Chapter Eight Dolly
I just think a man should be a man in the relationship.
I believe in gender roles – I think it’s good for a couple to divide up the house.
My role is to support my future wife in the home, her role is to support me as the breadwinner.
It’s a relationship style that’s worked for a reason.
I’m a traditional kind of man. I want to be the alpha, haha.
If the atmosphere last night was weird, then breakfast is much worse.
We’re all waiting to find out who got mutual matches, and will be off on dates. It’s even getting to me a little, and I end up rooting through the fridge for ingredients to make something with. I’ve got too much nervous energy for cereal.
I end up with a fairly large spinach frittata made in not really the right pan, so it sticks, with a kicker avocado salsa on the side. It’s a recipe I’ve shared online before, a comforting reminder of who I am and what I’m here for.
There’s enough for everyone, and I get a buzz when Whit, Lina and Carys come over with empty plates, ready to try it. There’s a few of those perfect, eyes-closed bliss moments as they eat.
Carys was asleep when I got in last night, and I can tell something is up as she’s polite, but distant. Probably for the best given I’m trying to neutralise this crush.
Neither of the Nguyens return with the big red box.
Instead, some fresher-faced production assistants hand out pink envelopes to each of us in the living room, in front of everyone as the cameras pile around. This is new, I’ve not seen them do it on camera before. Maybe they’re hoping for cat fights.
The room hushes as everyone waits for someone to go first, so I rip open mine.
It’s not quite a dance card, but inside I find a schedule of dates for the next two days.
Warren is tomorrow, thank God, and today I have dates with Patrick and inexplicably…
Malachi? The nice Scouse guy Whit said she really likes, but crucially also a man whose name I definitely did not request. Not just because Whit is cuckoo over him, but because he is looking for love. Hopefully he’ll find that with Whit.
So why do I have a date with him? I’m not naive enough to imagine the showrunners won’t influence decisions along the way, but manufacturing date choices seems… strange. Are they trying to create tension between Whit and me?
I wonder who else has scored a second date with someone they didn’t pick.
I glance round at the others and everyone seems vaguely pleased, or they’re hiding it well. None of the women are going home yet – pretty expected, as usually the first to go are the worst offenders on the men’s side. Preferably the man who asked us all how heavy we were.
I head back to the kitchen to clean up, like a good cook. When I’m done, Whit and most of the other women have left, presumably to get ready for their dates.
The only person left standing is Carys, a bright smile on her face. I guess she got her second date with Patrick too. It might not have been my smartest moment to request a second date with him, but Carys is my roommate, and I want to look out for her.
That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. Platonic mode.
Her little outburst on the first night about not knowing how to pick a partner made me worried that he was perhaps not as boringly normal as he’d appeared in our first date, where I’d written him off as another nice man looking for a wife.
But knowing that she really likes him has, I don’t know, kicked up my protective side. I want to interrogate him for her. I don’t want her to get her heart broken.
And if my crush is going to get squashed, realising the man I am up against in my own mind is good for her will help with that.
‘All good?’ I call across the empty room.
‘Yes. We’ve got a second date this afternoon. Patrick and I,’ Carys says, a little breathless. ‘And you? With Warren, I mean?’
Okay, so I guess from her sharp tone that she clocked me picking Patrick and is slightly pissed off about it. ‘I get to see Warren tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to it.’
I want to tell her that I’m not interested in Patrick, like I need to do with Whit, but she says a little loudly, ‘Well, I’m going for a shower now, bye!’ and scuttles away.
So much for that.
My dates aren’t until after lunch, which I take to be a few hours from now, so I decide to go for a run in the gym: an activity that is mindless enough to take my brain out of my body.
About twenty minutes into my jog to the boppier tracks of The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess, Whit hops onto the treadmill next to me in the outfit she put on for her date, tailored high-waisted trousers and a pretty embroidered silk shirt.
To my surprise and confusion, she kicks off her heels and starts running.
I slip out my slightly sweaty ear buds. ‘Good date?’ I ask, as she turns up the speed to levels I’ve never imagined running at.
She growls in response, then seems to realise she’s not actually used words. ‘It was a fucking shitshow,’ she bites out.
I hit pause on my treadmill so that I can concentrate better and eliminate the risk of falling off mid-sentence. ‘What happened?’
Whit keeps her eyes straight ahead as she quietly says, ‘They sent me on a date with that arsehole.’
‘You’ll need to narrow that down for me,’ I say lightly.
‘Jackson.’
I recoil. ‘The one obsessed with being an alpha male?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Why?’ I say, meaning really why on earth would you pick him.
‘Fucked if I know. I didn’t ask for a second date for obvious reasons! The man has something wrong with him.’
I don’t disagree with that. Clearly, it’s not just my matches the show has fiddled with.
‘Did he say something to you?’
Whit slams the emergency stop with her fist, and slowly comes to a halt. ‘Nothing that was exactly about me but… he just reminds me of my really controlling ex from when I was a student.’
‘Oh Whit. I’m sorry.’
She shivers. ‘He gives me the same feeling. Like all my skin has turned to goosebumps, and not in a good way. It’s bad enough when there’s a partition in the way; I do not want to be in the same room as that man.’
‘Do you need a hug?’ I ask, and she steps over to my treadmill so I can wrap her up.
She’s almost as tall as me, but tucks her head under my chin and bursts into tears.
I let her cry it out, and when a couple of the Hannahs try to come into the room, I signal them to get lost for a few minutes.
Whit deserves her privacy right now. The tension leaves her body in a big rush as the tears dry up.
‘You’re safe,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got you. You’re safe.’
We stay that way until she stops shaking. She steps out of my hug, wiping the tears from under her eyes, and suddenly freezes. ‘Shit, have I ballsed up my makeup?’
‘I think a refresh might make you feel better.’ I take my pinkie finger and delicately dab away a few globs of melted eye liner that have peppered her cheeks like ashfall.
‘Did that fix it?’
I press my lips together. ‘Not really, no.’
She looks up at the ceiling and groans loudly. ‘Bloody cameras. I hate thinking about makeup at the best of times. I never wear it to work so I don’t have to worry about it going wonky.’
‘I imagine there’s a lot more at stake what with the sliced-open person in front of you. Do you want some help?’
She goes to hug me again but springs back. ‘Sorry, I’ve got sweat dripping off me. I should fix that first.’
‘It’s probably some of mine, honestly.’
‘That’s friendship.’
I follow Whit to her room and wait while she showers.
She’s in and out quickly, covering her hair so it doesn’t get wet.
Once she’s dressed, she sits down on the bed and I take off the remains of her old makeup for her with cotton pads.
It reminds me of teenage sleepovers. There’s nothing quite like the wealth of touch between teenage besties, but this feels close.
Eventually Whit takes over because I only just about know how to do my own makeup well enough, but I play assistant by handing her products as she requests them, like I’m assisting her in surgery.
The shaking seems to have stopped by the time she attempts mascara.
‘Do you think they gave the men some kind of priority? Like, they said it had to be mutual, but do you think that’s actually true?
Like on Married at First Sight when only one person wants to go home, and they have to stay another week. ’
Relieved to be out of range of the cameras, I lower my voice and say, ‘The production team will be manipulating us for the best television. We have to remember that.’
It strikes me then that I don’t actually know any of the job titles of the production team that rush around us, only their names.
For all I know, Louise isn’t an assistant or a runner; she could be orchestrating the whole story.
Sure, it could be unethical, but this is reality television. When has that stopped them before?
‘Whit, they’ve sent me on a date with Malachi and I didn’t pick him, and I doubt he picked me either.’
‘A much better forced choice,’ she concedes.
‘Yeah, but that’s probably because they’re trying to stir up some kind of drama between us.’
Whit gives me a look of horror. ‘Those twats.’
‘Twats, definitely. But I’m glad you like him.’
‘He makes me feel like I’ve got love shooting out my arse,’ she says dreamily.
‘That sounds painful.’
‘It’s lovely, I promise,’ she says with a laugh. ‘I guess this messing round with our dates is the whole ‘and whatever the production team deem necessary’ part of the contract we signed.’
‘You shouldn’t have to see Jackson again,’ I say decisively. ‘What’s your handler’s name?’
‘Hellie.’
‘We should go talk to her to make sure you’re not sent on any more dates with him, and be clear that this is about your safety. They have to be careful with mental health and contestant care, so they’ll take you seriously.’
I hope, at least.