I’ve officially had enough of the day.
As I excuse myself to bed, I hope that across the warehouse, Patrick is thinking of me too.
Script/Vox Pop Hannahs
[The Hannahs sit on a couch together.]
HANNAH C. It’s so frustrating that people keep mixing us up.
HANNAH P. And not just the other women! The men keep mixing us up. But we don’t even sound the same. Hannah C. is from Jersey!
HANNAH S. I don’t know why the women can’t tell us apart when we all look so different. Yes, we are all blonde, but we’re not even the same type of blonde. I’m dirty blonde, Hannah C. is honey blonde, and Hannah P. is butter blonde.
HANNAH P. Exactlyyyyy.
[They all nod in sync.]
HANNAH C. It should be easy to remember. I’m the engineer.
HANNAH P. I’m the surveyor.
HANNAH S. And I’m the professional wrestler.
ALL TOGETHER We’re unique!
Chapter EightDolly
Jackson Smith, 25, Leeds
I just think a man should be a man in the relationship. I believe in gender roles – I think it’s good for a couple to divide up the house. My role is to support my future wife in the home, her role is to support me as the breadwinner. It’s a relationship style that’s worked for a reason. I’m a traditional kind of man. I want to be the alpha, haha.
If the atmosphere last night was weird, then breakfast is much worse.
We’re all waiting to find out who got mutual matches, and will be off on dates. It’s even getting to me a little, and I end up rooting through the fridge for ingredients to make something with. I’ve got too much nervous energy for cereal.
I end up with a fairly large spinach frittata made in not really the right pan, so it sticks, with a kicker avocado salsa on the side. It’s a recipe I’ve shared online before, a comforting reminder of who I am and what I’m here for.
There’s enough for everyone, and I get a buzz when Whit, Lina and Carys come over with empty plates, ready to try it. There’s a few of those perfect, eyes-closed bliss moments as they eat.
Carys was asleep when I got in last night, and I can tellsomething is up as she’s polite, but distant. Probably for the best given I’m trying to neutralise this crush.
Neither of the Nguyens return with the big red box.
Instead, some fresher-faced production assistants hand out pink envelopes to each of us in the living room, in front of everyone as the cameras pile around. This is new, I’ve not seen them do it on camera before. Maybe they’re hoping for cat fights.
The room hushes as everyone waits for someone to go first, so I rip open mine. It’s not quite a dance card, but inside I find a schedule of dates for the next two days. Warren is tomorrow, thank God, and today I have dates with Patrick and inexplicably… Malachi? The nice Scouse guy Whit said she really likes, but crucially also a man whose name Idefinitelydid not request. Not just because Whit is cuckoo over him, but because he is looking for love. Hopefully he’ll find that with Whit.
So why do I have a date with him? I’m not naive enough to imagine the showrunners won’t influence decisions along the way, but manufacturing date choices seems… strange. Are they trying to create tension between Whit and me?
I wonder who else has scored a second date with someone they didn’t pick.
I glance round at the others and everyone seems vaguely pleased, or they’re hiding it well. None of the women are going home yet – pretty expected, as usually the first to go are the worst offenders on the men’s side. Preferably the man who asked us all how heavy we were.
I head back to the kitchen to clean up, like a good cook. When I’m done, Whit and most of the other women have left, presumably to get ready for their dates.
The only person left standing is Carys, a bright smile on her face. I guess she got her second date with Patrick too. It might not have been my smartest moment to request a seconddate with him, but Carys is my roommate, and I want to look out for her.
That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. Platonic mode.
