Yours Truly Read online

  “What happened?” she breathes.

  “Well, we were cooking,” I say lowering my eyes in embarrassment. “And Riley made me suck my finger -”

  “Ew! Gosh! I wouldn’t have pegged him for a finger fetishist.”

  “No, no, my finger was bleeding.”

  “Ohmigod. A sadomasochist?!”

  “NO! I cut my finger,” I say showing her the plaster. “And it wouldn’t stop bleeding. He said sucking it would make it stop.”

  “And did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ooh, I didn’t know that. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Yes, it’s odd. And then he looked at me funny.”

  “Funny how?”

  “Funny, sexy funny. You know.”

  “Oh yes… I know,” she says looking nostalgic for a moment. “And then?”

  “And then it went quiet and we were looking at each other for what felt like ages.”

  “Yes?”

  “And then… I ran away.”

  “What? He chased you? Like role playing? Are you into that kind of thing, Natty?”

  “No, you great pervert! I ran away from the kitchen and into the pub, to get you.”

  Meg’s shoulders slump. “So, you didn’t have sexual relations with that man?”

  “God no! What do you think I am?”

  “And you didn’t kiss him?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “You daft bugger! What are you flapping about? That’s not unfaithful. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Losing interest, she digs out a packet of half eaten Maltesers from the dashboard compartment.

  “I thought about kissing him. That’s just as bad.”

  Meg sighs.

  “Nat, do you honestly believe that Olly has never thought about having sex with another woman?”

  I ponder for a moment.

  “Well, maybe that woman from Mad Men. The secretary lady with the -”

  “Obviously her. But I mean women that he meets. At work, in the pub, the gym?”

  “No,” I say immediately. “He’s not like that. He thinks I’m almost perfect.”

  Meg rolls her eyes.

  “Fine. What I’m saying is that thinking about something isn’t the same as doing it.”

  “No,” I say, still unsure.

  “So you’ve done nothing wrong.” Meg folds her arms and nods decisively. “And we’ve left now. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again.”

  “Yes.” I nod, feeling suddenly bereft. “I won’t ever see him again. It’s all good. It’s fine.”

  “All good in the hood,” Meg says putting her seatbelt back on. “Anyways, talking of sexual activity, did you see the man I was chatting to, the one you rudely dragged me away from?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “It was that Hobbs fella.”

  Jasper Hobbs? The man who wants to buy Riley’s pub?

  “He was lovely. Lovely!” Meg is saying, a wistful expression crossing her face. “Polite, funny, gorgeous.” She drops her voice and raises her eyebrows. “Rich.”

  “Hmmm,” I mutter distractedly, wondering whether Jasper Hobbs is even allowed inside the pub or whether he just snuck in.

  “He’s very interesting, you know. He does music producing in his spare time. Like a creative hobby away from all the Hobbs businessy stuff. He knows so many people in the music biz. He’s going to get in touch with this guy he knows, Ian. See if they can’t get me a demo sorted.”

  I turn to Meg in surprise. She’s always talked about wanting to be a pop singer, for as long as I can remember, really. But I never really took her seriously. I just thought it was one of those things she chats about while pissed. She’s never really done anything about it.

  “Singing?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I didn’t say anything because you’ve got all this going on.” She waves her hands around as if my troubles are right here in the car. “But I’m thinking it's about time I quit voiceover. Start, you know, seeking my dream.” She blushes as she says this.

  Seeking her dream? We don’t seek our dreams. We just talk about them and chicken out. That’s what we do!

  “Are you sure?” I say, shocked.

  She shrugs. “I just… I want to stop going on and on about how much I want to sing. I want to actually sing. In front of people. I want a bit more recognition. I want to be… a pop star. I want to finally go for it and make it happen. It's about time to make the big leap!”

  Well this is a turn up for the books.

  I feel odd. Not jealous but... I guess I always saw Meg's popstar dream like I see my restaurant dream. Something to fantasize about when life is tough or tedious. Nothing more. Not a real life thing.

  “Did you give him your number?” I ask, trying to be excited for Meg, in spite of myself.

  “No. I don’t know it. I gave him yours.”

  “I hope he rings, Meg.” I say, smiling at her and squeezing her hand.

  “Oh. He will,” she says, grinning back. “Course he will!”

  It takes us another two hours to get back into Manchester. It’s slightly disappointing to go from somewhere as beautiful and serene as Little Trooley to the high rises and suburban estates of Manchester. It all seems a little greyer somehow.

  Meg pulls up outside Dionne’s terrace.

  “Which one are you moving into?” she asks.

  “That one.” I point at the house next to and above Dionne’s.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said it was next door!”

  “Nope. There it is. My marital home.”

  “Dionne. Next door. All the time. Nat-”

  “I’m going in, I’m already late. Do you want to come in for a brew?”

  “Nah. As much as I’d LURVE to spend time with your lovely sister, I have things to do, songs to write, plans to make!”

  I lean over to give her a kiss on the cheek, it’s nice to see her so excited.

  “Right,” she says firmly. “Enjoy your night with the John-Paul Gaultier. And remember, don’t let Olly know you’re back. At least not until we can contact another hypnotist to sort you out.”

  “Okay. Yes.”

  I plan to use the entire free evening to google local hypnotists and call each one until I find someone able to fix me.

  Meg waits for me to get out of the car. But I don’t. I sit there, worried.

  “What is it?”

  “What if Dionne asks me questions? Or Mum?”

  “You love those guys. I’m sure they won’t ask anything you wouldn’t be happy to answer honestly.”

  “I suppose. Thanks, Meg.”

  “No worries. Love you. And remember… don’t let Olly know you’re back, not unless you want disaster - the sequel, kay?”

  “Kay,” I say grinning and getting out of the Beetle. I’ve hardly shut the door before she takes off down the road, leaving a puff of engine smoke behind her.

  I shake my head and smile before heading down the front path of Dionne’s house. Ignoring the ‘Let’ sign looming large in the garden of the house next door, I pull the brass lion knocker and after a few seconds the door opens. Standing behind it, the remnants of a smile fading from his face, is Olly.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TEXT FROM: STONE CHUTNEY’S

  Good luck, kidda. Remember. The drugs don’t wrk, they jst make it wrse. But I know I’ll c ur face again. Keep me updated.

  “I haven’t even got time to ask where the chuff you’ve been.”

  To a blaring soundtrack of Lady Gaga, Dionne is using one hand to frantically hairspray her blonde beehive into place, and the other hand to simultaneously smoke a cigarette and swig from a bottle of red wine.

  I resist the urge to tell her that hairspray and cigarette is a precarious combination, because she is already clearly unhappy with me.

  “Thank God Olly was available,” she hollers over the music. “Else I’d have been staying in tonight.”

  She throws me a dirty look and
then simpers prettily at Olly who is sat on her sofa, cross legged and pretending to read one of her old copies of Heat Magazine. He doesn’t look at me.

  “I really am so sorry I’m late,” I apologise for the gazillionth time. I desperately hope that she doesn’t ask me where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. I needn’t worry, though. She has no interest in asking me any questions about myself.

  I let her have her rant.

  “I mean, you promised me you’d babysit Jean-Paul Gaultier. I wouldn’t have even minded if you’d have like, let me know. A text! You could have sent a teeny little text. But nooooo. And here I am sorting out your whole wedding. Bending over backwards to make it as beautiful and as classy as possible.”

  She takes another swig of wine, cursing as some of it dribbles down her chin and rolls down in between her massively pushed up cleavage.

  “Big dangly balls!” she cries, dabbing the wine from her breasts with a tissue. Olly eyes her furtively from behind the magazine.

  Outside a car pips its horn. Three short bursts and then a longer one.

  “That’s Bull! My beloved!” Dionne slides her feet into some impossibly high heeled shiny patent boots and pats her hair. “Right. I’m off. Jean-Paul Gaultier’s upstairs somewhere. He’s been fed. Make sure you let him out for a poo and a wee, otherwise he’ll just shit and piss everywhere.”

  She smiles again at Olly. “Bye Olly, sweet. And thanks for stepping in.”

  Olly smiles back. “My pleasure. Enjoy your Madras. Jean-Paul Gaultier will be well looked after.”

  He turns back to his magazine, not once making eye contact with me.

  I follow Dionne through the hall to the front door, and watch as she races to Bull’s car - a yellow BMW with blacked out windows - and slides in. I try to catch a glimpse of him but to no avail, Dionne is in the way. As the car is screeching out of the road she winds down the window and yells “I’ll probably be really late!”

  Of course.

  I wave her away and go back inside.

  Walking back through the hall and into Dionne’s small but tidy kitchen, I choose a bottle of white from the fridge, grab two glasses and join Olly in Dionne's’ boudoir inspired living room.

  I pour out two glasses, shut Lady Gaga off the hi-fi and plop down onto the leopard print sofa opposite him.

  “No questions,” I say first. “Please, Olly, don’t ask me any questions because I don’t want to answer any more.”

  Olly looks up from the magazine, expression nonchalant. “Go on then.”

  I take a deep breath and attempt to explain.

  I tell him the story so far, obviously leaving out the bit about Riley and the whole crazy finger sucking, near kiss situation. When I’m finished, I take a slug of wine and tense up, waiting for him to get mad at me again. Even to my own ears, it sounds like the most ridiculous story ever invented. And I know it’s true!

  Olly doesn’t get angry though. He comes over to the sofa and sinks down beside me. Brushing my hair from my face, he kisses me tenderly on the head.

  “Let me help you,” he says, concern clouding his perfect features.

  Emotion sweeps through my body. Happiness, guilt, thankfulness? What a sweetheart. Offering to help after I said those awful things about his stamina and his taste in music. I love him.

  “Thank you.” I look up into his earnest blue eyes. “It’s been a really odd couple of days.”

  “I love you, Nat. I just want you to be okay.” He squeezes my hand.

  “Excellent. Well, in the absence of Brian, I really need to find another hypnotist; we can google it, probably. Where is Dionne’s laptop?” I look around the living room.

  “Natty,” Olly coos. “I meant help you mentally. Emotionally.”

  “Okaaaaay?” I ask, totally confused.

  “I spoke to my parents and they agree that perhaps you should see someone with the capabilities to deal with this. So I’ve made you an appointment with the GP for Monday morning.”

  “Whaaaat?”

  “We think…” he sighs ever so sadly. “I think you might be… depressed. The stress of the wedding, not losing weight… It’s the only way to explain your erratic behaviour. Why you’re making things up about getting hypnotised. It’s such a bizarre excuse. I think maybe you’re in denial.”

  Is he for real? He really does think I’m crazy! A surge of anger zings into my chest. I’ve just spent half an hour explaining it all to him. Telling him exactly what I've been going through the past couple of days. And he thinks I’m depressed about the size of my thighs?

  “Fuck, Olly, I’m not depressed, I’ve been hyp-no-tised. I just told you! I need another hypnotist, not a doctor.”

  Olly jumps back in his seat, eyes wide with shock.

  “Listen to yourself! In all the time I’ve known you, you have never shouted at anyone, let alone cursed in such a way. It’s really unbecoming.”

  “Unbecoming?” I spit. “Sorry - did we just get a Delorean back to the nineteen-fifties?”

  Olly looks at me as if to say that my retort is exactly what he’s talking about. I will myself to keep calm - something I’ve never had a problem doing before, but it’s like the truth-telling has unlocked a part of me I never even knew existed. An angry, feisty side that, when I think about it, could have been lying dormant for years. Because Brian didn’t change my thoughts and feelings, did he? He just took away my ability to keep them in. It’s an oddly releasing feeling. Like when water freezes in a pipe. Everything expands until the pipe can't take the pressure. And then BOOM! It explodes. Something like that.

  I count to ten in my head, waiting for my heart to slow down its furious, indignant pounding, but it’s no use. I’m angry. I know the whole tale of the past two days sounds farfetched, but surely it’s his job to believe me. To trust in me. Is a little out of the ordinary behaviour really so out of the ordinary for me? Have I always been this straight?

  I take my glass of wine and rebelliously down it in one. Olly draws back and gasps.

  “That’s full alcoholic wine, Nat,” he scolds. “It’s supposed to be treated with respect. And you tell me there’s nothing wrong! The evidence is right here, clear as day!” He inhales sharply and starts gesticulating madly. “I shouldn’t even be surprised. I mean, look at your mother. Mental illness runs in the family. You were always going to be susceptible to depression, darling.”

  And with that I do something that I will most probably be ashamed of for the rest of my life. I pick up Olly’s untouched glass of wine from the coffee table, and I throw it in his face.

  How dare he? How dare he jump on my mother’s pain, on my past and label me like that. It’s one thing to criticise me, but another to make a comment about my family. Only I’m allowed to do that.

  I glare at him, watching as he disbelievingly runs his shirt sleeve over his face. The wine drips off his exquisite eyelashes and then rolls sadly off his jaw before plopping onto his chest.

  He looks like he’s about to cry.

  I immediately feel guilty. What a mean thing to do to a person. He was only trying to help. I should have known that Olly wasn’t the type of person to believe in anything so leftfield as hypnotism. And what he’s saying isn’t entirely wrong. My mother is depressed. Maybe I’m depressed… Maybe he’s right.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I say taking a step towards him, reaching my hand to his chest. But he steps back, widening the distance between us, an expression of dismay fixed upon his face.

  “Olly,” I try, tears filling my eyes.

  “See a doctor. See a… a hypnotist. Whatever. Just don’t talk to me until you are back to yourself. If you can’t figure out how to do that then… then I’m calling the wedding off.”

  He strides across the living room to the door. And right before he leaves he spins his head around, his face purple with constrained anger, reaches into his wallet and tugs out a foil wrapper, chucking it onto the floor.

  “And to think I bought these for you!” he
spits before slamming the door behind him.

  I shuffle over and pick up the foil packet. It’s some kind of anaesthetic condom. As I hear his car drive off, Jean-Paul Gaultier trots into the living room, gives a little bark of greeting and proceeds to piddle on my feet.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Email From: sexyladydionne

  To: nattyb

  Cc: alisonbutterworth

  Subject: Re: CHATTERLEY WEDDING CHECKLIST

  Auntie Janine has given us a list of her songs. The following are her best vocals. Can you choose two, please?

  Up Where We Belong by Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes

  I’m Not in Love by 10CC

  Titanic song by Celine Dionne

  Bring it All Back by S Club 7.

  Have found some shoes to go with your dress. They are on this website www.brideshoessparkle4u.net They are the ones with diamante hearts on the top. Are they too high? You need high shoes to make you look slimmer.

  Irene from the corner shop has offered to do the evening buffet at a cut price. I have sorted out the menu. Nobody is coming who is allergic to nuts, are they? Oh well, too late now! Haha. JOKE.

  Here is the link to the car we have ordered – it’s amaaaaazeballs www.fivestarlimousines.com/pinklimo

  * I was thinking I might wear a tiara as well. Do you mind? I’ve already bought it.

  * Bull is going to be an usher. Don't worry. You'll probably meet him before the big day! I was thinking Jean-Paul Gaultier could be one too, I’ve seen some really cute doggie tuxedos in town.

  Don’t worry – everything is under control babe. Just keeping you updated.

  Following a quick spell washing and sniffling in Dionne's power shower, I dress myself in one of her robes and spend the next hour simultaneously googling and sobbing.

  I google the following.

  Hypnotists in Manchester

  That weird shaky breath thing you do when you cry

  Amazing Brian Fernando

  Jon Hamm. Nude.

  Toning down orange hue in hair - tips

  What to do when you are accidentally hypnotised and upset your fiancé who might then bin you

  Is it possible to unhypnotise yourself?