Chapter Twenty Carys #2
Now I regret asking. Peony. That’s who he means, doesn’t he? I only know her name because Dolly threw it at me like a grenade last night. Patrick still hasn’t really told me about her, though I haven’t talked much about Mike either.
‘To an ex-girlfriend?’ I say, wishing we weren’t having this conversation.
‘Yes, but we were young and together a long time. We hadn’t planned anything. Things change.’
It’s very clear that he wants to drop this. I feel stupid and selfish for bringing up his pain because I wanted to get the heat off me. That’s not the kind of wife I want to be.
‘I think that makes it very special then,’ I insist. ‘We get to pick everything from scratch together with no prior expectations. Just what feels right for us.’
He smiles tightly, perhaps the bitterness of the memory still on his tongue.
I shouldn’t be jealous of Peony. It’s in the past, I’m sure, no matter what Dolly implies.
‘What about a big country house? Jane Austen style? You can be Colonel Brandon, I’ll be Marianne.’
I know I’m not supposed to yet, but I grab the binder and flick through to the venues.
‘Carys—’ Patrick begins, but I cut him off with an excited noise when the page falls open on a big white stately home.
It’s beautiful. The rooms inside are decorated with intricate wallpaper woven with bits of gold leaf.
At the back, sweeping steps we can pose on for our wedding photos lead down to large lawns with beautiful topiary.
The perfect place for a garden reception.
There’s even a marble columny thing like the one Lizzie and Darcy argue in in the 2005 version, though hopefully it’ll be without the downpour.
There’s even accommodation so all our family could stay there too.
A destination, yes, but something that feels homely too.
Patrick’s face lights up. ‘It’s perfect. I can just picture it.’
We kiss a gentle chaste kiss. A good-morning-my-spouse kind of kiss.
‘Okay, no more looking.’ I slam the book shut with a sharp clap.
The excitement of finding our possible venue spurs me on.
Patrick helps me up, and then Bridget arrives, insisting on helping me dress.
She makes me sit on the makeup table pouffe while she does my face, which is very kind but I am wearing more makeup than I might have ever worn in my life.
The foundation is sticky and tight against my skin, and I have to work not to notice it.
Even though it usually makes my tiny head look like a pea, we shove my messy hair into a high pony topped with a baseball cap that Lina lends me. It says Pathological People Pleaser on the front, which feels a bit on the nose.
Hopefully I look cute and sporty, not desperately hungover from the meltdown.
The overstimulation is still there, but it’s duller today – not because things are better, but because my wrecked brain has given up trying to process half of the stuff around me.
I notice I’m missing more words than usual when Bridget chatters to me about what the challenge could be, unable to fill in the gaps when every third word is missing.
It’s a beautiful white noise of sound, which sounds rude to say, but I’m not sure she expects me to listen.
When I finally make it outside, most of the couples gather by the lawn. Lighting and cameras are being set up, and I suspect that Lucas and Karina are on their way by the slightly nervous atmosphere from the production team. That means challenge with a capital C.
A gaunt man who I think is called Liam is laying down thin bits of card in rows along the grass. They kind of look like stepping stones.
‘What’s this for?’ I croak, when Reb hands me a shiny laminated board and a felt tip pen.
Rather than answer, Reb announces to the group, ‘We’ll explain the rules in just a few minutes.’
I flex the fingers of my right hand, and try to hold onto the pen properly, but it feels strange, disconnected.
Sometimes, after a meltdown or shutdown, I really struggle to write.
The communication bit of my brain is the first to go, so not being able to speak isn’t a huge surprise.
But the writing goes too, though given there’s more typing than handwriting in my life, I forget this quirk.
Hopefully I can manage it, though people are weirdly judgy about handwriting.
I studiously ignore Dolly’s glances from across the lawn.
‘How are you feeling?’ asks a cheery voice, and I look up to see Malachi wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, like he’s about to hit the beach.
He’s very muscly – I think Whit said he’s in the early stages of training to be a firefighter.
You probably have to be very fit for that.
You know, physically fit! Not just handsome.
My cheeks redden as I try to find a place to look at him that doesn’t feel ogly.
‘Medium,’ is all I manage to say, which is not really the right answer, but he laughs as though I was purposeful.
‘It’s a real medium kind of morning,’ he agrees.
‘Thank you for the crêpes. They were just what I needed.’
‘I learned to flip one! Second best day of my life.’
‘What was the first?’
I follow his look across the lawn to Whit, perched on a bench with her long legs crossed at the knees, her head thrown back in laughter as Dolly animatedly tells her a story.
‘When I met her,’ Malachi says. ‘The love of my life.’
He says it so sweetly that I want to burst into tears.
Whit and Dolly must sense us watching, because they both look over. Whit and Malachi silently coo at each other, all exaggerated words and heart-hands.
I don’t think they notice the weighted look between Dolly and me. Her eyebrows rise in a silent question, and I give her a quick little nod.
I’ve never been great at reading or conveying non-verbal communication but I hope I’ve conveyed thanks for last night but we’re back to not being friends and also let’s not talk about it with anyone thanks.
Her eyes drop and she turns away to fuss over Whit. My body feels cold all over, like I’ve just been shoved out into the snow.
It weighs on me that I’m able to be so much more honest with her than anyone else, even though we’re practically enemies. Maybe the distance makes it easier?
Or maybe it feels easier because she’s the only one I’ve given the chance to see me.
Still, I feel angry and embarrassed that she saw me like that. And, if I’m honest, a little hurt that all she could bother doing was look at me. Not even going to ask me how I am?
Maybe that’s stupid – we said it was only a temporary truce, I said we’re not friends. And yet, I still feel… dropped? Rejected.
I think that’s even more embarrassing than her seeing me at my most vulnerable.
Reb returns, freeing me from the prickling in my head that could be the meltdown hangover or Dolly-generated. ‘Do you need anything? I hope you’re feeling a bit better.’
‘I still feel awful,’ I say before I can really think it through.
‘Oh. You can sit this one out if you want?’ she suggests hesitantly. ‘It would… have to be both of you, though.’
That decides it. I don’t want either of us missing out, especially if there are prizes up for grabs.
‘No, I’ll push through,’ I say, trying to sound confident.
‘Good,’ she says, a little too relieved. ‘Migraines are a total slag.’
I burst into giggles that hurt my head but do make me feel better. ‘They are.’
‘Okay, time to get ready. Look, your man is here.’
Patrick replaces Reb at my side, and I beam up at him. He really is lovely.
Whatever this challenge brings, I hope we rise to meet it together.
‘Look at our wonderful betrothed couples!’ cries Lucas with CBBC level enthusiasm as he and Karina arrive, all shiny and golden.
They walk round to one end of the rows of cardboard circles.
‘Now, together you will face many challenges and travel the River of Life together, but we wanted to get a read on how well you’ve got to know each other so far,’ says Karina, her eyes wide in wild excitement.
The cue cards in their hands reflect the bright sunlight, and I try not to wince as the light flickers in my eyes.
‘And so we brought you to a literal river of life!’ Lucas cries with even more excitement.
We all look down at where they are gesturing at the cardboard circles and lines on the lawn. It’s… well, I don’t want to be rude, but a little less impressive than they are making it out to be. It’s not really a river either. We’re on grass.
I realise my internal pedantry means I’ve missed Karina’s short explanation of the game, though it seems to be just write an answer and hope it matches Patrick’s.
And then Karina adds, ‘The first couple to meet in the middle get to secure their dream wedding venue.’
A commotion of gasps surrounds us. I wonder if the other couples picked their venues while I was sleeping. Bridget and Lina exchange nervous glances and it dawns on me that there might be a rule that none of us can have the same venue.
I need that country house.
‘We’ve hand-selected the best venues in the country, but who will get first pick? Let’s find out. Couples? Line up!’
Okay, okay. This is important. I pull out the last remnants of my energy, knowing I’ll pay for this later.
I line up at the starting point, Patrick directly opposite me. There are ten stepping stones between us, with a blue line in the middle. That means five questions with matching answers to win. We can do that.
To my left, Dolly and Warren high-five. I hate how confident they are that they can beat real couples. They can’t know each other that well; he doesn’t even know she’s gay.
They have nothing on Patrick and me. We’ve been learning about what matters about each other – how we feel, how we act, what’s most important to us. I mean, yes, he doesn’t know I’m autistic yet, but we understand each other.
Urgh, I regret pretending that I’m well enough. I’m groggy, like the edges of the world are still a bit muffled.