Chapter Twenty-Nine Carys
ZACK Our intimacy challenge was fun!
LINA Um, yeah, we had some dice we had to roll and, well, whatever the dice said, you had to touch the other person there.
ZACK I kept getting neck. Poor Leens must feel like she’s marrying a vampire!
LINA I suspect those dice were weighted.
This might actually be the worst dinner party of my entire life.
I’m only just about managing to follow what’s happening; everyone’s conversations meld into a barrage of sound, and masking is extra hard because I can barely hear anyone. My lip reading is pretty good, but not when people eat or drink.
I hear only some of what Zack spews out because I can’t see him but I can tell by everyone’s reactions that he’s said something dreadful.
I glance over to Dolly, who is a useful human barometer for Zack’s nonsense, only to see her getting up from the table. She walks slowly, steadily, but I can tell something is wrong. There’s too much effort in the movement. She’s stiff, not soft.
But Warren seems unconcerned and doesn’t follow her.
It’s not my place to worry. We agreed to keep our distance from each other. It’s for our own good, and the good of my marriage.
I miss something else that’s said, when all faces turn to us.
‘Sorry, what was that?’ I say nervously.
Lucas repeats himself, a little louder. ‘And how are you and Patrick getting on, Carys?’
I feel uncomfortable that this man is asking me on national television, essentially, if I’ve slept with my partner, but that’s what I apparently signed up for.
‘We’re taking it slow. One step at a time.’
Patrick slinks his arm round my shoulders, and I’m grateful for his physical support but his shirt is starched to high heavens and I can feel the scratch of it across my back. ‘That’s right,’ he agrees.
We haven’t slept together, obviously. I feel a bit strange about sex right now. After all, I keep sleeping with the wrong person. Kept. Past tense.
It’s tricky. Being around her was just feeding the need for her.
And it isn’t a true need, it can’t be. I need Patrick.
I don’t need Dolly, no matter how chemical our attraction is.
I couldn’t help but notice the way my breath hitched in my throat when I saw her sitting at the table in that midnight-blue dress with the deep V neck.
That’s where the thoughts need to end – admiration, not fantasising.
So I figured going cold turkey on sex in general might fix things, flush her out of my system while I grow closer to Patrick and build a whole new sense memory.
But as last night was our first time in our own place, I did initiate a make-out session with him.
So far, all our kisses had been a little chaste, and I wanted him to know I’m into him.
I needed to bring some more sexual energy into this flat, if this marriage is going to survive.
I like sex, I think it’s important, I just…
I need him to know it’s coming, so to speak.
Poor choice of words, perhaps.
‘Just like Warren and Dolly,’ points out Lucas. ‘I guess you guys are more alike than we thought.’
This comparison makes me want to sink into whatever hole Lina has fallen into.
I reach for her hand under the table, and she squeezes back gently, but drops mine after a moment.
What is going on with her? I’m really worried, and I can’t work out what is going on with all the talking and noise and cutlery and eating.
There’s another round of questions, this time about wedding planning logistics.
I’m relieved that I need to wee because that means I can have a sensory break in the bathroom.
I excuse myself politely, kissing Patrick on the cheek as I go, and I make my way to the loos on the other side of the restaurant.
The disabled bathroom is occupied from the flushing I hear through the door, but no one else is in the ladies’, so I can sit in silence for a few minutes, feeling the rush in my brain slow.
I’m glad there’s no one else in here to use the hand dryer – often the worst sound in the entire world, even if it is useful to cover when you’re doing a sneaky poo.
The strange thing is that Dolly isn’t in here. When I wash my hands at the mirrored sink, I spy that all the stall doors are open. It’s frustrating to be always on high alert for her, like my senses are always primed to find her.
As I step out of the women’s bathroom, I hear a moan from the disabled loo. Not to be indelicate, but I would recognise that voice anywhere, even if the cadence of the moan is much more distressed than I’ve previously heard.
I knock on the door. ‘Dolly?’
There’s a muffled groan, generally not a good kind of sound.
‘Dolly, are you alright?’
The thing about working on a city farm frequented by schoolchildren is that someone is always having some kind of health emergency, and so I’m fighting all my training and instincts if I don’t help her out. There might not be time to get someone else if this is serious.
And I’d rather embarrass us both than risk leaving her unwell in there.
The one thing I’ve learned about using disabled loos myself over the years to avoid the chorus of hand dryers on a bad day is that often the locks aren’t that good and are liable to open, even with a RADAR key, even if you’ve locked it from the inside.
I test the handle, and a slight gap appears.
Propriety is out the window when someone is poorly, so I feebly knock as I open the door, just to create as much noise as possible so that she knows I’m coming in. ‘I’m coming in,’ I call.
There’s no reply.
Dolly is on the floor, slumped over the toilet, her long frame folded over the seat.
The door bangs against the wall as I fling it fully open and push it closed behind me.
‘Dolly?’ I rush to her side and I am so relieved when she moves.
She makes a noise that isn’t quite words. Her lovely new dress is slick to her back with sweat.
I try not to let my mind get carried away with the fact that this is a public toilet and she’s touching so much gross stuff, because she’s obviously not okay and that’s more important.
‘Dolly! You’re sick?’ I mean it more as a statement, but my voice goes all squeaky and it comes out very questiony right as Dolly yaks something up.
I have to spin round, plug my nose and blow out my cheeks so I don’t accidentally breathe in the smell and gip. The last thing we need is me going too. That happened once at the farm. We don’t speak of it.
She sits up, which is a relief, and wipes her mouth with a crumpled square of toilet paper. ‘What gave it away?’ she groans.
Oh my, she looks awful. Well, she still looks like Dolly underneath, but her face is grey, with deep purple blotches under her eyes.
I’m not sure if she tried to wash off her makeup or just sweated it off, but it’s almost all gone.
There’s a greenish tinge to her, vomit aside. Just a general swampy look.
I perch on my heels, trying to ignore the smell of vomit. ‘Lean back a second,’ I say, and she does without talking back. I close the lid and flush the loo, which removes that little problem for now. Just to be safe, I reopen the lid.
‘Can a woman not vomit in private?’ she growls. ‘How did you even get in here?’
‘Broke in,’ I say, ignoring her growls.
This is the nice kind of restaurant where they have not just hand soap but hand cream, and soft tissues. I take a wad and fold it into cushiony squares to replace the gross bit of tissue in her hand, which I drop in the toilet. I run another under the cold tap, just enough to dampen the sheets.
‘Sorry if it’s a little cold,’ I say, as I dab very gently at the back of Dolly’s neck. I have to hold up the ends of her bob, and I try to ignore the strange mix of feelings that come with touching her again.
‘How many times were you sick?’
She grumbles, eyes still closed. ‘A few.’
‘And when did it start?’
‘Are you trying to first aid me?’
‘Yes.’
She says a word I absolutely don’t catch, and then adds, ‘Five minutes ago.’
‘Do you think you’ve got any more in the tank?’
‘I hope not. We’re already down to bile.’ She slumps in deep exhaustion. ‘Potentially.’
‘Noted. I need to take your pulse. Is that okay?’
She mumbles something I think is a yes, and I slide my fingers along her neck, feeling the little burst of life under the skin. I try to focus, and count the beats. Her pulse is a bit fluttery, perhaps a tad too fast, but nothing worrying.
The last time I touched her here was with my mouth, and from the colour, I think I left a mark.
I notice her mic pack is on the floor, turned off. Why hasn’t anyone come to check on her?
‘Is it something you ate?’ I ask.
‘I doubt it.’
I try to make my voice as neutral as possible when I ask, ‘Do you think you drank too much? Was it on an empty stomach?’
She looks up at me under heavy lids. ‘If you go peer in my glass, you’ll see it’s as full as it was at the start of the night.’
‘You’ve been fake toasting?’
‘Real toasting. Fake sipping. I guess it goes along with the fake marriage.’
‘I… well, I’m going to guess you aren’t pregnant?’
Dolly gives me a very hard look.
I can’t help but huff a single note of laughter. ‘Do you want me to get Warren?’
‘He should be here any moment. We have an agreement. You can go.’
I linger because, well, things between us aren’t exactly fine and dandy but also she looks like a rain-soaked Big Mac – once beautiful, now all kind of bloated and melting.
That feels uncharitable to say, but she really does look dreadful.
If I still actively hated her quite as much as I did earlier this week, I’d be enjoying it.
Now I just hate myself more.
‘I’ll keep an eye on you until then,’ I say, my various instincts warring.
It’s a good thing I do stay because another rush of vomit comes out of her. I stroke her back, relieved that this time my senses aren’t quite so overcome because I was expecting it.
‘Fuck, I hate being sick,’ she growls.
‘I think it’s safe to let go of the toilet.’