‘Well,’ I say, feeling the shake in my hands as I clutch onto him like a life raft. ‘Yeah. I’m gay.’
‘That’s cool with me, I promise.’
He stops splashing and instead walks us round the middle of the pool. ‘Oh, my bestie is a Libra too,’ he says lightly, like we’ve just been discussing astrological signs, instead of me coming out to my straight fake husband.
I glance over to the hacky sack and cameras, but no one notices us.
‘Is she a basketball player too?’ I murmur.
‘You bet.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t invite her to the wedding, just to be safe. She’ll be mobbed.’
‘People love a Libra, huh.’
I snort-laugh.
I want to ask him about his own attraction, about whether he’s strictly into girls or if he’s ever dabbled. But that question is much more dangerous for him as I am pretty certain that being a professional sportsman is not the most queer-friendly career for men. I want to protect him.
I knew, in my heart, that this would be a safe conversation with Warren. It was never about him, but the geography, the surveillance, the safety. I’m so glad he understands.
I kiss him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for being chill about it.’
‘Listen to me when I say that there’s nothing here to be unchill about. We’re partners. I got you.’ He squeezes me tightly, just to punctuate it. ‘Even if our moon signs probably clash or something.’
God, this man. ‘I adore you,’ I tell him honestly.
His deep laugh rumbles through my heart. ‘Don’t go falling in love with me now,’ he whispers.
‘Darling, if I could love a man, you’d be it for me.’ I peck him on the lips, and it feels real, in a way. We’re notinlove, but I do love him.
I was hoping that we’d get the afternoon off after a challenge, but they send us all out on individual dates. In reality TV land, a ‘week’ is often just a few days with lots of outfit changes. I suppose, with a tight budget, they want us in and out of this house as quickly as possible.
Inexplicably, they send Warren and me waterskiing and I have to submit to the fact that there will be footage of me with my arse waggling in the air circulating the internet in a few days’ time. At least it’s a good arse.
After we’ve humiliated ourselves, we give them good relationship content over champagne – conversations about our favourite things, the future, our wedding. Real couple stuff that gives Warren a chance to shine as a responsible husband and bastion of a thoughtful form of masculinity without the toxicity. I’m here for it, and I know his DMs will be flooded the moment we announce our notes app breakup.
We’re dropped back home in the early evening, whereproduction serve us a buffet of grilled meats, pitas, dips and salad on the communal table – one of the few times we don’t get filmed. I can’t wait to get in a shower to get this salt off my skin, but I take advantage of being a fat girl eating off camera and shovel forkfuls of oily leaves into my face.
All the couples except for Carys and Patrick are here. I’m not sure what everyone else has been up to, but Malachi and Whit are splattered in dried paint, and Bridget and Jackson look a little too pink.
Unfortunately, I clock production preparing for more filming when they wheel by several clothing rails.
I jump up, and rush over to a very sweaty and tired-looking Reb who is pushing them in. ‘Hey, babe. What’s this?’
‘Costumes,’ she says flatly, before wincing. She turns to me, sleep-deprived and bruised dark eyes pleading. ‘I didn’t say that.’
I mime zipping my lips closed, and she gives me a look of relief.
Because we’d chosen the Conservatory, Bridget and Jackson got the okay to pick their venue, and so she tells us about how they’ve gone off-piste. ‘I’ve had the Georgian drawing room at Cardiff Castle on reserve just in case,’ Bridget explains. ‘Good for us because it’sfit, and good for them to get the free filming.’
‘I’m impressed that you managed to get Sunset Motions to agree to that,’ I say, knowing the venues often have agreed promotion deals.
She taps her nose. ‘None of the venues were in Wales, were they. Told them they were being too Anglocentric and they shat their pants for not being woke enough.’ She cackles gleefully. ‘Win win!’
Well, fair enough. I can’t act like I wouldn’t also try to imply the show wasn’t being inclusive enough to get my own way. Perhaps I’ve been underestimating Bridget. Not Jackson,he’s very clearly who it says he is on the tin – a gender essentialist dickhead who thinks caregiving is an affront to his masculinity. I hope I’m wrong about him, for her sake, but I know I’m not.
Despite everything, I notice the moment that Carys wanders in, tucked under Patrick’s arm, followed by a cameraman. They look… kind of uncomfortable.
