I walk to the bedroom as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of the skirt that is pressing down on my inflamed tummy, and lie down.
When I open the door, I almost crash into Carys coming out of our ensuite, with a sheet mask on her face.
‘A ghost!’ I cry in surprise. I’m a little drunk on exhaustion, so I follow it up with a spookyooonoise.
She laughs and swipes at me with her hand, her fingertips just about grazing my arm. Despite a day of emotional intimacy, the only people I’ve touched all day are Ewa, the original mic guy whose name I didn’t catch, and Carys.
‘I think I’d be a rubbish ghost.’ The section of mask over her nose flaps about as she speaks.
‘You could be a friendly ghost. Like Caspar?’
‘Would I get to be friends with Christina Ricci?’
I bite back my thought that I’d like to be muchmorethan friends with Christina Ricci. ‘Could be. Are you all done in there?’
Carys practically leaps out of the way. ‘Oh, of course! Go ahead!’
Even with a paper sheet on her face layered with snail mucus or whatever they put in them, Carys is too cute, wearing a button-up pyjama shirt with matching shorts in pink plaid, with a tiny cactus embroidered over the chest pocket. Becauseof courseshe is. ‘I like your jarms,’ I say, to explain away the possible staring I’ve just done.
Mine are just some basics from Marks and Sparks which are probably a little too unsexy for the show, but I’ve got sexier ones stashed for when they’ll be filming me and my fake husband later. For now, it’s all cotton, baby.
I grab them and nip into the bathroom for a quick shower.
I knew I wasn’t bleeding yet, but I’m still reassured to see bloodless pants. I was worried the stress of the last twenty-four hours could bring it on. That’s the thing with endometriosis – it doesn’t give a single flying fuck, which frankly, you’d expect for a disease that grows random bits of flesh all over the insides of your body for no discernible reason.
The shower helps the ache in my back. I’ll say this for them, the production team invested in a good hot water supply with better pressure than at home. I let the room steam up a little as though expelling the show through my pores.
When I step out, I assess the damage in the mirror. My belly is swollen. We’re not quite at six months pregnant levels of pre-period today, but it’s tender to the touch, and I wincepulling the waistband of my pyjamas over it. And while I don’t have cramps, there’s some niggling twinges that threaten to kick off. I neck back some painkillers and, just in case, an anti-spasmodic – thank you to the doctor who told me medicine to stop your guts cramping up stops endometriosis shenanigans in its tracks too. Fingers crossed my body will behave, at least until I’m out of the pressure cooker of the warehouse.
Even though I’d rather climb right into bed half damp, I take my time to do my full skincare routine to make up for the fact I’m going to be in full beat for weeks on end because of the cameras.
With one imminent disaster sorted, it’s time to return to the bedroom I’m sharing with an unfortunately adorkable redhead in novelty pyjamas who I’m trying to stop being attracted to.
At least she seems happier this evening.
When I walk back in, there’s an interloper in our room. ‘And who is this?’
Carys startles, moving herself in front of the creature on her pillow.
‘I’m not judging. They’re cute,’ I insist.
‘He’s called David,’ she says coyly, and a pretty blush rises on her cheeks. She rests a hand on David’s furry brown head.
Some people are funny about soft toys; I’m not. And I probably would have brought my stuffed panda with me if I wasn’t half-convinced she was a biohazard given I haven’t washed her in… some time.
‘Hello, David.’ I mime reaching for his paw and shaking it, without touching him due to the aforementioned understanding of soft toy potential biohazard state.
Carys laughs and it’s almost musical, high and glittery. I could drink it.
She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Hello, Dolly,’ shesays in an old man voice that I think is supposed to be David Attenborough.
‘He’ssopolite.’
‘He’s very smart,’ she says, returning to her actual voice. She leans towards me, conspiratorially shielding her mouth from him. ‘But does sometimes smell a bit fishy.’
I hesitate. ‘Does he really?’
She shakes her head. ‘Oh no, sorry. I just mean, you know, he’s a capybara. They’re aquatic.’
