The end-of-date jingle plays, and we say our fond farewells. I walk out into the door-lined corridor, a little thankful to leave the room. We’ve shuffled around every date, and I’m not sure if that means the men get to stay in the same room, or if the show is keeping us all moving so no one gets too comfortable. It’s the only time we get a bathroom break but the mini-fridges get restocked, so it’s not all bad.
Time for date five. I’m moved along by a woman whointroduced herself as Ewa (‘like Ever’), passing Niamh and a Hannah or two.
Whit ends up two doors down from me and mimes a rather graphic finger in mouth vomiting motion. I guess her last date went badly.
I’ve got used to waiting for the light, as though we’re walking into a radio studio that’s recording. At least it’s not as anxiety inducing as waiting for our names to be called at the doctors; I’ve spent way too much time waiting in reception rooms for one lifetime.
The light flicks on above my door just as I see Carys totter into the corridor on the heels she cannot seem to walk in. She sends me a frantic wave, almost knocking herself over with the motion of it. I try not to notice the pretty pink flustered blush on her cheeks. God. I can’t believe I am into such a total dork. I give her a salute as I step back into my heterosexual present and future, leaving the real me in the corridor.
Maybe Mum was right about all this being a fool’s errand. But I still have one more date today, and five tomorrow. There’s still all to play for. I’m not ready to give up on our future just yet.
I plonk myself down on the velvet couch – this one Mrs Hinch grey. There’s a dull ache in my lower back, the one that’s pretty much always there by the end of the day, and I wish I could grab some painkillers but they’re in my room. I can feel the end-of-day puffiness that comes with doing a little too much when you have this annoyingly weird disease.
Fuck it, I can knuckle through one more date, and then I’ll lie down.
I’m pretty sure I’ve worked out where most of the cameras are now. In here, they’re hidden by dried flowers. Another room used funky ceramic statues, and one an abundance offeather boas. I’m not quite sure who was in control of the small-scale decorations, but they’ve had a whale of a time.
I hear a noise that sounds like I’m no longer alone. Part of me wonders if the men are even on the other side of the mirror. Their voices could be piped in from anywhere in the warehouse. We only have to be in adjoining rooms for the face reveals, after all. How much of this is an illusion, even more so than I know it to be?
There’s no time for wondering about how the sausage gets made.
I call out a cut-glass hello.
‘Hey,’ replies one of the deepest voices I’ve ever heard in my life. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Warren.’
‘Hi, Warren, I’m Dolly. Nice to… hear you?’
Warren’s laugh is belly deep, and I can imagine his body shaking along with each beat of it. The rumble of his voice reminds me of car tyres over gravel.
‘Are you having a nice day so far?’ I ask.
‘Yeah… Yeah, it’s been an interesting one. I’m still getting my head around it all, to be honest.’
‘Me too. I keep trying not to look at myself in the mirror.’
He laughs. Good, finding me funny is key to staying off the bad list. ‘Same. The first date I was like, man, I should have had a last-minute trim. I’m looking messy.’
‘Right? I keep trying to touch up my lipstick. This can’t be particularly exciting television.’
‘I dunno, it’s comedy value, isn’t it? Think of the clips onGogglebox. They probably got someone checking if they had food in their teeth.’
‘Oh God, now I’m worried that was me,’ I say, pleased with the back and forth we’ve got going. ‘What do you do for work, Warren?’
‘Dolly, I’m a professional basketball player.’
My ears prick up. Proper athletes (not your regular lower league football player onLove Island) tend to come on reality dating shows likeThe Bachelorfor career reasons: fills time between seasons, helps them and the sport find new fans, and usually the management scores decent pay for the appearance too.
Not that I know enough about basketball to know for sure what camp he’s in.
‘Oh yeah? Who do you play for?’
‘I’m between contracts at the moment, which is why I’m here. But I played college basketball in the States and then I’ve played for some teams in Europe.’
‘So, is it basketball off-season right now? I don’t follow the game myself so I’m not familiar with the calendar.’ I know this should make me seem interested, because another of Jas’s recommendations was to pretend you don’t know things so the men can explain them to you.
‘No,’ he says, and I notice the caution in his voice. ‘I got injured last year, just before the new season when I was trying out for new teams.’
‘Oh man, that sucks.’
