Reality Check

Chapter Thirteen Carys #3

‘I’m sorry. That was too harsh. I’m just panicking.’ For the first time since I’ve known her, she actually looks rattled. Perhaps I look more unhinged than I realise. ‘I didn’t mean you are a mistake. But us, this, right now was a mistake.’

‘Only because you’re saying it is,’ I say, stumbling over the words. ‘Only because you’re doing this instead of choosing me.’

She groans in frustration. ‘What did you think was going to happen, Carys? That we were going to skip off into the horizon in some Sapphic bliss?’

I thought that maybe I was it for you. Like you might be it for me.

I can’t get the words out.

Even though I don’t speak, she can clearly tell what I’m thinking and feeling.

I never was very good at hiding either from my face, and Dolly seems to have got quite good at reading me in the short time we’ve known each other.

‘I’m sorry if that’s what you were hoping for, Carys, but that’s just not possible. I can’t give you that.’

‘So this was just casual for you?’ I whisper.

The worst part is that she hesitates. I think, for a second, that she’s going to tell me that no, this wasn’t casual, that this meant something to her, as much as it did to me. That when we kissed, the fireworks meant something to her too.

But instead, she says in a firm voice, ‘Give yourself the space to process all this. It must be really hard what you’re going through, but Carys, you can’t imprint on me because I’m the first girl you kissed.’

That’s cruel. I didn’t expect her to be so cruel. Maybe that was my first mistake.

I feel my broken heart shatter. I can’t believe I trusted her with my body and my heart and me, only for her to stamp on everything with one of her perfect high heels.

‘I’m not some duckling,’ I sob.

I can’t look at her any longer so I flee into the bathroom, locking the door behind me, and I walk straight into the shower cubicle, pyjamas still on.

I sit down on the floor, because my legs are far too jelly to stand up any longer.

My body shakes from all the feelings threatening to explode out of me and I know that if I don’t do something drastic, I’m going to have a meltdown.

The last thing I want is for Dolly to see me even more broken apart than I already am. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.

I spin the temperature all the way into the blue and turn the shower on full blast. The shocking cold water runs into my mouth, down my throat, slicing through my hair to my scalp. It’s a delicious relief to start with.

Eventually I start to shiver.

And, when I finally feel human again in all the worst ways, that’s when I finally really cry. The tears wash away down the plug, like they were never there.

I spin the temperature up and, seeing as I’m already here, wash away the remains of last night, of Dolly, just like she wants.

Clean at last, I step out into a towel. I hope it’s not obvious I’ve been crying, so I wipe the steam away from the mirror to check. It mists up again quickly, blurring my reflection, but I’m not sure I recognise the person I catch a glimpse of.

What the hell am I doing?

This, all of this, is just so unlike me.

Maybe… maybe my sisters were right to be worried about me coming into this experiment.

Perhaps they correctly predicted that being slowly driven mad by masking twenty-four-seven and overstimulation from the god-awful lighting and all the constant socialising I’m having to do all while knowing I’m being filmed, watched and dissected by the public would eat away at me.

They didn’t tell me that, but they asked me, over and over, if I was sure about going on this show.

It’s not like I’m not used to experiencing, and expecting, scrutiny from those around me.

Ever since I was little, I’ve been so hyper-aware of how I’m being perceived.

All that has been kicked up to eleven since I’ve been here.

There’s no downtime, except when I sleep, and I’m pretty certain I’m not getting enough of that.

There’s a saying about how pressure turns coal into diamonds, like it might make the best of people if you just try to get through. I’m not so sure about that. There’s no sparkliness about me right now. Just sharp edges and confusion.

I really wish I could call my sisters. They’d give me a good talking to, help me work out what I should do next. When I was little, I really struggled with thinking things through before I acted. Mum used to call it getting Carys’d away.

I know that if Ang and Del were here, they’d make me talk through things in order, to untangle the knotty tangle of panic in my chest. A rat king of anxiety.

Let’s look at the facts, in order: I’m sleep deprived and overstimulated and out-peopled. This is probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life, and you can’t make good choices when your brain is throwing itself against a wall.

Sleeping with Dolly is a perfect example of that.

So, okay, I like women. I think, after last night, that’s pretty undeniable, and I’ve spent a lifetime denying myself truths for reasons I don’t fully understand. To fit in, to camouflage? Because I was too scared of being too many deviations from normal? All of the above, maybe.

And with all that understanding and unmasking, of a kind, of course I might get… over-excited.

Maybe Dolly was right, just a little, about the ‘imprinting’ thing. Did I just latch onto the first person who showed me true kindness who was also within touching distance, and just misconstrue attraction for love? Sexual chemistry for romance? I’m not sure; it definitely felt like a crush.

It was a crush. And crushes can be got over, even if they sting.

Ang would tell me to give myself grace. Who hasn’t had an inappropriate crush in a trying time? she’d say.

Dolly’s pretty much the only person I’ve even remotely dropped my mask in front of in here, which is a pretty big deal to me.

No wonder I would feel close to her, carried away with the fantasy of it all.

Given this whole experiment is about romantic fantasies and longing and promises…

maybe it’s understandable that I got confused about what I really want.

Because what I want is Patrick.

Oh no, Patrick.

A pit opens in my stomach as I realise I’ve basically cheated on him. I mean, we’re not official yet, but I’m pretty sure the social contract of dating multiple people in Wedded Bliss doesn’t extend to sleeping with your roommate.

I feel so embarrassed; I’ve never cheated on anyone before and, if I’m honest, I’d held that as a badge of honour. Proof that I was potentially a good partner for someone, despite everything else.

Not that I’ve told Patrick that I’m autistic yet. No wonder I glommed onto Dolly for getting it without being told what it was. I haven’t given Patrick that same chance yet, to be kind and understanding. To listen to me, and to not be afraid if I’m a little strange.

If I do, will I fall even deeper for him? I feel like yes, I could. I will.

I will definitely tell him I’m autistic before we’re married. Probably.

Should I tell him about last night? I’m not sure I can.

I don’t want to start off a relationship on a lie, but maybe this is one of those occasions where it’s okay to omit the truth to save everyone’s feelings.

If I tell Patrick, he’ll be upset and confused.

And today is supposed to be our date where we get to touch, even kiss, if we want to.

I want us to focus on building the foundation to our marriage, not destroy it.

No, I can’t tell him. If I can chalk this up to some kind of madness, maybe it’s okay not to tell him.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been in here but it hurts that Dolly doesn’t knock or try to speak to me. I know she’s still in the bedroom, so I’m going to have to face her.

So, what am I going to do?

I replay our conversation over and over, and I keep snagging on something. The mysterious responsibilities she’s never mentioned. I mean, no, I didn’t tell her I was autistic but that’s my business.

I mean, she’s an influencer. Isn’t that a job with money?

Brand deals, isn’t that something? Surely more money than my hand-to-mouth salary combined with living in London in a house with three to four other strangers.

I’m pretty sure she still lives at home too, so that’s rent free.

Meanwhile, I regularly see the bottom of my overdraft.

But I’ve seen some of the labels in her clothes.

I know they’re expensive. And that accent – I don’t think she could be that desperate for money.

If she’s a lesbian and came on the show to find a husband, there can’t be pure reasons for that. Does ‘responsibilities’ just mean she’s after money? For what? She must already have money.

I don’t think anyone owes anyone else the inner workings of their sexuality, but also, this is a heterosexual dating show. Not only is Dolly denying someone their fair chance at finding love, but she’s lying to herself and the world too.

What if Warren could have found someone to fall in love with, but instead he’s with Dolly? There’s no way he knows for sure. That’s not the sort of arrangement you can agree on camera, surely? The show is about love! She can’t be sure of his feelings.

I don’t understand it. I don’t understand her.

If she came on this show for money and fame or whatever but has been telling me and all the others she’s here for love, then she’s been lying the whole time.

No wonder I would foolishly leap to the idea of us leaving together or recoupling if I thought she was here for honest reasons. Would I have even kissed her if I’d known?

In fact, has she said anything truthful this whole time?

It’s pretty rich for her to get angry with me this morning when I was just upset and confused, especially if all that is because she’s been talking a big game about her priorities and Warren and love. She didn’t have to be so fucking mean to me.

That’s when I realise: it’s all her fault.

Yes. That’s it. It’s Dolly’s fault I’m in this mess, crying in the bathroom, feeling guilty about cheating on Patrick.

Sure, I can take responsibility for getting confused and carried away, but I was working off faulty evidence, wasn’t I?

None of this would have happened, none of it, if Dolly had been honest with me.

And now, what? She wants to win the show. I guess that stability she is after is taking home the nest egg grand prize money.

There are real couples in here, falling in love and wanting to start a life together. Bridget and Whit and Lina are all here for love; don’t they deserve a true shot at happiness and the money too?

I’m sure they deserve the hundred thousand pounds more than Dolly and Warren do. Patrick and I certainly do.

Does she even believe in love?

She’s making a mockery of it all. Of all of us.

The sanctity of this experiment matters to me. I came here to find love, and I think I’m going to find it with Patrick.

God forbid I let two people who are faking love win. That would ruin everything.

And then, an idea forms. No. Is that too much? I swear I heard one of the Hannahs mention people get kicked off dating shows if production don’t think they’re genuine.

If I reported her to them, they could send her home.

But ratting them out is risky. If the others found out it was me, would they think I’m a bad person? Everyone else seems to like her, probably more than they like me. I’m sure Warren is popular on the boys’ side too.

Plus, if she went home, I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her lose to me.

Because I think I can beat her.

I can do more, I can push more. After all, I am very familiar with making myself approachable, friendly, trustworthy to strangers.

I know how to be the adorkable, cute character that people expect and find they like.

I’m good at corralling an audience at the farm.

I’ve spent my life training myself to be just enough and not too much.

She might be a faker and a liar, but I’m a high-masking autistic woman; we’re similar but I’m a different breed.

I’m the most formidable opponent Dolly Doherty could ever come up against.

That prize money is mine. Mine and Patrick’s.

Or at the very least, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it’s not hers. I just have to be a little bit better than her at everything. I know I can do that.

This decision feels dangerous, but it feels right. Excitement threads through my body in little thrills.

I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying, and I’m going to make it her problem.

When I leave the bathroom, Dolly is nervously pacing around between our beds, dressed in fresh clothes, but halts when she sees me. She watches me like I’m an animal in a trap. ‘Are you okay?’

I ignore her question. ‘You’re right. This was a mistake,’ I say, my words clipped and short.

‘Carys, please. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It just happens sometimes. People get—’

I cut her off with a wave of my hand. ‘We can be adults about this.’

I can tell she doesn’t quite believe me. The panic on her face is delicious.

Good. Squirm, bitch!

I busy myself getting dressed while she waits silently, unsure how to progress this conversation. Welcome to my life.

I’m surprised she doesn’t just leave.

‘Do you want me to help you pack?’ she asks eventually.

‘No thank you,’ I say, concentrating on the zip that runs up my side. I dry my hair quickly and shove it up into a bun.

If I get ahead of this, I can control the narrative – the thing that’ll piss her off the most.

‘I’ll put in a request for a room transfer,’ I say, choosing not to say so I don’t have to look at you again because I’m being an adult right now.

‘What do you mean?’ I can hear the panic in her voice.

I go to the door, pull it open just a crack and turn back to her. ‘I’m staying. I’m going to marry Patrick. May the best woman win.’