Chapter OneCarys
Carys Cadwallader, 27, London
Should I start talking now? Haha, this is so weird, isn’t it? Sorry, I’ll start now. Um. Hi, I’m Carys. I’m twenty-seven, and I’m from London. Well, I’m not from there, I’m from Wales, but I live there. I’m onWedded Blissto find love… isn’t everyone? I guess I like men who are nice and nice looking and kind. That’s what I want. Someone who is kind. And likes animals! After all, I work on a city farm and sometimes have to bring home a baby lamb to bottle-feed so they’ve got to like animals. Does that sound alright? I don’t want to sound too silly.
In three weeks, I’ll be married to the love of my life.
Well. Provided I actuallymeethim. I hope I will.
If I’m honest, I never thought I’d fall in love on television. Though, I suppose most people don’t expect that, but onWedded Blissthe matchmakers do all the hard work of finding men who are perfectly compatible with me, which cuts out most of the hard work.
Maybe it’s a drastic way to find a soulmate, but when all else fails, what you need is courage, and the intervention of a successful reality television show.
It feels old school, kind of romantic. There’s no swipingleft… Or is it right? I can never remember. And this way I don’t have toseequite so many men holding fish. Not that I canseeif they’re holding fish for the first few dates.
Oh God, what if he’s some kind of fish-holder?
That’s not a thing, is it? I’m spiralling.
I try to push this out of my brain, and focus on who he will be. Or who heis? Presumably he already exists and they aren’t just cooking up a bunch of people in the lab when we get there.
I take a deep breath. I don’t have time to worry about whether the dating show I’m going on is an elaborate cover for a covert human cloning operation.
I would probably calm down if we could just get out of this traffic jam.
I had naively thought being driven around in a fancy car sent by the production company would be relaxing.
‘We’ll be there in about five minutes, pet,’ says my driver, Victor. He must sense the barely suppressed panic radiating off me.
Hopefully he can’t smell it. I fake a cough and dip my head down to surreptitiously sniff for anxiety-armpit. Not that I can smell anything over the aggressively pine-scented air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. When I glance up at the offending item, I meet his unexpectedly kind eyes. ‘Roads always gets bunged up this time of day.’
I hope he didn’t just catch me sniffing my armpit.
A car horn honks violently, and I let out a long rush of air to try to steady my nerves. I very much dislike getting stuck in transit and losing control. You can’twilla halted tube to move; trust me, I’ve tried. There’s nothing I can do about the gridlock. And even if I accept it, surrendering to the lack of control, I still get sweaty and panicky like now. There’s no winning.
I know it could be worse; I could be one of the people stuckon a toilet-less Lizzie Line train for hours who had to designate one corner a makeshift loo.
I suspect Victor is still watching me, so I force a smile that I’m not convinced wasn’t a Cheshire Cat-like grimace. Oh well. I tried.
Victor cranks up the air con and fresh cool air rushes across my hot face. I block out the traffic and try to focus on what matters. Falling in love and getting married is what every little girl dreams of. I might be about to feel the spark, those fireworks that tell you that man is The One and you’re on track for a beautiful wedding, family, life. The whole shebang.
Congestion is temporary; true love is forever. That’s probably on a pillow somewhere.
It still counts as true love, no matter how you find it, right? Not all of us can Disney princess it. If I lose a shoe in London, that’s gone forever and I’m barefoot. Even if I did find a Prince Philip (Disney version, not the deceased royal family member), the idea of having hundreds of women try onmyshoe is… well, gross.
I think I’m spiralling again.
I need something to do with my hands that isn’t picking at bits of my skin, so I smooth out the wide skirt of my dress, hoping the tucks and pleats still lie where they are supposed to, and that the bum isn’t too wrinkled.
I try to tune into the London skyline and work out how far we might be from the city farm I work at, or my house share. There’s no clear starry sky here, so navigation is all by buildings and landmarks. But try as I might, I can’t orient myself.
A driver behind us beeps their horn in a staccato beat, and each honk makes me jump. My heart beats wildly out of control.
I tap on my sternum in a steady rhythm to try to ground myself.
Don’t lose it, Carys.
I’m supposed to practise self-compassion when I’m finding things hard – that’s what my therapist used to say. I give it a go. Yes, I’m nervous but it’snormalto be nervous before big life changes. This is a pretty big life change. Not just the romance but the prospect of sharing part of a window-less East London warehouse with nine other women I’ll meet for the first time today. That might be the scariest part of all.
