This leaves us with eighteen grand to do a television-ready wedding with, which isa little tightespecially when our venue sucks up half of that.
There’s a knock at the door, which Warren goes to answer. Unfortunately, it’s not food but our handlers, Posh Louise andNot So Posh John – I suspect he’s actually very posh because it turns out basically everyone in television seems to be from some kind of inherited wealth, and you can see it in their nice clothes and lack of stress lines.
They arrive with cameras, which is a nuisance because I still look dreadful. I’m definitely leaking into my sweatpants already – that disconcerting squelchy feeling is like no other. The slinky robe they gave me for the Pulse Race Challenge is not thick enough to hide that, so I keep my back to the front door while Posh Louise silently hands us a golden envelope.
I hear the whirr of the cameras as they zoom in on us and the envelope, and take my time opening it so they get enough good footage.
I try not to think how rough I look. ‘Oh wow,’ I say, trying to seem enthusiastic. ‘What’s this?’
I turn it over in my hands. It’s slightly too large, like everything on TV.
‘Do you want to open it?’ I ask Warren, batting my eyes to look romantic, but really it’s so I don’t start crying if I get a paper cut. Anything could push me over the edge today.
Warren slides out a card from inside the envelope. ‘?“Couples.” Wow they didn’t even personalise this one,’ he says, flipping it over.
‘Come on,’ I fake laugh, tugging at his arm because if I have to stand in this doorway much longer I will pass out, and I think there might be an investigation if multiple people faint.
‘?“Couples!”?’ he announces enthusiastically. ‘?“Welcome to your first home together. Over the next week, you will need to work on deepening that connection you’ve established: emotionally, and physically.”?’
He turns to waggle his eyebrows at me, and I playfully slap him on the arm. I know this must play well, because Not So Posh John smiles.
‘?“We will send you compatibility exercises to complete so you can practise thoughtful communication and connection.” Oh, that’s all it says.’
‘So you’re just going to give us tasks randomly?’ I ask.
‘Sorry, can you say that again without referencing production?’ asks the camera operator, who I don’t recognise.
‘Of course. What’s your name, sorry? I’m not sure we’ve met yet.’
‘Harry,’ he says, moving his head briefly from the viewfinder so I can see his face.
‘Thanks, Harry,’ I say, composing myself and going again. ‘So, this means we’re going to get randomly given more challenges? That’s exciting.’
‘Yeah, seems cool. It doesn’t say if we can win anything,’ Warren says.
I place a considered hand on his wrist. ‘Darling, it’ll just be nice to do them together.’
Harry gives us the okay that we’re done, and they all leave.
As I close the door, I realise they’ve gone to the room diagonally opposite from us. I wonder who is over there. I peer through the peephole with one eye.
My mind stutters, like I’ve missed a step, as Carys opens the door.
She looks beautiful. And so does Patrick. They wrap their arms around each other’s backs as they read out loud, heads bowed together. They are the kind of picture-perfect couple this show was made for.
‘What’s all this then?’ Warren asks, and I know that he knows full well I’m just spying and up to no good. ‘Bed, missus,’ he insists softly. ‘I’ll carry you if you don’t get moving.’
‘Fine. Fine,’ I say as he follows me in, guiding me like a sheepdog.
Curling up under the plush duvet is so delightful that I immediately feel on the edge of sleep.
After a long nap, I manage a bubble bath and I sneak in my phone before we lock it down overnight.
Jas has texted me a few times asking for pics and the goss, congratulating herself on her heterosexual teachings that got me this far. There’s nothing from Mum.
I try to resist going on my socials to see how high the numbers have crawled, but as we know, I’m not one for impulse control. I’m way over a million now. Warren’s following has tripled and his comments are filled with thirsting girls. Thank goodness I’m not the jealous type.
It doesn’t take me long to find Carys. Her Instagram is so normal, mostly just pictures of the farm or adverts announcing things happening at the farm and then an occasional dump of pictures of her doing things with four cookie cutter girls and their matching four husbands. I even scroll so far back that I find Mike who, admittedly, probably makes a good Niall.
