Chapter Eleven Carys
I guess I’m looking for a woman to ride the waves of life with me.
Not literally, like it would be super cool if they could surf but the raw power of the sea isn’t for everyone.
That’s why I think Lina and I are a good match – she’s so chill, and I’m so chill, and together we’re just…
chill. I hope she likes me. Do you know if she likes me?
I think there might be something seriously wrong with me. It’s reveal day, the day I finally see Patrick’s face, and yet I can’t stop turning last night’s conversation with Dolly over and over in my mind.
‘I know women like that.’
That’s what she said, wasn’t it? But does that mean what I think it means?
And why do I care? I mean… I’m pretty sure I know why I care. I think. Maybe.
Dolly is already gone when I wake up, which either means she’s up abnormally early or I’ve slept in. From the murmur of noise outside the door, I think it might be the latter.
Sleep didn’t refresh me at all. It’s not like I had a meltdown.
It wasn’t really a meltdown, though therapists of the past might disagree with that.
Not that I’ve listened to them much at all, which is probably at least part of the reason why my nervous system feels mysteriously aflame most of the time.
They couldn’t understand my inability to name a feeling as I experience it. Most of the time it’s three days later that I finally work out what the Good or Bad feeling actually meant. They call it alexithymia, which is a fancy name for ‘I have no idea how I feel about anything right now’.
But I don’t really have days. I need to work out what I’m doing with myself asap.
Someone knocks, and I sit up very straight, pulling the covers practically up to my chin. ‘Hello?’ I squeak.
I cannot tell you how simultaneously relieved and alarmed I feel upon seeing Dolly carrying a mug. ‘Thought I’d bring you a cuppa for strength. I put about twelve sugars in.’ She sets it down on the bedside table next to me.
Dolly wears a white shirt dress, belted at the waist and unbuttoned to show the dip in her throat.
The colour reminds me of white calcite crystals, shining in the light.
The dress is paired with gold hoop earrings and softened with a pinkish-nude lipstick that matches her heels.
She looks incredible. Grown up. Marriage material.
Not the sort of thing I could wear and carry a mug of tea without disaster striking.
I don’t know how I didn’t notice what I’m now unable to ignore.
I whisper what’s supposed to be a thank you but the frog in my throat sends it garbled. I’m not even sure which language I used.
She raises her arched eyebrows. ‘I’ll take that to be a thanks.’
I want her to sit down and stay with me, but she stands, probably to stop her dress wrinkling. Like she’s ready to walk out any moment.
God, I feel so needy.
Dolly continues to be immune to my inner turmoil. ‘Look, production were hassling me about how sick you are. I’m not digging, but what do you want me to tell them for you? If you don’t want to go out, I’ll get Reb to fight that battle for you.’
There’s a hot hollowness in my chest that I can’t name, but I think that it’s more than just being overwhelmingly thankful.
I realise what Dolly has proposed is what my sisters meant about reasonable adjustments – more time, more rest, they’d suggested, like it was something I could just ask of a show filmed on crunch time.
Dolly might not know I’m autistic, but she’s still trying to advocate for me.
Would she understand if I told her? So few people know. Again, not because I’m ashamed but there’s only so many times you can hear oh we’re all on the spectrum or you don’t look autistic without wanting to melt down right there and then to prove a point.
But I feel like I could trust Dolly with it, somehow. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking? Or, most likely, the assortment of feelings I’m having about her.
She doesn’t rush me, but she waits. Most people try to fill my thinking gaps with more words, which just slows down the conveyer belt of thoughts even more.
Every bit of sensory information has to get processed in order or the conveyer belt grinds to a halt or explodes, so sometimes it takes me a minute to process.
It’s hard to think when I can smell the heady, glorious musk of her perfume. I tend to wear anything that smells like sherbet or Parma violets, but on her, the deep ouds and leather notes seem almost delicate.
God, I need to get a hold of myself. I came here for a reason, and that reason is on the other side of the warehouse waiting to meet me.
‘Um.’ I test out my voice, and it seems to have returned to normal. ‘I’ll be out in a moment. I think I needed the sleep.’
‘You must have. I was clattering about this morning and you didn’t stir even a bit.’
Her eyes don’t quite fall on me, which, while typical for me, is unusual for her. Am I making her feel uncomfortable? Perhaps she can sense the weird attachment feelings coming from me? Or maybe my questions last night made her feel strange.
‘Are you feeling nervous about today?’ I ask instead.
To my surprise, Dolly barks a laugh. ‘Yes. No. Probably. I’m dressed in bridal colours for some reason.’
‘It’s a lot, isn’t it.’
‘All a bit Blind Date.’
‘I don’t know what that is,’ I say, a little embarrassed.
‘Surprise, surprise? Our Graham?’ she says in an extremely good Scouse accent. ‘Cilla Black? Liverpudlian icon, red hair, nasty little Tory?’
‘Not ringing a bell, sorry.’
Dolly waves a perfectly manicured hand, the tips of her nails rounded and dipped in soft pink. ‘It’s an old dating show from like the nineties or something. The contestant would pick between three people, the walls come down, and ta-daaa, yer man is there. Or woman.’
I resist the gulp in my throat.
‘Anyway, it reminds me of this whole situation.’
Her accent is back to plummy, and I wonder once again why a girl from Liverpool, who can do such a perfect Scouse accent, sounds like she does. Maybe I’m projecting by thinking it’s a kind of mask. Maybe she got a scholarship to a fancy school, or maybe her mum sounds like that too.
I wish that people came with Wikipedia summaries you could look up, and then ask them questions about. It would make getting to know people much easier. I just want to know everything about her.
Is it odd that I haven’t thought that about Lina or Bridget, though?
‘I was thinking more Love Is Blind,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m not sure we’re allowed to say that name in these hallowed halls,’ Dolly says with a smile. ‘Need anything else?’
‘No. And thank you for all this,’ I say, and I push the blankets back to communicate that I’m getting up, and give her an out to leave. I’ve taken up more of her time than I should have this morning, after all.
When she does go, I feel hollow again. Maybe I’m just destined to feel scooped out, whether she’s around or not. Lonely.
Perhaps one day I’ll narrow down what the variations of that feeling actually mean.
I’ve had my reveal day outfit picked out since before I got here: a cream silk pussy-bow shirt under a forest green wool dress with a wide circle skirt, with sensible brown round-toed shoes. It’s the sort of outfit that I hope says I’m a smart woman with my life together.
It’s vintage librarian chic. Librarians always seem so grown up. They’re pinnacles of information, bastions against the disinformation cycles, people who know how to abide by systems and rules. That’s who I’m trying to be.
I wonder what he thinks I dress like, given he knows I work on a farm teaching children and adults. Probably bright dungarees, patterns, big wellies; not inaccurate.
But I can look like a nice man’s wife too.
Now I just have to feel the part.
I walk out into chaos. Hannah C. is crying, comforted by Priya, while Hannah P. and Niamh look on slightly confused.
Hannah S. and Whit arm-wrestle over the kitchen island, and I feel warm as I watch the muscles in their arms flex.
Lina is doing a headstand against the wall, though actually, now I look at her, she seems quite serene. I didn’t know you could be serene in a headstand, given I’ve never been serene upright.
I don’t see Dolly.
‘Oh fucken hell, babe.’ I jump because Bridget has snuck up on me, waving a pencil in my face. ‘Do you have a sharpener?’
‘A what?’
‘For my lip liner. It’s blunt as a welly.’
‘Oh no, I don’t, sorry. Shall I see if one of the others—’
She doesn’t wait for me to finish the sentence, flips to face the nearest wall mirror and rubs the dull pencil against the edges of her lips. Her pretty little face tenses up in a wince.
‘Bridget, don’t!’ I try to grab it from her hand, but she dodges. ‘You’re going to get a splinter!’
‘It’s fine!’ she bleats, tears in the corner of her eyes. ‘If I don’t think about it, it’s only a bit unbearable!’
The colour does darken, but I can’t tell if that’s the product or a bruise.
‘There.’ She sounds pleased, and to be fair, her lips do look good. ‘Gotta be fit for the first time I see my mans.’
I feel guilty for not making time for her in the last few days. After all, Bridget decided we’d be friends from the off, my fellow Welshie, and I’ve barely spoken to her while I’ve been having my internal crisis.
I knew Bridget was seeing a few different guys, but being awol means that I am out of step with her. ‘Who are you seeing today?’
She counts off on her fingers. ‘Billy and Zack today. Jackson and Ethan tomorrow.’
‘Wow. That’s going to be so nice.’
Bridget rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not so sure. What if they’re all mingers? What if they think I’m a minger?’
‘No one could think that,’ I insist.
‘They might. I’m already sweating, babes.’ She fans her armpit with the dull lip pencil.
I take it from her and hand her my notebook.
‘Cheers,’ she says, resuming fanning herself. ‘I just know they’re all seeing other women too, and I want to look the hottest. Even if I don’t want to date all of them after this, I want them to want me most still, you know?’