Chapter Eighteen Dolly
Yeah, obviously I’m quite gutted. I really thought that we had something in the warehouse. I just… I hope that Zack will grow to be the man Lina deserves. She must see something in him that we can’t, which is somehow how it is! But… I just hope he’s good to her.
For a man as proportionally massive as Warren, he’s quite a considerate bedmate. Gave me a chaste kiss goodnight, keeps to his side, showers before bed, doesn’t snore – a dream man. I almost feel bad about hogging him.
Unfortunately, the rest of my roommates are less dreamy. All I can hear is snoring and… well, less wholesome sounds. I must have fallen asleep for a bit, but I’m awoken by Bridget and Jackson giggling in the bed next to ours.
There’s no ignoring that. And not just because of the threat of slashes to our wedding budget, because I’m positive they’re literally fucking under there.
Instead of lying here listening to coitus in action, I get up to fetch a drink of water, grabbing my phone as I go.
I make sure to whack Bridget and Jacksons’ entwined feet as I squeeze past them. ‘Keep it PG, campers,’ I hiss.
They ignore me. Obviously.
It’s a fancy house. If we weren’t stacked together like sardines, I’d probably enjoy it more.
The kitchen is decorated in stark white, and once I’ve gulped down some water, I’m wide awake.
While the others are racking up fines, I may as well do a little exploring and try to work out if there are any cameras in the building.
I’m pretty sure it’s just someone’s house, not a specifically built set, so the likelihood of them being in the walls is low, but still.
A secret lesbian on television can’t be too careful.
It’s like being on a film set, but in my pyjamas. And no one else is here.
Well, not my pyjamas. The show regulation sexy pyjamas.
It’s so ridiculous. I brought slinky, sexy pyjamas to wear but production insisted all the girls wear these matching sets with our names embroidered on the tit – as though I’m going to mix up my size 24 top with Bridget’s size 6 one.
Please. They’re a rip-off of the Love Island merch and presumably are being sold on TikTok shops or Instagram affiliate links right now.
The men have matching slinky boxer shorts that remind me of the Boots 3 for 2 Christmas present options for men.
I wasn’t going to argue in case I got accused of not being a team player.
I wander into the living room, which might have the highest concentration of bean bag chairs outside of the nineties.
I wish I could call Mum. She loves shit reality TV décor, always complaining about the neon light signs on Love Island, or the chairs without supportive backs.
If I had my phone, I’d take pictures for her.
She’ll have seen probably two episodes by now, I think, so will have seen me ‘falling in love’ with Warren. I wonder what she makes of that.
I swallow down the rise in my throat, and as I turn, something catches my eye. Through the window, I see a lone figure standing by the pool.
Unfortunately, I would know that silhouette anywhere.
I could go back to bed, ignore whatever Carys-created drama is happening.
I could.
I hate how much I notice about her. At security when she needed help and wouldn’t ask for it. At dinner too. The confused, icy look she gave me presumably when she realised I got David for her. I hate that these instincts just kick me into auto-drive when I really should be keeping clear.
I’m pretty sure Patrick was one of the actually just snoring contingent. I could make him deal with this.
Why is she standing out there in the middle of the night?
I wonder if she’s finally realising that you can’t re-cork champagne, or lesbianism. Well, you probably can preserve opened champagne with some kind of rich person device, but I’m a girl from Crosby who doesn’t even buy the real stuff in the first place. Gay panic is my expertise, not champers.
Bringing Patrick in to assist in a queer crisis is not going to help. Hey, babes, I know you’re reconsidering your whole relationship to attraction and desire, but here’s the man you’re supposed to marry in a few weeks!
Yeah, no.
The temperature must drop a lot overnight because even standing inside in my tiny show regulation pyjamas is making me wish I’d brought a proper fleecy dressing gown. She’s outside in the cold.
Seeing Carys’s bare feet is the last straw.
My carer instincts kick in, powering me forward before I can think twice.
‘Carys?’ I call her name softly as I approach.
I didn’t mean to startle her, but I think she’s on a hair trigger. When she spins round and realises it’s me, the look she gives me is a mixture of confusion, upset, maybe not anger but something.
‘What do you want, Dolly?’ she snaps. Her body a sharp line, all taut elbows and folded in on itself.
Well. Fuck me then!
I’m only human, so I can’t help but be annoyed. ‘I saw you were awake and standing out here at two in the morning,’ I hiss, conscious of waking the others.
Carys blinks a few times. ‘How do you know it’s two?’
I point up at the sky. ‘Well, that big fucking thing called a moon is kind of a giveaway, don’t you think?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘It comes out in the day too.’
I almost say, so do people who aren’t lying to themselves about being queer, but I hold the barb in.
‘I wasn’t being literal,’ I say instead.
She doesn’t reply, but looks up at the sky. ‘Usually, I have to set alarms to remember everything,’ she says, kind of dreamily. ‘The one thing about being here is that I’ve surrendered all life administration to the production team. It’s nice not thinking about dinner.’
I’m not sure why we’re having this conversation out in the cold. ‘Can’t relate,’ I sigh, desperately missing my kitchen. ‘Not cooking is so strange.’
‘Does Warren cook?’ she asks for some reason.
‘A little.’
‘Good, your relationship is so amicable,’ she says, and I think she’s aiming for sarcasm but doesn’t quite land it.
‘It is,’ I say, calm as possible. ‘We’re honest with each other.’
‘I doubt that,’ she snaps, and it’s annoying that she’s right, because I still haven’t told Warren that I bat for the other team exclusively.
‘Okay, fine, there’s a few details missing.’
‘A few! Dolly, are you always this good at lying to yourself?’ Her voice hitches. ‘At lying to your fiancé?’
‘It might be fake, but it’s solid. Has Patrick talked to you about his ex yet? Peony is as big an omission as my lesbianism.’
I regret saying that immediately.
Carys’s eyes flash wide and angry. ‘Urgh, just… fuck off, Dolly.’
She storms away a little and I let her go while I panic about saying my truth out loud. I look around where we are on the patio, not caring if I make it obvious that I’m actively looking for cameras because if they see this, they’ll have heard what I just said.
After a few minutes, I come up empty. Either way, it’s too late now. If production have cottoned on, I’ll hear about it tomorrow. It’s not like, if I even found them, I could rip the equipment out of the walls.
I need to be more careful about what I’m saying just to get back at her.
I’m about to leave, but she’s standing by the edge of the pool in a way that worries me. No one should swim unaccompanied.
I might want to, but I can’t leave her alone out here, even if we’re just arguing and probably making it worse.
Come on, Dolly, be a grown-up. Be the bigger person here.
I give her a few moments to cool down, or to curse me under her breath, and slowly approach.
In the moonlight, I see the sheen of tears on her cheeks and neck. Her mouth is a flat line, all from a tense jaw. Like she’s trying to engage every muscle in her body to hold herself up. There are no further words, no movement, nothing else from her. She has that trapped animal look again.
‘What’s wrong then?’ I say a little too brusquely.
I’ve said the magic words, because the statue begins to crumble. Her body vibrates. I don’t think it’s a panic attack, but her eyes are wide and unfocused.
It’s kind of like a look I’ve seen on my mum’s face, when she’s in a really bad state. She doesn’t say anything, because I don’t think she can.
‘I’m going to get you a glass of water. Then I’ll be right back.’ I speak slowly, like I’m talking to a feral cat I need to convince to eat. Or to not bite me. Again. In a less fun context.
Her eyes flash to me, huge and pleading.
‘Just me, I promise.’
On light feet, I tiptoe back to the kitchen. Now is not the time for wine goblets. She needs something with a handle. I take a mug and fill it.
When I get back, Carys hasn’t moved.
‘Come sit down. It’ll be easier to drink this.’ I don’t touch her, but I point the way towards a bench seat on the far side of the pool.
No one should be able to hear us from here.
Once sat, Carys takes the mug of water in both hands when I offer it, and sips slowly. The wildness in her eyes dulls.
I don’t know how long we stay there, totally silent, but it’s long enough that I start to get really cold. I can’t tell if she doesn’t register how cold it is. It’s like the icy air doesn’t touch her.
‘I should have brought some blankets from the living room. It’s like a bean bag emporium in there,’ I say, feeling the need to fill the silence.
‘A soft furnishings only zone.’ Her voice is croaky, slurry, almost like she’s drunk.
We go back to silence, and I retrieve two lurid neon blankets, because it’s clear she’s not going back inside any time soon.
I resist the temptation to wrap one around her.
She takes it, gathering it in her lap, stroking the fleece like it’s a real creature.
Or David, who I’d be tempted to get if I wouldn’t wake someone.
Carys sets the mug down on the bench next to her. ‘Thank you for the water.’
‘That’s okay. It looked like you needed some help.’
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she says, which is true. ‘I’ve not exactly been the nicest to you in the last… however long it’s been.’
‘Days. A few days.’