‘We’ve pre-assigned roommates just to make things easier, but if you girls want to swap later, just let me know. You never know who accidentally ends up as enemies or fighting over the same man.’
‘Hopefully that won’t happen!’
She laughs. ‘Well, we do have a television show to make.’
‘If you’d rather I designate someone as my mortal enemy, I’ll do it for you.’
Louise honks. ‘You always make me laugh.’ Her walkie talkie buzzes something incoherent.
‘Got to dash. If you need anything, you can just go back to the dormitory front door and knock. There’ll always be someone outside, twenty-four-seven.
We’ll be in early tomorrow to mic you up, but until then you guys can focus on just getting to know each other. Any questions?’
‘None right now.’
This is officially it. I can’t leave.
‘Perfect.’ Her phone pings, and she frowns at it.
‘Actually, there’s been… another last-minute change of plans,’ she says with barely controlled annoyance.
‘Our showrunner, Richard Lee Aldridge, wants to do some quick filming later today, once everyone has arrived. Likely after dinner, with a relaxed vibe, so dress comfy.’
I also take note of her vague timing. No numbers for us anymore.
‘Girlie sleepover vibes! Sounds great.’ I’ve got a bright red athleisure set that will be perfect for this.
Naturally, they want some early friendship footage. Or potential before it went wrong clips, in case we all end up hating each other.
‘Good luck, Dolly.’ Louise gives me another quick squeeze and disappears in a cloud of Jo Malone.
This is the last time I’ll be alone for weeks, so I take a moment to savour it and go over the plan.
Reject any saps here for love (some kind of misguided act of faith), and find men who, like me, know that the opportunity to be on a brand new series of a dating show on terrestrial, free-to-watch (as long as you don’t mind the adverts) broadcast television a couple of nights a week for an entire summer is the kind of out-of-your-usual-audience-bubble exposure that no algorithm could ever deliver.
I am not leaving here without a husband.
Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink. Except, instead of seawater, I’m surrounded by some of the most beautiful, brilliant straight women the UK has to offer.
I’ll admit, I’m not the world’s most natural extrovert.
I like people, a lot, but I have the kind of charisma that can captivate you on screen, not corral a crowd of people.
That is, unless I’ve got a job. So, I take up residence at the kitchen island pouring fresh prosecco or the non-alcoholic option into opaque bronze-coloured stemless ceramic cups.
Smart, really: no continuity issues if you can’t see how much liquid is in the cup.
Anyway, a job means I’m in control. It means I’m remembered as helpful.
I try to keep track of everyone’s names, but it’s hard, as a new contestant and her handler appear every few minutes.
Bridget, who arrived right after me, takes it upon herself to be an unofficial greeter in her sing-song South Wales accent. I wonder how many I can’t tell what she’s saying tweets there’ll be about her. There’s a reason I dropped my home accent before I got on camera – too many preconceptions too.
It’s a smart play, though. Whoever controls the room, controls the game.
Befriending everyone early is a smart strategy.
After all, who is going to compete with their bestie over a man?
And later on, if they pit any couples against each other, well, you might not go quite so hard against your bestie.
Perhaps Bridget is someone I need to keep an eye on.
I try not to watch the door. I swear there’s a visible difference between being curious about who is walking in, and knowing. Even if we’re not officially filming till later, it’s possible the wall cameras are always on, just in case. Which is precisely why I can’t be watching the door.
But I can’t help but wonder where Cherry is. Her car was right behind me, so what’s taking her so long? Did she quit?
Another girl enters the warehouse, and Bridget and most of the other arrivals gather round her. They flow together through the warehouse, a natural flock.
Except for one. As I fill an ice bucket from the ice dispenser in the fridge door, my first customer walks over. She has deep brown skin, and shiny chocolate-brown hair, piled up into a bun on her head. It’s not quite messy bun aesthetic so much as an attempt at ballerina that got loose.
‘What can I pour you?’ I ask, setting the ice bucket down on the marble top.
‘Whatever fizzes.’ Her deep brown eyes flash with the possibility of mischief as she adds, ‘And is alcoholic.’
‘Good choice. I’ll join you. Even if it is –’ I mime checking a watch ‘– potentially still morning.’
‘Who knows! Not us anymore.’
There are only a few bottles, presumably so we can’t get hammered before filming, and split between ten of us, we’ll be getting anaemic portions.
‘I’m Dolly,’ I say as I pass over the cup.
‘Whit.’ In a lowered voice, she says, ‘And thank you for not assuming we all memorised everyone’s names already.’
Unconsciously, I glance over to where Bridget is opining about the bathrooms. Apparently, so does Whit. When we catch each other, we share a smile.
Whit throws her head back and cackles in one big ‘Ha!’ It’s a good laugh.
I pour myself a similarly measly spritz of bubbles. ‘One of us has to remember who we all are.’
Whit taps the pads of her fingers against her cup. ‘Yeah, that’s not going to be me. I am the worst for names and faces.’ I note the Northern accent. Perhaps my own natural ally.
‘I’m sure you’re no worse than me.’
‘Well, whenever I see patients, I’m always pretending I’m in-depth reading through their chart before I say hello when really I’m checking their name.’
‘Good job they’re not filming right now or there’ll be riots in the NHS.’
‘God, I wouldn’t count on that. The filming, not the riots.’
So it’s not just me being paranoid then. After all, we’ve all seen the blurrier footage of contestants that ‘suddenly appears’ when someone has been a total dickhead.
‘Luckily, I think my patients know to expect someone who is personally a bit scatty but professionally quite good.’
‘What do you do?’