Chapter Twenty-Seven Dolly
@generichandle: Omg is Carys okay???
@prunetits: Lmfaoooo imagine passing out because you heard people talking about sex, she is SO repressed
@generichandle: @prunetits you can’t just call people repressed!!!
I’ve never lived in London before. Or in a massive block of flats.
Mum and I have always lived in our little terraced house.
It’s embarrassingly starstruck of me to think wow we’re so high up but I do think that when I look out the window.
I can see the big pointy building that Greenpeace kept trying to climb up a few years ago, and the curve of Wembley Stadium.
Plus a lot more buildings that aren’t remotely familiar to me.
‘Welcome to the city.’ Warren joins me at the window, arm slung over my shoulder.
‘It’s wild. It’s so big and I feel like such a bumpkin looking at it.’
‘You good?’
I feel Warren’s eyes on me so I turn in his arms. ‘Yeah. I am. Just getting used to it all.’
He kisses me on the forehead. We’ve got such an easy intimacy that you could mistake us for an actual married couple. Which, yes, is the intention, but there’s no one else here, and definitely no cameras in the apartments. It’s just us. Just two best friends.
‘Have you called your mum yet?’
I cringe. ‘No.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘I’m just… not ready. It’s not you—’
‘I didn’t think it was,’ he says, laughing. ‘But you should talk to her.’
I’m not sure I have the bandwidth to call up Mum when this flare is barrelling towards me like a runaway train.
I had hoped that I might escape the whole experiment without endometriosis reminding me it seeded its horrible little lesions all over my body, but no.
I groan, clutching my pelvis with one hand and the cold flat of the window with the other.
Warren tucks his arm under one of mine for stability, ready to catch me if I drop. ‘I got you,’ he whispers as I press my sweaty forehead against the chilled glass.
The cramp passes. Such a small word for something that racks through my body with the aggression of an orgasm. Just the opposite, really. Totally fucking horrible.
‘Nope. It’s definitely coming.’
I had told Warren about my endometriosis during our warehouse dates.
After all, I’ve been pretty open about it in my content.
I hadn’t told the show much about it or asked for accommodations.
It’s one of those disabilities that no one considers a disability because no one knows what disability really means.
Anyway, production didn’t kick up a fuss about me not mentioning it directly.
I hope that when I turn my work phone back on, I’ll have messages and comments from people who’ve seen it. That is, provided the show doesn’t edit it out.
Warren takes one look at my belly, which has swollen up hard and stiff like I’m suddenly eight months pregnant. ‘Bedtime.’
‘No, I need to power through. We’ve got the group dinner in a few hours.’
He looks at me like I’m an alien. ‘Are you mad? You look like you almost splattered half of East London with your stomach contents.’
‘Not sure my sick can pass through glass.’
‘That’s a relief. I was worried about the porcelain.’
I let Warren take me to the bedroom because I am starting to feel a little dizzy. I can argue all I want, but I know he’s right. I need to rest.
I’ll say this, the show didn’t spare any expense on the huge king-size bed with a very comfortable mattress. Presumably because they want to get all the straight couples fucking (if they aren’t already), but it has the added benefit of being the perfect sick day nest for me.
I pop painkillers and a cramp relaxer from my med kit into my hand and knock them back without water.
‘That’s a bit hardcore,’ Warren says, passing me a glass to drink from anyway.
I down it in one go. ‘Thanks. I’ll have to get ready soon. I’ve powered through before.’
‘Doesn’t mean you should now,’ he calls from the walk-in wardrobe where he’s hanging up our clothes on wooden hangers. ‘We’ve already had one person pass out on the show this week.’
Poor Carys. I got the distinct impression from the abject terror in her eyes that she thought our dalliances were about to be revealed.
Call me naive, but I was pretty confident that if the show knew about it, they’d have let us know before the Nguyens got there. It’s not a good look to out your contestants, after all.
No wonder she passed out.
Luckily, we all managed to benefit from her ‘migraine’ situation as the show insisted we take a couple of days off filming while we made our way to our new homes.
That meant a night in a hotel in Greece before they were confident we weren’t all going to pass out on the plane.
For the other couples, that meant a load of joyful shagging without the fear of racking up any fines.
I wonder if— No, let’s not go there.
She sat in front of me on the flight home, had to walk past me a bunch of times, and never even looked at me. Not even a bitchy comment. It’s really weird. I just hope she’s alright.
Back on land, they took us to our apartments, but agreed that instead of filming a we’re arriving at our new apartment segment as planned, they’d let us settle in and film some fake welcome to our brand new apartment we definitely are just moving into now content tomorrow so we can rest before the dinner party.
I’m sure the staff were glad for a break too. Reb looked so threadbare on the flight that I was tempted to ask if she was in a union.
Reality TV contestants’ rights is a whole other thing.
Signing them away is something we half agree to when we sign the contract.
But maybe that’s just me knowing what I was walking into.
I’ve read the depositions and court cases for the various shows around the world.
I was prepared for limited sleep, producer interference, no days off.
I don’t think Carys was prepared for any of it.
I know that I could find her on Instagram and message her, but we agreed to keep away from each other. I think that includes checking in.
‘We’re being recorded for national television,’ I continue, blowing out a long slow breath with another twinging cramp. ‘Be present or be forgotten. Come on, you know what I mean, though?’
I don’t mention his sports injury, but he nods. He knows. You get sick, you might get left behind. That’s just the way it is, even if I wish it wasn’t.
‘Fine, mad lady. I’ll finish the unpacking and then shall we order lunch in?’
‘God, yes. Have I told you that you’re the perfect husband?’
‘Not today!’ he calls, as he walks out of the bedroom to grab another case.
I stare down at my belly, hard with inflammation. I think because I’m fat people are extra surprised when it manages to suddenly balloon out, like I’m pregnant on a Sims timeline of like three days. I’m just glad I got through the tiny dress and bikini sections before it hit.
Now I can just lie in bed and make phone calls about our wedding, eat chips and sleep it off. I may be plagued by a body that wants to grow tissue in all the wrong places just for kicks, but at least it’s semi-regular about it.
Thank God for sweatpants with elasticated waists, and fancy trousers that are secretly sweatpants.
‘I hope it’s passed before I meet your parents. When are we doing that? Day after tomorrow?’ I ask.
‘I think so. Then yours.’
‘Then fittings,’ I sigh. Thankfully, I have my usual measurements on hand because I suspected this was going to happen, which means I can have something slinky that hugs my curves and makes every woman with a visible belly line realise she too can look hot as fuck showing it off.
I switch on the television, breakfast programming as background noise, the sort of thing I’d have on while flicking through my phone. I could be doing that – it’s just in the other room, but I feel like if I touch it, Mum will know. She’ll know and wonder why I haven’t called.
I mean, maybe she won’t because we didn’t part on good terms. She thought this was a terrible idea, to put it mildly, and she’ll know that Warren and I are together now. She’ll have opinions. She always has opinions.
I mute the television. ‘Sorry, I meant to ask how your call went before we got distracted. How are your family?’
Warren’s love for his family is apparent on his face. ‘Really good. I think Connor needs a new battery as the old one is not holding charge, so I need to help sort that out later. But yeah, everyone’s good. Mum wants to know if you have a Jollof preference.’
‘However she makes it, surely?’
‘Correct answer. Keep that up, and you’ll be fine.’
‘I’m sure I can try harder than that.’ I make a note to ask him for her favourite sweets or biscuits, so that we can take them and some flowers when we finally meet.
‘If you’re not going to call your mum today, I have one request,’ he says.
‘Go on.’
‘I think let’s lock the phones in the cases overnight. Or hand them over to production.’
I sit up a little too quickly. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Dolly, your mum won’t thank us for calling her late at night when we’ve had a few drinks and think it’s suddenly a great idea to finally call her. You want to do it with a clear head. You know I’m right.’
‘And I dislike that you’re right, just so you know.’
‘Noted.’
‘But yes, fine. Can we lock them in the fridge or something? Freeze them into a block of ice?’
He laughs, and I realise how much I’ve grown to love that rumble. ‘Do you struggle that much with impulse control?’
I snort. ‘I try not to.’
Not that I’ve tried particularly hard over the last few weeks.
In the same way my heart can recognise Warren’s laugh anywhere, I feel like my body just always knows where Carys is.
I swear I can sense her in the building, and I wonder if it’s only a matter of time before we silently bump into each other.
Will she ignore me then? What about when there’s no one else there?
Will we ever talk about what happened between us, or is that it forever?