Transcript of a video from Reality TV content creator @missgoss
Okay, so I looked up the sales records of that house that they’re all staying at which you can see in the image behind my head, and you won’t believe who owns it. Zoom in on that name. Know who that is? Only the showrunner: Richard Lee Aldridge! This is just his house! Feels like the UK season ofWedded Blisscost about twenty quid. What do we think about that, Blissfuls?
I walk through the villa, and she’s there at every turn. In the pool. In the kitchen. Waiting for me on the sun loungers, where I left her last night. Doesn’t she understand that I need to keep clear of her?
She starts to disappear down the garden, running through the lush green foliage, and I run forward, chasing her.
‘Carys?’
‘Dolly?’ I shout. ‘Dolly! Wait for me.’
Why won’t she just stay here? Why won’t she talk to me? It would be easier if she spoke to me.
She turns back to me and I swear she’s wearing fewer clothes than she was a moment ago.
‘Dolly?’ I call.
She finally stops running. Her lips fall open, and I’m really going to kiss her again and—
In a shock of white light, reality pours in. And there is Patrick.
‘Shit!’ I shout, leaping back and whacking my head on the headboard. At the same time, he jumps back so I narrowly avoid headbutting him in the nose. ‘Shit shit shit! Sorry!’ I cry.
Patrick looks at me like I’m a horse about to buck.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he says, and I realise he must have flipped up my sleep mask. ‘Is your head okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I grumble, thankful that my sleep mask is as thick as a blackout curtain and managed to cushion my bump a little.
He dares to come closer now I’ve stopped flailing round like an insane thing. ‘You were shouting. I was worried you were having a nightmare.’
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
‘What… what was I saying?’ I ask.
‘You kept sayingslow down,wait for me, stuff like that,’ he says, now perched fully on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you feeling alright? You look a little flushed.’
He puts the cool back of his hand against my raging hot shame skin.
‘I think,’ I croak. ‘Migraine. I got up in the middle of the night and was feeling kind of funny.’
‘I thought something was up. I couldn’t wake you earlier so I just left you to sleep in longer.’
I sit upright, and the movement makes me swoon.
‘You’re probably still postdromal. Take it slow,’ Patrick asks, keeping his voice sweet and low.
I wince as I nod, for full effect.
I don’t have a migraine. I have post-meltdown brain ache and a heap of embarrassment that I was having a sexy dream inour not-quite-marital bed about the woman I kind of cheated on him with.
‘I’m going to go get you some crêpes. Do you think you could eat?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, though I don’t really know if I could stomach them.
I find an ear plug tangled in my hair; the other has vanished into the ether.
Patrick leaves, but doesn’t close the door behind him.
