Chapter Six Dolly
Family is what drives me. And that can be family in a family-unit kind of sense, or friend-family, or community.
A community is just a bigger kind of family.
Like, when I look out for my neighbours, that’s family too.
Life’s too short to not open your heart to other people.
Yeah, I guess the team is a family too – were you trying to get me to say that?
Haha, you’re sneaky. Hang on, let me try it again so you can edit it in.
[Clears throat] You know, a basketball team is kind of like a family too. How was that?
The walk back to the women’s quarters smarts. There’s no time for me to hobble, so I brisk-walk even though it feels like the lower parts of my belly are burning up.
I’m the only one in the corridor so my suspicions that they kept me and Warren talking seem to be right.
The fatigue hits me like a train. I feel drunk on it; no need for all the alcohol they have on offer.
It feels like past midnight. I knew it would be long hours, but not having a clock to check is very strange. No wonder that guy from Love Island used the sun loungers as a quasi-sundial. Too bad there’s no sunlight in here, or I could fashion something with all the bronze cups.
Still, despite the lateness, pretty much all the women are in the living room.
They cheer as I walk in, which is a nice boost. There’s quite a lot of booze littered around, in stark contrast to last night.
I guess now we’re making decisions and claiming men, they want everyone a little looser.
They must have restocked the place while we were on our dates, because the stuff is everywhere.
If it’s not a fridge bursting with fizz and pink wine, it’s a shelf groaning with spirits.
Bridget must have had a good last date, because she’s dancing around filling glasses, with a more intense spring in her step than usual. Good for her. Someone has to find actual love on this show. Hopefully it’s not some of the walking red flags I met this morning.
‘Come join us, babe,’ Bridget calls, waggling the bottle like a maraca so bubbles escape out the top.
It’s tempting, but what I really need is some meds, and a lie down. Ewa, the production assistant from earlier, comes to collect my mic pack. I hope she gets to clock off at some point soon too.
‘I’m going to do my ablutions, darlings,’ I say with a real Ab Fab accent, and they are all just sufficiently drunk to find that hilarious enough to let me leave without protest.
I walk to the bedroom as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of the skirt that is pressing down on my inflamed tummy, and lie down.
When I open the door, I almost crash into Carys coming out of our ensuite, with a sheet mask on her face.
‘A ghost!’ I cry in surprise. I’m a little drunk on exhaustion, so I follow it up with a spooky ooo noise.
She laughs and swipes at me with her hand, her fingertips just about grazing my arm. Despite a day of emotional intimacy, the only people I’ve touched all day are Ewa, the original mic guy whose name I didn’t catch, and Carys.
‘I think I’d be a rubbish ghost.’ The section of mask over her nose flaps about as she speaks.
‘You could be a friendly ghost. Like Caspar?’
‘Would I get to be friends with Christina Ricci?’
I bite back my thought that I’d like to be much more than friends with Christina Ricci. ‘Could be. Are you all done in there?’
Carys practically leaps out of the way. ‘Oh, of course! Go ahead!’
Even with a paper sheet on her face layered with snail mucus or whatever they put in them, Carys is too cute, wearing a button-up pyjama shirt with matching shorts in pink plaid, with a tiny cactus embroidered over the chest pocket.
Because of course she is. ‘I like your jarms,’ I say, to explain away the possible staring I’ve just done.
Mine are just some basics from Marks and Sparks which are probably a little too unsexy for the show, but I’ve got sexier ones stashed for when they’ll be filming me and my fake husband later. For now, it’s all cotton, baby.
I grab them and nip into the bathroom for a quick shower.
I knew I wasn’t bleeding yet, but I’m still reassured to see bloodless pants.
I was worried the stress of the last twenty-four hours could bring it on.
That’s the thing with endometriosis – it doesn’t give a single flying fuck, which frankly, you’d expect for a disease that grows random bits of flesh all over the insides of your body for no discernible reason.
The shower helps the ache in my back. I’ll say this for them, the production team invested in a good hot water supply with better pressure than at home. I let the room steam up a little as though expelling the show through my pores.
When I step out, I assess the damage in the mirror.
My belly is swollen. We’re not quite at six months pregnant levels of pre-period today, but it’s tender to the touch, and I wince pulling the waistband of my pyjamas over it.
And while I don’t have cramps, there’s some niggling twinges that threaten to kick off.
I neck back some painkillers and, just in case, an anti-spasmodic – thank you to the doctor who told me medicine to stop your guts cramping up stops endometriosis shenanigans in its tracks too.
Fingers crossed my body will behave, at least until I’m out of the pressure cooker of the warehouse.
Even though I’d rather climb right into bed half damp, I take my time to do my full skincare routine to make up for the fact I’m going to be in full beat for weeks on end because of the cameras.
With one imminent disaster sorted, it’s time to return to the bedroom I’m sharing with an unfortunately adorkable redhead in novelty pyjamas who I’m trying to stop being attracted to.
At least she seems happier this evening.
When I walk back in, there’s an interloper in our room. ‘And who is this?’
Carys startles, moving herself in front of the creature on her pillow.
‘I’m not judging. They’re cute,’ I insist.
‘He’s called David,’ she says coyly, and a pretty blush rises on her cheeks. She rests a hand on David’s furry brown head.
Some people are funny about soft toys; I’m not. And I probably would have brought my stuffed panda with me if I wasn’t half-convinced she was a biohazard given I haven’t washed her in… some time.
‘Hello, David.’ I mime reaching for his paw and shaking it, without touching him due to the aforementioned understanding of soft toy potential biohazard state.
Carys laughs and it’s almost musical, high and glittery. I could drink it.
She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Hello, Dolly,’ she says in an old man voice that I think is supposed to be David Attenborough.
‘He’s so polite.’
‘He’s very smart,’ she says, returning to her actual voice. She leans towards me, conspiratorially shielding her mouth from him. ‘But does sometimes smell a bit fishy.’
I hesitate. ‘Does he really?’
She shakes her head. ‘Oh no, sorry. I just mean, you know, he’s a capybara. They’re aquatic.’
‘Ohhh. Are they? Sorry, I mean of course,’ I say and laugh. ‘Well, David, as long as you keep your paws clean, I’m sure we’ll have no trouble at all.’
Carys smiles at me so wide that her eyes crinkle.
God, she really is so pretty. That disconnect from Carys this morning feels even wider.
I feel like I’ve met three versions of her – the Carys managing an emergency, the one shaking over juice, and this one, relaxed and smiling and pretending to be a capybara.
‘How did your day go?’ she asks.
‘Not bad,’ I say, wondering how honest to be with her. ‘I think my last date was a solid contender.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She cocks her head like a puppy.
‘Yeah… Warren? Have you met him yet?’
Carys checks her notebook and then shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I’m so bad with names. No, not yet! What did you like about him?’
My brain runs quickly through the list of things I can’t say. ‘He’s very kind. I think we come from a similar background too. I don’t know, I don’t want to get too excited just yet, but he was my best option by far today.’
‘That shared background is important, I think. To some extent, not always, but like, having someone who knows you, who gets where you came from. That’s huge.’ Her eyes take on a soft, dreamy look.
I hate to say it, but I feel a sag of disappointment in my chest. ‘So, who is he then?’
She laughs and that pretty pink blush warms her face again. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Very.’
It’s for the best that I nip this crush in the bud, even if it’s a sharp reminder that I seem to be the only queer in the warehouse.
‘Patrick. He’s a vet. He’s… he’s really nice.
’ She tells me about their date, about how he likes someone called Colonel Brandon, which makes me worry she’s secretly well into the military, but she insists is a Jane Austen thing.
They both like animals so that’s fair enough really; I bet he knew what a capybara was.
‘Good. I look forward to meeting him tomorrow.’ For a second, she looks very panicked. ‘So I can suss him out for you!’
Instantly, Carys relaxes. ‘S-sorry,’ she stammers.
I wave it off. ‘Honestly, no stress. It’s weird that we’re dating everyone. I’ll give him a proper grilling. Make sure he’s good enough for you.’
That also gets a blush. Maybe because she’s thinking about Patrick in damp Regency clothing or whatever straight women enjoy. ‘Thank you. I… I haven’t had the best luck with dating recently.’
I look theatrically around us. ‘Whomst among us in this warehouse has?’
She giggles and it is annoying that I still get a kick out of making her laugh.
‘What’s your dating life been like?’ she asks. ‘If you want to talk about it. Don’t worry if you don’t!’
I shrug. ‘I’ve not dated much in the last few years, but I’ve had a few relationships that lasted a while. Nothing ever really stuck.’