ROX Sorry, Hannah S.
HANNAH S. Actually… maybe I shouldn’t speak about this without a lawyer present. Hang on, let me call Priya.
I’ve been trying to work out what to do for the last twenty-four hours, and I’ve come up with nothing.
Of course, I couldn’t tell Warren what was really going on. I palmed him off with a drunken argument between Carys and Bridget, somewhat helped by the complete breakdown Carys had – though, well, I’m not sure if it was a meltdown or not. It seemed like one. Patrick beat me to picking her up,and I had to resist with every atom in my being. It would have made it worse.
I barely slept, my dreams always returning to Carys crumpled on the floor. And then all yesterday we were tied up doing last-minute wedding prep all the while my anxiety thrummed.
I know he knows something’s up. He’s smart; that’s why we picked each other. But if I tell him what’s going on, I’ve got to be honest with him about how stupid I’ve been throughout our entire fake relationship.
He would be in his right mind to say no at the altar.
I had hoped I’d have a good sleep before my wedding, but I slept in fits and starts.
I find myself scrolling Carys’s Instagram again when I wake. I’ve not followed her. That feels too intrusive. It’s so normal compared to my profile full of reposted content from other platforms of me cooking, outfits of the day, aspirational lifestyle content of a life I don’t even live.
And then there’s her, feeding animals. Shearing a sheep, somehow. Talking to children about animals. This feels like the most honest version of Carys, but it’s still hidden behind a veil of not talking about her reality. There’s nothing about meltdowns or overstimulation or anything else she experiences here. The only giveaway is all the autistic advice accounts she follows.
I end up reading through a bunch of them, feeling the urge to learn more about how she experiences the world, even though I won’t be in her version.
After another burst of sleep, I check my phone one last time, and it’s half four. The hair and makeup team will be here in the next hour to get us ready.
‘Let’s just get up,’ Warren murmurs. He rolls over and slings an arm round my waist.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ I whisper.
‘Mmm.’ The sound rumbles through the mattress. ‘I’m awake too.’
‘Big day,’ I whisper.
‘Big day.’ He rolls out of bed, stretching his broad back. ‘I’m going to get us some food.’
I hear the coffee machine go in the kitchen, and I decide to have my shower, scrubbing away the stress of Bridget’s threat. I’m going to have to talk to Warren about it this morning. I’m going to have to make a decision, but who do I protect? Carys, my mum, or Warren?
If I say no, Warren and I break up. Unless we agree to stay together, but that doesn’t look so promising for brands.
If I say yes, Carys and I get outed.
I leave the shower wrapped in big fluffy white towels and a matching robe, moisturising my dry, tired skin with a hydrating mask that I hope won’t bring me out in spots.
The hair and makeup team arrive soon after that, earlier than I anticipated, and get to work. By the end, I look like the bride I’m supposed to be. My hair is slicked back slightly, a bit of a flick at the bottom to give the look some edge. Red lipstick, of course, but the rest of the makeup is softer than my usual style.
I look like a bride.
The dress hangs on the back of the bedroom door, the shoes paired together underneath like a ghost’s wearing the outfit already.
We need to get a move on soon. We need to be at the Barbican this morning but via the hotel our family are in to help everyone over. Production wanted the couples to spend the night apart in a hotel for tradition’s sake, but we convinced them to give up those rooms to our family members so they didn’t have to trek across London.
In the kitchen, Warren has set out a breakfast feast. There’s bowls of strawberries, sliced peaches, crumbles of granola.The yogurt and honey sit in their usual tubs, spoons at the side ready. From the oven, he takes out some pre-made pancakes he’s heated up.
‘I know they’re not as good as my crêpes, but hopefully they’ll suffice,’ he says, placing a couple on each plate.
‘This is wonderful,’ I say, taking a seat. ‘Thank you. Another good husband point.’
He huffs a little laugh to himself. ‘As that might be,’ he says, picking up his coffee and blowing the steam. ‘Dolly, were you ever going to tell me that you are in love with Carys?’
I choke on the strawberry I’m eating, and he has to whack me hard between my shoulders before it goes down the wrong way.
