When Reb came through and confirmed it was indeed the Pulse Race Challenge (as it’s apparently dubbed) she gave me another of herare you up to it?looks. No, but what can I do? I’m going to crash out hard later, once I’ve given five men including my future husband a lap dance, apparently.
While I was still getting my head round it, we got sent up to our dressing rooms with the costume rails, along with an armband each, with a little pulse monitor hidden in it.
I didn’t even get a chance to talk to Patrick about it. This will be the first time he’s seen me in any kind of lingerie, and he’s sharing the experience with four other men. Plus, he’s definitely a little upset with me. While we were rolling sushi, he asked if I was feeling alright during the challenge. I know what that means. It’s the sort of way my parents used to tell me I was acting out of order, enquiring whether I thought that behaviour was normal for me, with the implication that it’s not acceptable.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt quite so small. I cried and I told him Dolly got under my skin, and the tail end of that migraine meant I didn’t use my best judgement.
He was kind, because of course he was, but I could still see that hesitation in his eyes. I can’t lose him. That’s why I have to show him that I care about him, and I’m going to do that by taking this challenge seriously. This way, he’ll see I’m willing to do anything for us.
The first step is picking out a costume.
‘I really don’t think you’re the hot little devil kind of girl,’ Bridget says, contemplating the costumes in front of us. She wears angel wings, with a matching white lingerie bodice and thigh-high lace stockings. I cannot imagine wearing that at all, never mind on television. ‘Though you definitely have a temper on you.’
‘I don’t,’ I say sharply. ‘I’m perfectly calm.’
She gives me a knowing look. ‘Devil goes in the maybe pile.’
‘How do you even do sexy? This might be the worst night of my life,’ I moan.
Bridget cackles. ‘Oh, no fear, babes. I’m pretty confident Jackson and I have this locked down.’ She doesn’t say it meanly, I don’t think.
I can’t imagine Jackson raising my pulse from sexy dancing. Anger maybe. Perhaps his tactic is just to stand there and saysexist things in my general direction. I’m trying, I am, but at dinner he kept talking about Traditional Family Values and I wanted to crawl under the table.
‘We’d match. Angel and devil.’
She pats me on the shoulder. ‘Sure, babes, but remember wearecompeting. We can matchy-costume another time.’
The devil costume goes back on the rack.
I wonder what Patrick has picked. Neither of us particularly exude sexiness, not like some of the others in here. We’re cute-type.
I have no idea how exactly I’m supposed to get anyone’s heart racing. The most beating mine does is from anxiety. Perhaps when it’s my turn, I should ask everyone to think about their deepest existential fears. There’s probably a rule against that.
Maybe Bridget’s right. We won’t win, but I can still give it my best. For him, for us.
But how to do that without grinding on the other men so enthusiastically that it makes him uncomfortable?
Clearly, Bridget has read my mind. ‘Look, babe, one option you have is just to dance up on him and take the loss. Keep your pride?’
‘What about the cowboy hat and the little shorts?’ suggests Lina, who sits in a towel, redoing her makeup. ‘You work on a farm after all? Kind of cutesy.’
‘It’s not about her story as much as what will get Patrick excited,’ Bridget says, pushing the tiny shorts to the end of the rail. ‘Unless. Does he have a thing for cowboys?’
‘It’s a maybe,’ I say.
‘A maybe on cowboys?’
‘On the outfit,’ I insist, unhooking the shorts and holding them against me. ‘I’m not as confident as you, Bridge. I don’t want everyone seeing my—’ I gesture in the area around my crotch.
Bridget is perplexed. ‘What? Your fanny?’
‘Yes,’ I hiss.
‘Well, don’t go bum-naked, and they won’t,’ she says flatly and clearly unimpressed that I can’t manage to sayfannyout loud.
‘I don’t think many of these leave much to the imagination, though,’ I moan.
‘That’s the point!’ She presses her palm against her forehead. ‘You’re hopeless, Carys.’
