‘Patrick suggested it. Carys seems poorly, so she’s sleeping in. But we’ve all got to eat.’
Good, I think. And apparently say.
‘Good?’ he asks, tilting his head like a puppy.
‘Someone needs to get a good sleep in here. I can’t wait to sleep in our own private room. Right now, we’ve got the worst of both worlds – a shared dorm and surround-sound frotting.’
He laughs, and I join in.
‘Anyway, speaking of our probably rapidly dwindling wedding fund, they left us big folders to look through before filming later,’ Warren adds.
I blink in the bright light. ‘Sorry, you need to define “big folders” a bit more for me. I’m pre-caffeine and slept on a plank of MDF.’
He smooths back my hair from my forehead. I can feel it sticky and brittle in the morning heat from last night’s texturising spray. ‘Go get dressed, I’ll get the folder. Meet back here in fifteen?’
‘Call it thirty. This –’ I gesture to my aching body ‘– is going to need some serious intervention.’
There are two shared bathrooms with weirdly less privacy than we had in the warehouse as my modesty is only preserved behind a misty glass shower door, as people wander in and out. Is Warren right? Is this a no-cameras space?
It’s complicated withWedded Bliss– the American series generally only shows footage from camera setups rather than fixed cameras built into the set like on similar shows. But this is a new series, a new production team, and I can’t trust that we’re not being constantly observed.
No one is mic’d up yet, but could they still be recording what we say?
With my logical reality TV expert brain on, I do feel like if they had listened in last night, Carys and I would have been called in for a chat already. I hate the anxiety of not knowing if I’ve been caught out.
Maybe this is how Carys feels all the time with neurotypicalpeople scrutinising her. I wonder how the hell she’s coped this long.
I spend ages looking and once again find nothing concrete. Maybe the bathroomisoff limits.
I find Warren and Malachi in the kitchen where they have taken over a counter with huge jugs of batter, lemons, sugar and syrups. It’s not the messiest kitchen I’ve seen, but I have to resist the urge to clean up after them.
Whit sits on a barstool at the counter, her hair piled up messily and secured with a clip. ‘Morning, beaut,’ she says when I saunter over. She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Warren, have you seen your girl?’
Warren’s spatula clatters to the counter and he whistles. ‘Heyyy.’
I resist the urge to do a twirl, but I know I look good. The brief wasn’t strictly swimwear, but I wear a bronze two-piece. The plunging bra has a purely decorative, faux-functional bow tied under my boobs, paired with high-waisted pants edged with frills. I was briefly worried the bottoms would readchild’s swimming nappyon camera but as soon as I put them on and they hugged to my curves and belly, I knew they were smoke-show material.
There’ll be comments online about how fat girls can’t wear bikinis, but if I listened to what fatphobic knobheads said I’d never get anything done. Instead, I just hope that some girl with a body like mine sees me on camera and thinks, fuck it, I’m going to look that hot too. The importance of hot-and-fat-girl representation can’t be underestimated. I know it for a fact – unfollowing all the accounts when I was a teenager and following a load of beautiful fat fashion babes radically altered my view of my own body, and gave me a lot of decent tips on where to get good plus-size clothing, instead of endless recipes for smoothies.
‘Thanks, I try,’ I say, flicking the sharp edge of my hair.
‘Okay, I’m really gonna do it,’ Malachi says. With so much concentration that his tongue peeks out the corner of his mouth, he flips a crêpe. We all hold our breath as it flies through the air and somehow lands in the pan perfectly rotated.
We all react like our team just scored the championship goal.
‘Good morning,’ says Louise, manifesting like a very posh spirit summoned by cheers. ‘Just a reminder that we’ll be filming a challenge in about an hour, so we will need to come mic you all up.’
Okay, so they need mics on us for that – is that confirmation that the only footage they’re going to use is anything they come in to film? Louise starts to leave and I wonder if I’m in the clear.
‘What are we doing today?’ I ask, wondering if I can wheedle stuff out of her.
‘Just a fun little couples challenge,’ she says, with a sniff. ‘Your pancake is burning.’
‘It’s a crêpe,’ Malachi insists.
‘Well, it’s on fire,’ she says as she leaves.
That’s an exaggeration. It’s not on fire, but the edges are catching.
