Chapter Twenty-Seven Dolly #2
I wish television could drown that feeling out too.
I open my show notebook that I’ve taken to using as a kind of bullet journal for keeping on track with our wedding plans. ‘We should call up the florists. Thanks to the shaggers we’re going to have to cut back on some of the grandiosity.’
‘Do we even need flowers? We’re getting married in a greenhouse.’
‘Buttonholes,’ I say, listing off on my fingers. ‘My bouquet. Something for our mums. I don’t want to scrimp on those if we can avoid it. We’ll just go… lowkey.’
It turns out the shaggers cost us, collectively, ten thousand pounds from our wedding budget. That’s two grand each, on top of the six hundred from Zack’s wank fest. It’s probably a good thing Carys fainted, or a huge fight would have broken out.
Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to be annoyed with Malachi and Whit when they’re so in love. Probably because it would make me a hypocrite.
This leaves us with eighteen grand to do a television-ready wedding with, which is a little tight especially when our venue sucks up half of that.
There’s a knock at the door, which Warren goes to answer.
Unfortunately, it’s not food but our handlers, Posh Louise and Not So Posh John – I suspect he’s actually very posh because it turns out basically everyone in television seems to be from some kind of inherited wealth, and you can see it in their nice clothes and lack of stress lines.
They arrive with cameras, which is a nuisance because I still look dreadful.
I’m definitely leaking into my sweatpants already – that disconcerting squelchy feeling is like no other.
The slinky robe they gave me for the Pulse Race Challenge is not thick enough to hide that, so I keep my back to the front door while Posh Louise silently hands us a golden envelope.
I hear the whirr of the cameras as they zoom in on us and the envelope, and take my time opening it so they get enough good footage.
I try not to think how rough I look. ‘Oh wow,’ I say, trying to seem enthusiastic. ‘What’s this?’
I turn it over in my hands. It’s slightly too large, like everything on TV.
‘Do you want to open it?’ I ask Warren, batting my eyes to look romantic, but really it’s so I don’t start crying if I get a paper cut. Anything could push me over the edge today.
Warren slides out a card from inside the envelope. ‘ “Couples.” Wow they didn’t even personalise this one,’ he says, flipping it over.
‘Come on,’ I fake laugh, tugging at his arm because if I have to stand in this doorway much longer I will pass out, and I think there might be an investigation if multiple people faint.
‘ “Couples!” ’ he announces enthusiastically. ‘ “Welcome to your first home together. Over the next week, you will need to work on deepening that connection you’ve established: emotionally, and physically.” ’
He turns to waggle his eyebrows at me, and I playfully slap him on the arm. I know this must play well, because Not So Posh John smiles.
‘ “We will send you compatibility exercises to complete so you can practise thoughtful communication and connection.” Oh, that’s all it says.’
‘So you’re just going to give us tasks randomly?’ I ask.
‘Sorry, can you say that again without referencing production?’ asks the camera operator, who I don’t recognise.
‘Of course. What’s your name, sorry? I’m not sure we’ve met yet.’
‘Harry,’ he says, moving his head briefly from the viewfinder so I can see his face.
‘Thanks, Harry,’ I say, composing myself and going again. ‘So, this means we’re going to get randomly given more challenges? That’s exciting.’
‘Yeah, seems cool. It doesn’t say if we can win anything,’ Warren says.
I place a considered hand on his wrist. ‘Darling, it’ll just be nice to do them together.’
Harry gives us the okay that we’re done, and they all leave.
As I close the door, I realise they’ve gone to the room diagonally opposite from us. I wonder who is over there. I peer through the peephole with one eye.
My mind stutters, like I’ve missed a step, as Carys opens the door.
She looks beautiful. And so does Patrick. They wrap their arms around each other’s backs as they read out loud, heads bowed together. They are the kind of picture-perfect couple this show was made for.
‘What’s all this then?’ Warren asks, and I know that he knows full well I’m just spying and up to no good. ‘Bed, missus,’ he insists softly. ‘I’ll carry you if you don’t get moving.’
‘Fine. Fine,’ I say as he follows me in, guiding me like a sheepdog.
Curling up under the plush duvet is so delightful that I immediately feel on the edge of sleep.
After a long nap, I manage a bubble bath and I sneak in my phone before we lock it down overnight.
Jas has texted me a few times asking for pics and the goss, congratulating herself on her heterosexual teachings that got me this far. There’s nothing from Mum.
I try to resist going on my socials to see how high the numbers have crawled, but as we know, I’m not one for impulse control. I’m way over a million now. Warren’s following has tripled and his comments are filled with thirsting girls. Thank goodness I’m not the jealous type.
It doesn’t take me long to find Carys. Her Instagram is so normal, mostly just pictures of the farm or adverts announcing things happening at the farm and then an occasional dump of pictures of her doing things with four cookie cutter girls and their matching four husbands.
I even scroll so far back that I find Mike who, admittedly, probably makes a good Niall.
I realise, with slight embarrassment, that I can’t get out of the bath without help. When my endo flare gets really bad, it’s like I can’t use any of my core muscles as they’re too inflamed or busy contracting.
Warren, the man that he is, doesn’t bat an eye when I have to ask for help. This is the first time he’s seen me naked, and I don’t feel exposed or lusted after or unsafe. He just gathers me up in a big fluffy bath sheet, and tells me he’s ordering sushi.
I have to do the classic lie down to dry because I’m too tired to do it properly yet.
The sushi arrives, and Warren brings me a little plate. ‘Forgive me, I’m going to use my fingers.’
‘I promise not to dob you into the entire nation of Japan.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Wife?’
‘Yes, husband?’
‘I know you well enough to know you’re going to fight me if I try to stop you getting in the cab to dinner.’
‘Too right,’ I groan, closing my eyes as I eat a truly delicious bit of salmon nigiri. I swear, this stuff is healing.
I feel two taps on my wrist, and open my food-blissed-out eyes. ‘That’s the signal,’ he says.
‘For what?’
‘For I’ve pushed it too far and we need to get out of there.’
‘We won’t need to use that,’ I murmur, dipping an avocado maki roll in the soy sauce for a bit too long. I need the salt when I feel this shit.
‘Dolly, with great respect, you can’t see yourself. I’m your husband. It’s my job to look out for you especially when you’re not looking out for yourself, isn’t it?’ He has me there. ‘Two taps, I’ll keep the conversation going, then tell production you’re unwell and we have to go. Easy.’
‘Fine,’ I concede, pretty sure I’ve told my mum the same thing at some time in the past. ‘Did I tell you that you’re the perfect husband?’
He laughs. ‘I think we need to set a minimum reminder. Like, maybe four times a day?’
‘Don’t push it,’ I say, feeding him a popped-out edamame covered in salt and chilli. He licks the salt off his lips, and I’m struck with a pang of sadness. I kind of wish I could love him, after all. ‘But you are. Perfect, to me.’