Chapter Twenty-One Dolly
@potatofiend: sorry did Zack put his greatest fear as being cancelled! What skeletons are in his closet?
@regularsizedhorse: To be fair to Warren big slugs are terrifying
Rather impressive they could get it all this quickly, but why couldn’t we have had that upfront?
While the big country house having accommodation solved some problems and it’s tempting to steal it from Carys, surprise, surprise, there’s no lifts anywhere. Still, it’s tempting to steal it from Carys just to fuck her over.
I really want us to get married in the Barbican Conservatory. I can’t stop thinking of how warm and beautiful it will be under that sunlight, surrounded by plants. If I was getting married for real, this would be the place I’d pick.
But there’s a few hitches: how do we get people there, where will everyone stay, how accessible can we make the rest of the wedding beyond the venue itself?
Warren pokes me in the gap between my eyebrows. ‘Your brain is going to set on fire with all that thinking.’
‘I just want to get it right,’ I insist, peering at him over the top of my sunglasses. ‘This is the first big decision, so it feels important.’
Warren nods slowly. ‘Come on.’ He stands up, taking my hand and the rest of me with him. ‘We need to cool that brain off with a little dip, yeah?’
I immediately work out what he means. Getting in the pool is our opportunity to talk freely.
Or free-ish. Every day, when we’d get mic’d up, the production assistants had stressed repeatedly that we could not get them wet without causing significant damage, and that we shouldn’t spend too long in the pool either, presumably because we can only swim mic-less.
I suspect they hope that most people don’t want to ruin their hair and makeup so won’t swim.
The camera crew have left us alone because, surprisingly, two people reading through email printouts is actually not that exciting, especially when Bridget, Jackson, Lina and Zack are playing with a hacky sack Lina brought with her (presumably from the early 2000s).
I still haven’t worked out if there are hidden microphones or cameras. I just don’t want to trust it. I got away with it last time but who is to say I will be as lucky again.
I instinctively press my hand over my pelvis. The dull ache of a flare is starting to set in, but I think I’ve got time before things get distinctly Jaws-level pool unfriendly.
We leave our mic packs on the sun loungers and, always a gentleman, Warren guides me down the pool steps into the warm water. I wrap my body around him like a koala on a tree. He’s so tall and the pool is so shallow that he has to crouch so that our heads are at water level.
‘Talk to me,’ he whispers in my ear.
‘I just worry that getting everyone there will be such a faff,’ I say honestly. ‘I don’t particularly want to leave it to chance that they will understand the complexities of accessibility.’
Let’s be real, given neither Carys or I disclosed our disabilities to them doesn’t exactly fill me with hope that they will do a good job.
‘Okay, so we’ll handle it. We’re a team, right?’
I lick my lips and consider it. ‘We’re a team. Can we pick the Conservatory then?’
He sighs happily. ‘Good work on saying the thing you want.’
‘I always say what I want, don’t I?’ I say, a little confused.
‘Mmhmm.’ His voice vibrates against my body and through the water around us. ‘We will look fire in that natural light. Golden hour?’
‘God, the photos would be perfect.’
‘And, it has the bonus of not pissing off Little Miss Red. Unless you wanted that?’
I cackle. ‘You noticed that?’
‘Everyone noticed that. She’s wound so tight. And why’s she got beef with you exactly?’
I consider telling him the truth. After all, he knows everything else. But I’m too much of a coward to tell him the whole of it. ‘Not sure. Unfortunately, I do enjoy winding her up. It’ll make such good TV.’
‘As long as people don’t think you’re deep in feelings with Patrick.’ He leans back to look me in the face. ‘Please, he’s a nice boy but my ego couldn’t take the rejection. The man spends his days with his arm inside a cow.’
‘You know, people love a love triangle. Would you fight Patrick for me?’ I bat my eyelashes at him.
‘Absolutely not. I’m a lover not a fighter, baby. But I bet you’d love to have two people fight over you.’
‘Honestly, I would. Is that bad? Am I very shallow?’
He bursts into laughter. ‘Like this pool.’
It’s my turn to cackle.
But when it cools, I realise that now is the time to tell him the truth about me, if not about Carys.
‘But there is something I do want to tell you, while we’re here.’
‘Is it about you asking me if I thought I’d fall in love here, and how you dodged me asking it back?’
‘You noticed that, huh.’
‘I notice a lot. I don’t want to make assumptions, but—’ Here he begins splashing water with his hands, like he’s tapping out a drum.
I realise, with great love for this man, that he’s being sure that no one will be able to pick up this audio, just in case.
‘I didn’t think you were interested in men full stop. ’
‘Well,’ I say, feeling the shake in my hands as I clutch onto him like a life raft. ‘Yeah. I’m gay.’
‘That’s cool with me, I promise.’
He stops splashing and instead walks us round the middle of the pool. ‘Oh, my bestie is a Libra too,’ he says lightly, like we’ve just been discussing astrological signs, instead of me coming out to my straight fake husband.
I glance over to the hacky sack and cameras, but no one notices us.
‘Is she a basketball player too?’ I murmur.
‘You bet.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t invite her to the wedding, just to be safe. She’ll be mobbed.’
‘People love a Libra, huh.’
I snort-laugh.
I want to ask him about his own attraction, about whether he’s strictly into girls or if he’s ever dabbled. But that question is much more dangerous for him as I am pretty certain that being a professional sportsman is not the most queer-friendly career for men. I want to protect him.
I knew, in my heart, that this would be a safe conversation with Warren. It was never about him, but the geography, the surveillance, the safety. I’m so glad he understands.
I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for being chill about it.’
‘Listen to me when I say that there’s nothing here to be unchill about. We’re partners. I got you.’ He squeezes me tightly, just to punctuate it. ‘Even if our moon signs probably clash or something.’
God, this man. ‘I adore you,’ I tell him honestly.
His deep laugh rumbles through my heart. ‘Don’t go falling in love with me now,’ he whispers.
‘Darling, if I could love a man, you’d be it for me.’ I peck him on the lips, and it feels real, in a way. We’re not in love, but I do love him.
I was hoping that we’d get the afternoon off after a challenge, but they send us all out on individual dates. In reality TV land, a ‘week’ is often just a few days with lots of outfit changes. I suppose, with a tight budget, they want us in and out of this house as quickly as possible.
Inexplicably, they send Warren and me waterskiing and I have to submit to the fact that there will be footage of me with my arse waggling in the air circulating the internet in a few days’ time. At least it’s a good arse.
After we’ve humiliated ourselves, we give them good relationship content over champagne – conversations about our favourite things, the future, our wedding.
Real couple stuff that gives Warren a chance to shine as a responsible husband and bastion of a thoughtful form of masculinity without the toxicity.
I’m here for it, and I know his DMs will be flooded the moment we announce our notes app breakup.
We’re dropped back home in the early evening, where production serve us a buffet of grilled meats, pitas, dips and salad on the communal table – one of the few times we don’t get filmed.
I can’t wait to get in a shower to get this salt off my skin, but I take advantage of being a fat girl eating off camera and shovel forkfuls of oily leaves into my face.
All the couples except for Carys and Patrick are here. I’m not sure what everyone else has been up to, but Malachi and Whit are splattered in dried paint, and Bridget and Jackson look a little too pink.
Unfortunately, I clock production preparing for more filming when they wheel by several clothing rails.
I jump up, and rush over to a very sweaty and tired-looking Reb who is pushing them in. ‘Hey, babe. What’s this?’
‘Costumes,’ she says flatly, before wincing. She turns to me, sleep-deprived and bruised dark eyes pleading. ‘I didn’t say that.’
I mime zipping my lips closed, and she gives me a look of relief.
Because we’d chosen the Conservatory, Bridget and Jackson got the okay to pick their venue, and so she tells us about how they’ve gone off-piste.
‘I’ve had the Georgian drawing room at Cardiff Castle on reserve just in case,’ Bridget explains.
‘Good for us because it’s fit, and good for them to get the free filming. ’
‘I’m impressed that you managed to get Sunset Motions to agree to that,’ I say, knowing the venues often have agreed promotion deals.
She taps her nose. ‘None of the venues were in Wales, were they. Told them they were being too Anglocentric and they shat their pants for not being woke enough.’ She cackles gleefully. ‘Win win!’
Well, fair enough. I can’t act like I wouldn’t also try to imply the show wasn’t being inclusive enough to get my own way.
Perhaps I’ve been underestimating Bridget.
Not Jackson, he’s very clearly who it says he is on the tin – a gender essentialist dickhead who thinks caregiving is an affront to his masculinity.
I hope I’m wrong about him, for her sake, but I know I’m not.
Despite everything, I notice the moment that Carys wanders in, tucked under Patrick’s arm, followed by a cameraman. They look… kind of uncomfortable.
They both sit down opposite Warren and me, with hellos from Patrick and nothing from Carys. Bridget asks them about their day, and Patrick explains they went to a sushi-making class.
I realise that they probably don’t know that it’s their turn to pick their venue.
‘Hey,’ I begin. ‘Warren and I decided we’re going with the Barbican.’
At this, the camera swings round, clearly filming us. Shit, I was enjoying wolfing down dinner, and I had to go and bring up something plot relevant. Everyone sits up a little straighter.
‘That just felt right for us,’ I continue carefully. ‘And that means you guys get your dream venue too. A win all round.’
‘Oh, Dolly, that’s so kind of you,’ Patrick beams.
I see Carys’s eyes dart from me to the camera so quickly that I almost miss it. She’s suspicious, but she knows it’s time to put on a show.
‘Thank you for always being so considerate,’ she says, so sweetly that my teeth ache. ‘Can I take the opportunity to apologise for my behaviour earlier?’ Her eyes are wide with false sincerity.
I reach out and take her hand, ignoring the spark of heat that rushes through me. ‘It’s okay. Thank you for apologising. I get a little too competitive, so I’m sorry for my part too.’
She sinks a sharp nail into my palm and I try not to wince. ‘No, really, it was me who was being out of line.’
Patrick looks very confused about what is going on, and Warren coughs to disguise his laugh.
‘I know we’re not here to make friends, and we don’t have to be that,’ I say, hammering home last night’s point, because that’s what she wants to hear, isn’t it? ‘But I really admire you for this apology. That’s very vulnerable of you.’
Carys gently pats at our joined hands with her free one, and I feel her sharp fingernail hammering against my palm.
I’m not quite sure if she’s trying to turn me on, but there’s something rife for psychosexual analysis happening to my body.
It’s frustrating to be so chemically attracted to someone who is in actuality a total mess.
‘And I appreciate you for being so open to it. You’re always so thoughtful,’ she adds.
‘Are you two quite done kissing and making up?’ Bridget asks loudly.
I get a tiny thrill at the flush on Carys’s cheeks. I hate to admit that fighting might be almost as fun as fucking her.
Finally Lina and Zack arrive, looking too oily like they’ve just stepped out of the massage parlour. ‘Oh no,’ she says, upon spotting yet more clothing trolleys being wheeled in. ‘What are those?’
‘Challenge time,’ Bridget says, and I’m not sure if that’s her own deduction or if she heard Reb and me whispering. ‘I have my suspicions about which one.’
‘Come on,’ Whit sighs. ‘Don’t leave us hanging.’
Bridget smiles broadly. ‘It’s got to be the Pulse Race Challenge, babes. Sexy costumes and dancing. It’s time to try to make everyone horny!’
I spy Carys’s eyes flicking up to me and away, over and over. That, my friends, is gay panic in action.
This morning was bad enough. Basically any time one of the Nguyens’ questions was about sex, she looked at me in the most obvious way.
Compulsory heterosexuality may be a deep closet to hide yourself in, but I wonder how obvious it is to everyone else that she keeps peeking her head out.
Fair play, it’s not like the idea of all of us dancing around in tiny underwear masquerading as costumes isn’t exciting to me. Carys must be losing her mind in among the mothballs.
I shouldn’t enjoy this. I shouldn’t. But, oh, this is going to be good.