Chapter Seventeen Carys
[Malachi and Whit sit on a sun lounger together.]
WHIT Hello, fiancé.
MALACHI Hello, fiancée.
WHIT You know, every time I see that written down, I think the word is finance. And I keep half-calling you ‘my finance’.
MALACHI [laughs] You can call me your finance if you’d like.
WHIT Financier. What’s one of those? That sounds even posher.
MALACHI Isn’t that a little biscuit thing? Didn’t they make them on Bake Off?
[They look to camera.]
PRODUCER Erm, yeah, it’s a French almond cake.
WHIT AND MALACHI [together in bad French accents] We’re financiers!
‘God, you’d think they’d at least spring for a hotel room for us to get changed in,’ Bridget moans. ‘What’s the budget for this show, three quid?’
It’s pretty impressive that with only the poor lighting of this restaurant’s bathroom, Bridget manages to expertly apply false eyelashes. She doesn’t even break her flow of chat. If I try to talk while doing anything around my eyes, I will absolutely poke one of them out.
As if on cue, I dink myself in the eye with my eye liner from just thinking about talking.
‘Shit,’ I moan, dabbing at the black ink leaking off the front of my eyeball.
I look a little possessed. I groan and cap my cursed pen in frustration.
‘You’d think having to do my eyes every day for the last week I’d have got better at it. ’
Bridget looms next to me, her eyes wide and owlish. If she was an owl wearing just one false eyelash, that is. ‘Those cat eyes are going to have to be sisters, not twins, babe.’
My senses flood with the smell of her perfume, makeup, clothes, hair, everything all at once. I love Bridget but she’s a very scenty person.
I can feel the hot licking edges of my brain starting to shut down after the last few days.
Yesterday and the day before were the proposals, taking place all around London.
None of us girls knew about the excursion part or where we were going so I was on edge all day.
Production took us out in our couples for a few hours at a time, along with our chaperones and some cameras, before returning us to our dorms.
Which means that the rest of the time we were just hanging out, waiting.
Less than ideal for me because that sort of quiet structureless time means I find something to be anxious about, even if it’s just the concept of waiting for something else to happen.
The only distraction from that was getting annoyed that I couldn’t escape from Dolly, who just seems to be everywhere all the time.
Luckily, Hannah S. ended up trying to teach us some wrestling moves, and we started on a human pyramid until production told us to knock it off for health and safety reasons.
Then it was just back to waiting. Waiting for my life to begin.
Obviously, my proposal from Patrick was lovely, but wow, it was intense going back to the city farm after feeling like I’ve been in the warehouse for ages. I didn’t even get a chance to speak to any of my colleagues but it’s probably for the best when I was so hyped up.
The ring is a new bit of sensory information I’m having to process all the time. I keep thinking something has landed on me, and I’m realising how often I accidentally bash my hand into things because I hear it go dink every time, and then I panic I’ve broken it somehow.
I didn’t get the best sleep last night because Bridget was telling me excitedly about her engagement to Jackson, and she was so happy that I didn’t want to cut her off.
I’m positive I’ll like him better in person.
I don’t remember much about our date – everyone keeps referring to him as the alpha when Bridget isn’t around, and it just makes me think about that discredited wolf study where they threw a load of wolves who didn’t know each other into the same place to see what happened.
A bit like Wedded Bliss, really. Plus, it’s not as if I haven’t made terrible first impressions before, and people have been kind to me.
I’ll extend that grace to him too. For Bridget too.
I glance over at Bridget, now just finishing up her second eyelash. ‘These are sisters too,’ she laughs, moving on to her lips. While I’m relieved that she seems to be sharpening her lip liner, she has fashioned a scarily pointy end that she stabs onto her lips with vigour.
‘I’m not sure it’s always supposed to hurt,’ I murmur.
She winces. ‘Beauty is pain!’
‘Everything is pain,’ groans Lina, who is plucking her eyebrows.
I can’t disagree with that. Today has been a challenge. The last thing I want to do is have a public, televised autistic meltdown, but I can feel my hard limits getting closer and closer.
I don’t want Patrick to see me like that, just yet. I want time to explain all that… eventually. I just hope I can hold it off.
We had all thought that today would be a day off after we’ve been on camera for the best part of a week, but when the five of us girls woke up, the other girls – the Hannahs, Niamh and Priya – were already gone, like they’d vanished overnight.
No one will tell us if any of them got engaged, or what’s happened to them.
It’s like they never existed. We didn’t get to say goodbye.
We remaining girls were shuttled off to the airport, along with our handlers, in a big taxi. I knew that we would be flying somewhere, but having a flight sprung at me on a tired morning was not ideal.
Typically, Dolly was sitting next to me in the car, and I tried not to look at her at all.
Her long legs kept knocking against mine, and it’s quite fascinating how only a few days ago that would have sent my heart into a tizzy, and yet today it’s just annoying.
I made sure to look out the window the whole way.
Then there was the airport. Normally, when I go through security, I wear a sunflower lanyard so that people know I’m autistic and might need extra time or clearer explanations.
Obviously I didn’t pack one with me, and even though I know I could get one from the accessibility desk, Reb was stuck to my side like glue.
If I picked one up, they’d know I hadn’t been forthcoming about being autistic. I didn’t want to fuck things up.
So I knuckled through, without headphones or sunglasses or any help. I could just imagine my sisters screaming at me about this in future, but I didn’t really have a choice except to slide the mask back on.
What made things worse is when I got to the x-ray bit, I kept being rushed and then I dropped everything, and the only person who came over to help was Dolly so we had this awkward moment kneeling on the floor, surrounded by all my things, trying not to look at each other.
I mumbled a thank you, because I’m not rude, but I couldn’t trust myself to speak any louder without my brain popping.
Once we’d got through, I told Reb I had a killer migraine (not a total lie), and donned headphones, sunglasses and some emergency extremely minty chewing gum to focus on. I wish I hadn’t packed David in my checked luggage.
I didn’t see Patrick until we were at the gate, where he was sitting with all the other men.
Forcing through overstimulation to greet four men I’ve half spoken to through speakers wasn’t ideal, but once I managed to whisper out that I had a migraine, everyone got me to sit down and left me alone for the best part.
That’s the lonely price of it; sometimes you only get to watch while everyone finds this part easy.
On the flight, they sat us in our couples, rather than with our handlers.
It was lovely, but still kind of strange, as quietly sitting next to Patrick on the plane was the first time we’ve been together without also being on camera.
Around us, I could hear the other couples chattering away and taking selfies.
Patrick put his arm round me so we could curl up and fall asleep.
The rhythm of his breathing was like a lullaby.
Even though we’ve only touched a few times, I can’t get over how natural that intimacy felt.
It’s not lost on me that after filming, we’ll be sharing a bed. It’s a step up. I’m going to have to wear my sleeping headphones to adjust to the noise, but I’m a little glad that we won’t yet be alone. We can work up to it.
So now we’re in a Greek restaurant bathroom.
It’s frustrating that they didn’t take us straight to the big house we’re going to be living in for the next couple of days, especially after an early morning and a flight.
We arrived to cameras, lights, production staff we’d never met before, all waiting to start filming us couples having our first evening meal date together.
‘I can only assume this scheduling was done by a man,’ groans Dolly’s voice from one of the stalls. ‘A woman would never expect us to get ready in a toilet.’
She’s not wrong. The five of us only just about fit, and also it has all the delightful and intense scents and flavours of a bathroom.
On top of that, the ruffles on my peachy pink dress are starchy and keep tickling my neck and arms. I could balance it out by dulling my other senses, but I don’t think I’ll get away with sunglasses as it’s too late in the afternoon – I’ll look too obviously autistic or, worse, like a diva.
Whit walks out of one of the stalls dressed in a cream waistcoat paired with matching trousers. ‘This was the worst colour I could wear. Please tell me I don’t have anything gross on me?’ She spins around, and I double-check her for unmentionable substances.
‘You’re good. And you look lovely.’ I try not to look at her bare and very toned arms for too long, because I’m admiring not ogling. Important distinction.
‘Thanks,’ she sighs. ‘It’s so much effort. I’m not used to thinking about what nice outfit to wear every day. I’m a surgeon; give me back my scrubs.’