Chapter Two Dolly #3
‘I’m a surgeon.’ She says it so casually that I almost choke on my prosecco. ‘Well, training to be. I’ve got a way to go.’
‘I suppose if you’re not talking to them much, not knowing your patients’ names isn’t that important,’ I muse. I’m more used to speaking to consultants I see once or twice who run tests, shrug, and send me away. Maybe surgeons are different.
She taps her temple. ‘I’m using my big old brain to remember where all their important bits are.’
‘I’m sure they’re very reassured when you tell them about their bits.’
We share another laugh, and I think I could get used to hearing that barking bellow. ‘Even more so when the nurses have to write not this leg on them in sharpie.’
‘Horrifying. But that’s very impressive,’ I concede. ‘The surgeon part.’
‘Thank you. I like to think so. And, I’ve been doing it long enough that I barely even have to check the sharpie scrawls on their bodies.’
I almost choke on my bubbles again for laughing. Note to self, choking on bubbles probably looks horrendous on camera. Stop drinking while other people talk.
Whit hops up on one of the velvet and gold barstools. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, the usual. Influencer. That sort of thing.’
‘That sort of thing,’ she says, with a raised eyebrow. ‘Okay, keep your secrets.’
‘I’m not being coy. I just know you’re going to have the exact same job conversation with at least three other women here because it’s such a reality TV show standard, and also I think you’re interesting and cool enough that I don’t want to bore you immediately.’
A smile curls at her glossy lips, and I notice the ghost of a piercing in her lip. A faded teenage rebellion perhaps? ‘Come on, give me the TLDR.’
‘Okay, fine. I’m a trained chef who pivoted out of the kitchen to making recipe and lifestyle content.
’ There’s more to it than that, like how all my lifestyle stuff is filmed at Auntie Carol’s nice house instead of our pokey little two up two down.
Or why I had to leave the restaurant in the first place.
Whit’s eyes light up. ‘Oh, so like the girl who did like twelve days of potato recipes?’
‘Yes, pretty much.’
‘That spoke to my soul.’
‘Then I promise to make you some really good potatoes.’
She clinks her cup against mine. ‘We’re going to be friends.’
There’s a chorus of cheers as another new girl enters the warehouse with her handler. She’s small and incredibly beautiful, with thick long black hair that almost makes me want to grow out my choppy little bob.
In fact, this might be the most hair I’ve ever seen in a single room. These girls could put Barbie or My Little Pony to shame.
Still no Cherry.
I turn my attention back to Whit, who has fished an ice cube out of her drink and is crunching down on it. ‘Who are you sharing with?’
‘The white girl in green. Brunette. I forgot her name already.’
‘Niamh?’ Even though I intone it as a question, I know I’m right. She’s the only Irish girl among us. I never forget an Irish person because of Scouse–Irish solidarity. I was hoping to chat to her, but she’s glommed onto Bridget. Celts unite, perhaps.
I should probably be strategic about alliances, but I like Whit, who could be someone I’d befriend outside. I know the classic Love Island line is ‘I’m not here to make friends’ but given I’m specifically not here to fall in love, maybe friends are allowed.
‘Niamh! See, told you I was rubbish at names,’ Whit says.
‘I’m sure it doesn’t help that we have a lot of thin white girls with the same tan and haircut,’ I say. For a dating show purportedly not just about looks, the casting has still chosen similar flavours of beauty. You could mistake the line-up here for a Pretty Little Thing advert.
Not a lot of body diversity either; I think I might be the largest girl here.
Not that that’s unusual for me in most settings – being almost six foot and fat has me both towering over most women and out-sizing them.
I knew coming on a show that hides what you physically look like as a plus-sized woman was going to be a gamble, but I’d forgotten just how slight the model-types can be.
‘I don’t think mine has arrived yet,’ I say, turning my attention back to Whit. ‘So, Manchester girl, are you?’
Whit nods and then, for some reason, squints her eyes in focus. ‘I can’t place you. Except maybe somewhere in the North? Did you go to private school? Or are you from York?’
Relief. The accent is working, even on someone fairly local.
Now, I’m not ashamed of who I am – Scouse and working class among many other things – but I do know this: the British are obsessed with two things: class and accents. Accent implies class, in some cases at least.
On-Camera Dolly exclusively uses what Mum calls my ‘telephone voice’.
Maybe it’s a coincidence, but the minute I started making content without my normal accent, dialling my cadence up towards the posh London lifestyle girls, my followers and views rocketed up.
I had tested it out, just to see if I was right that people want their aspirational life content from someone who sounds like they’re off the BBC or went to Oxbridge.
I leaned into it, and haven’t looked back.
My family love to rip into me about my posh persona.
You can’t rely on the algorithm forever – hell, that’s why I’m here – but so far, On-Camera Dolly’s content has given us a stable enough income that means I can be at home with Mum and we’re not quite so terrified of the harbinger of doom from my childhood, i.e. the brown envelope.
Coming on Wedded Bliss as On-Camera Dolly was a bit more controversial. Mum doesn’t like the lying of it; she’s never been good at hiding how she feels. I think she thinks I’m getting notions.
Jas made me practise at home so that I don’t get caught out.
And yeah, obviously I don’t have the connections of people with an actual silver spoon in their mouth, but I can sound right even if the rest isn’t there. Fool them just enough to get a foot in the room.
I think this might make me a class traitor. I’m sure plenty of people have done worse for less good reasons, but I might need to get my moral code checked.
‘Liverpool,’ I manage to say, before there’s a cheer as another woman enters the flat.
‘And that makes ten,’ says Whit.
I try very hard to hide any flicker of recognition as the little redhead walks in.
In this light, her red hair looks less phoenix feather and more ground cinnamon.
Her smile is enormous and infectious. She’s small and slight, like most of the women, but where some of the others are striking, she’s cute.
Pretty in a delicate way. Her patterned tea dress looks straight out of one of those size-inclusive faux vintage brands that always get advertised to me, because the algorithm knows I’m a fat woman.
I wonder what took her so long. I hope she’s alright.
Bridget rushes over to her first, almost sending Cherry’s bag-carrying chaperone flying. ‘Hiya, babe! It’s dead nice to meet you!’
Bridget wraps her up in a hug, and I swear I see a sparkle of terror in her eyes.
I’m truly thankful I walked into an empty warehouse. The poor girl is being accosted by nine of us at once.
When they break apart, Cherry waves to us all. ‘Hello, I’m Carys.’
‘OMG you’re Welsh too!’ cries Bridget huskily, clearly detecting something in her that the rest of us missed. They babble together in Welsh (I’m pretty sure) but then abruptly switch back to English.
As everyone greets her, this would be a great time for Whit and I to try to learn everyone’s names, but I’m too distracted by Cherry.
No, Carys. You can’t start giving girls nicknames, Dolly. You know how that goes.
Eventually, Bridget drags Carys over to Whit and me in a way that reminds me of a small enthusiastic child with a less-enthusiastic leashed puppy.
Her eyes lock with mine, just for a moment. She seems stiffer in here. And there’s that nervous look again – the one I saw when she hugged Bridget, or rather, when Bridget hugged her.
‘I’m Dolly,’ I say, as though it’s the first time.
‘Carys.’ Hesitation hangs heavy on her lips. It’s plastered over with a smile, but I swear I can see the edges, where it’s not quite real.
‘Oh, you must be Dolly’s roommate then,’ Whit says.
Fuck. She’s right.
I feel rather warm all over. ‘Our room is this way,’ I say, taking Carys’s bag from her harried chaperone, who bids goodbye.
As I nudge open our bedroom door, Carys catches up to me. We pause on the threshold, and don’t speak. A silent hello again.
It takes a certain something to leap out of your car to follow a stranger into God-knows-what, just in case someone needs help. And now we’re stepping into another uncertain situation, still as strangers and allies. I just hope she doesn’t put two and two together.
But maybe this will be fine. Maybe I’m worrying for no reason.
The only problem is that I’ve always had a thing for redheads.