The housemates gather round the TV. On screen, Dylan is pacing up and down in The Secret Garden next door. He’s wearing a loose-fitting black shirt with white pinstripes, jeans that are too big for him and shiny black dress shoes. Impossibly, it makes him look even younger than before, wearing his teenage gamer uniform. The producers have gone to town with festoon lighting, candles, red roses and a bottle of champagne resting in an ice bucket. In any other situation, it would be romantic.
For the first time ever, Hattie has crept above position five on The Tracker. Clearly, this Dylan date has got the viewers talking.
‘He’s made such an effort,’ Hattie says softly. ‘I can’t remember him ever making that kind of effort for me.’
Amy catches Lauren’s eye and Kathy rubs Hattie’s back. Hattie drops her head in her hands and sniffs.
‘Hattie, my love’ – Lauren shifts closer to her on the sofa – ‘you are gonna find someone who makes an effort for you every day. I have a good feeling about it, and I have a strong gut. You deserve someone who treats you like a gift, and you’ll find them. You’re a top prize, and don’t you for a second ever think you’re anything less. That clown out there is a fookin’ idiot, and you don’t want a fookin’ idiot in your life.’
They all look up when they hear The Secret Garden door slam. Gemma strides in confidently, muttering hello. Dylan scuttles to her chair and draws it back for her to sit down.
‘Ah, bless.’ Flick smiles. ‘Nice to see that chivalry isn’t dead.’
As Gemma sits down, Dylan cranes his neck forward and stares down her back, with his mouth open and his tongue visible.
‘Oh. Oh dear,’ Kathy says, looking over at Hattie.
‘Oh my God!’ Hattie cries. ‘Look at him, he’s staring at her like a dog at his dinner!’
‘He is a dog, Hattie.’ Jackie walks behind her and rubs her shoulders. ‘He’s a fucking little chihuahua with his tiny lipstick out.’
Dylan eventually moves, taking the champagne bottle out of the bucket as he sits down. After too many attempts to open it, Gemma grabs it from him and pops it open with a karate chop of her hand.
‘Wow, wicked trick.’ Dylan laughs, then stops when she doesn’t. ‘You look nice. I like your dress. Especially the back of it.’ He winks at her. And unleashes hell.
‘Jesus Christ, mate, how fucking old are you?’ Gemma shouts. ‘Is that the first time you’ve seen a female arse before? I know it can’t be, because you were lucky enough to have that godsend Hattie in your life. Fuck knows how – you were seriously punching. And Hattie is sitting there on her perfect peach, watching you perve down my back like a horny teenager. You know, I’m actually glad she saw you do that. It’ll make her realise just how pathetic you really are. Grow up, and show some fucking respect.’
‘Good God!’ Flick folds her arms and shakes her head. ‘How on earth can she be a keeper when she behaves like that? Men would run a mile. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame them. She has absolutely no shame.’
‘YASSS, Gemma!’ shouts Jackie. ‘Queen!’
Amy looks across at Hattie. Her eyes are closed. And although her cheeks are still shining from a few sliding tears, she has a smile on her face, like she’s listening to the world’s sweetest lullaby.
In blissful ignorance that tomorrow, one of them will be gone.
Eighteen
‘That woman is on a different fucking planet. Flick is so far away she can’t see how insensitive she is being,’ Jackie mutters to Amy in the bedroom. They received a singing telegram at breakfast earlier, merrily delivering unpleasant news. Tonight is The Shelf’s first live eviction.
Everyone is on edge. Even Zen master Kathy snapped at Flick earlier for saying wives shouldn’t put children before husbands, and how she’d never dream of making Simon feel second best when they’re married with kids, because doing so would give him a licence to stray.
‘But I don’t think she’s a bad person,’ Amy whispers back to Jackie. ‘She just doesn’t think before she speaks. She forgets who’s listening. I don’t think that comment was a dig at Kathy. It’s like she says these things out loud so that Simon can hear. She did say sorry afterwards. I think she felt terrible.’
‘Isn’t that worse, though? When you don’t even realise that you’re saying something wrong? And her apologies are always way over the top. When you say sorry a million times, it isn’t because you’re sorry for what you did to them, it’s because you want to get rid of the guilt. I just think she’s setting a really bad example. You’ve seen what her fans are like on The Wall. Literally the world’s worst type of people.’ She walks out, leaving Amy alone to think about the riddle that is Flick.
Jackie might have a point. Sometimes Flick can be a bit too much with the gestures, the food, the endless offers of tea. And Kathy snapped at Flick again for her repeated apologies. ‘Bloody hell, stop smothering me, I’m fine!’
There are times when Amy wants to grab Flick by the shoulders in a fury and shake the hateful views right out of her. At other times, she feels desperately sorry for Flick and flummoxed by her fixation for Simon’s approval. Flick is smart. Doctor-smart. She’s a bloody paediatrician! How can she genuinely believe that a husband’s needs are more important than a child’s? It’s like he’s poisoned her, and all her toxic views on marriage, relationships and appearance are the symptoms of someone very sick. Whatever the root of the evil, it’s horrifying that she has so much support. Since her arrival just five days ago, The Wall has become a bleak breeding ground for racists, sexists and bigots to stick their heads out of their dank Internet corners. Many comments quote Flick out of context and give her words a more sinister meaning than Amy thinks she’s intended.
Or at least hopes.
Amy’s scrubbing the bathroom with bleach from top to bottom to relieve her stress at the prospect of being evicted tonight. She’s found several hairballs, two false nails, a thong and enough hairgrips to start an eBay shop. Even those didn’t make her feel as nauseous as tonight’s show does.
‘Excuse me, Amy!’ cries Flick as she almost trips over her, turns on the tap and splashes her face with water. She starts crying into the sink.
‘Are you OK?’ Amy stands up, not sure how to comfort her. Is Flick a hugger? She gives her a little rub on the back to test the waters.
Flick spins round. Her cheek looks like it’s never seen a tear in its life. How does her skin remain so perfect, with such a contorted face? Annoying. But Amy soon switches from irritation to pity when she sees Flick’s eyes brimming with tears. When Amy reaches out for a hug, Flick drops all her weight onto Amy’s left shoulder. All eight stone of her.
‘What’s happened?’ Amy mumbles into her ear.
‘I’ve been made the mascot of some awful white male supremacist group, Amy! They’ve put my face on a bloody T-shirt like Che Guevara! I haven’t even been here a week!’
Amy struggles not to laugh at how ridiculous the visual is in her head of Flick wearing a beret on a T-shirt with a fist in the air. Maybe she’s in a bonnet with a feather duster.