‘Nope. It’s definitely coming.’
I had told Warren about my endometriosis during our warehouse dates. After all, I’ve been pretty open about it in my content. I hadn’t told the show much about it or asked for accommodations. It’s one of those disabilities that no one considers a disability because no one knows what disability really means. Anyway, production didn’t kick up a fuss about me not mentioning it directly.
I hope that when I turn my work phone back on, I’ll have messages and comments from people who’ve seen it. That is, provided the show doesn’t edit it out.
Warren takes one look at my belly, which has swollen up hard and stiff like I’m suddenly eight months pregnant. ‘Bedtime.’
‘No, I need to power through. We’ve got the group dinner in a few hours.’
He looks at me like I’m an alien. ‘Are you mad? You look like you almost splattered half of East London with your stomach contents.’
‘Not sure my sick can pass through glass.’
‘That’s a relief. I was worried about the porcelain.’
I let Warren take me to the bedroom because I am starting to feel a little dizzy. I can argue all I want, but I know he’s right. I need to rest.
I’ll say this, the show didn’t spare any expense on the huge king-size bed with a very comfortable mattress. Presumably because they want to get all the straight couples fucking (if they aren’t already), but it has the added benefit of being the perfect sick day nest for me.
I pop painkillers and a cramp relaxer from my med kit into my hand and knock them back without water.
‘That’s a bit hardcore,’ Warren says, passing me a glass to drink from anyway.
I down it in one go. ‘Thanks. I’ll have to get ready soon. I’ve powered through before.’
‘Doesn’t mean you should now,’ he calls from the walk-in wardrobe where he’s hanging up our clothes on wooden hangers. ‘We’ve already had one person pass out on the show this week.’
Poor Carys. I got the distinct impression from the abject terror in her eyes that she thought our dalliances were about to be revealed.
Call me naive, but I was pretty confident that if the show knew about it, they’d have let us know before the Nguyens got there. It’s not a good look to out your contestants, after all.
No wonder she passed out.
Luckily, we all managed to benefit from her ‘migraine’ situation as the show insisted we take a couple of days off filming while we made our way to our new homes. That meant a night in a hotel in Greece before they were confident we weren’t all going to pass out on the plane. For the other couples, that meant a load of joyful shagging without the fear of racking up any fines.
I wonder if— No, let’s not go there.
She sat in front of me on the flight home, had to walk past me a bunch of times, and never even looked at me. Not even a bitchy comment. It’s really weird. I just hope she’s alright.
Back on land, they took us to our apartments, but agreed that instead of filming awe’re arriving at our new apartmentsegment as planned, they’d let us settle in and film some fakewelcome to our brand new apartment we definitely are just moving into nowcontent tomorrow so we can rest before the dinner party.
I’m sure the staff were glad for a break too. Reb looked so threadbare on the flight that I was tempted to ask if she was in a union.
Reality TV contestants’ rights is a whole other thing. Signing them away is something we half agree to when we sign the contract. But maybe that’s just me knowing what I was walking into. I’ve read the depositions and court cases for the various shows around the world. I was prepared for limited sleep, producer interference, no days off.
I don’t think Carys was prepared for any of it.
I know that I could find her on Instagram and message her, but we agreed to keep away from each other. I think that includes checking in.
‘We’re being recorded for national television,’ I continue,blowing out a long slow breath with another twinging cramp. ‘Be present or be forgotten. Come on, you know what I mean, though?’
I don’t mention his sports injury, but he nods. He knows. You get sick, you might get left behind. That’s just the way it is, even if I wish it wasn’t.
‘Fine, mad lady. I’ll finish the unpacking and then shall we order lunch in?’
‘God, yes. Have I told you that you’re the perfect husband?’
‘Not today!’ he calls, as he walks out of the bedroom to grab another case.
