I point at the phone. ‘Your phone. Are you Australian? You don’t seem Australian.’
‘It’s aspirational, isn’t it?’
‘To be… Australian?’
He looks at me like this is the most obvious fucking thing in the world.
‘Well, good for you.’ I can hardly yuck his yum considering the state of my life choices.
Though it is a little ironic, considering my main currenttouchpoint for Australia is the failed season ofWedded Blissthat ended up with only a single wedding out of a possible ten, during which the bride dumped the groom mid-vows. The show wasn’t renewed there.
With luck, I can help ensure the UK series is a success. That’s why I’m here.
If I can get my shit in order. Breaking up that fight, then the kiss and make up… It feels like the universe is sending a very pointed reminder of who Ireallyam.
And I’m shutting that Dolly back in the closet, over a decade since I came out of it…
This will all be worth it. Focus on Mum. If I find the right man, our lives will be radically different.
I can do this.
The cute little redhead I’m going to be living with for the next few weeks could be a problem.
Hopefully she didn’t clock me. Straight girls rarely do. And I’m probably overthinking this. After all, why would she care what I’m up to when she’s got ten men lined up for her?
I’d forgotten how stressful living in stealth is; I had chalked much of it up to teenage hormone surges making everything feel more dramatic.
But then, I’m not out on my socials. That started as a privacy thing, really. And, if I’m honest, I know that playing the tradwife straight men yearn for helps my views. Bit of cake, bit of tit? I could be their not-quite-Nigella in the kitchen, mildly supporting their careers and not talking back to any of their rancid political opinions. That’s part of the fantasy of it all. Everyone reads me as politically engaged, community focused. Presumed-Straight Dolly.
I know how to be her, I’ve been playing her a long time. And I can be her on television, full time.
I can do this.
I’m just terrified of production clocking that I’m perhaps not as heterosexual as I’ve claimed to be, because if they find out I’m a lesbian, I’m out (in more ways than one). I know production take pains to cast people who aren’t just there for the money. I’ve fooled them so far.
There’s no failsafe there. I don’t think claiming bisexuality (a different kind of lie) would play well either, because let’s be real, reality TV likes queer people as gimmicks and not much else.
I cannot afford to be edited down. I’m here to be a beloved main character. I’m here to start something.
My cousin Jas has tried to coach me on the ways of the heterosexuals. It’s not like I’ve not been surrounded by straight people culture my whole life, but I’ve not had to activelypretendto be one either. Well, not since I was about fourteen, though I’m pretty sure everyone saw through that, what with my scholarly interest in the work of Kristen Stewart.
Anyway, what I’ve gleaned from Jas is that many straight relationships sound abjectly miserable. ‘Me and this one, we’ve had our ups and downs.’ Never mind the toxic masculinity of bill etiquette, I’m pretty sure many men don’t even like their partners. Misogyny and patriarchy have a lot to answer for. Too bad those kinds of men are reality TV bread and butter. I can only imagine some of the absolute ding-dongs I’m about to meet.
I can see from the map on Mike’s Australian phone that we’re nearly at the ‘undisclosed warehouse location’.
My head is still in need of a good wobble. I go to wind down the windows for the breeze, and this time Mike really does lock the back doors.
‘Oh, come on,’ I groan. ‘I just wanted some fresh air.’
The doorthunkswith the sound of unlocking. ‘You won’t find that in East London.’
I quickly realise he’s not wrong, but then we’re pulling up.
The warehouse reminds me of the Albert Docks, regenerated industrial buildings for flats or trendy art spaces for the hip and middle class. Though here, the windows are blocked out to make it easier to film. That and it stops us tracking the time of day. Production are in control ofeverything. All the power is in their hands. It might not beBig Brother, but they’re always watching, or whatever the slogan was.
The door is flung open by my cheerily plummy handler, Louise (not Lou). I slide out with all the elegance I can muster, which is quite tricky when you’re in a body-hugging dress, are pushing six foot in heels and are categorically not built like a waify starlet.
‘Darling, hello!’ She welcomes me with a hug and a kiss on each cheek. Very European, very Chelsea. ‘Howareyou?’
