Yours Truly Read online

  “Go on then,” I say. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  “Stop looking at me like that, Nat! I came to see Jasper.”

  “Jasper Hobbs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? How long have you been here for?”

  “Three days. I -”

  “Why didn't you tell me?”

  “I tried to ring, remember? You switched off your phone 'cos of your fake lurgy.”

  “Oh yes. So I did. Sorry about that.”

  “And even so, I didn’t think it was a good idea to remind you about what happened when you were here last week. You know. You seemed so guilty about it.” She looks at me pointedly and then glances over at Riley who is chatting to Dionne.

  “Yup.”

  She’s right.

  “When we got home I couldn’t stop thinking about stuff,” Meg carries on. “About what Jasper had said about his connections in the music industry. The more I thought about changing careers, giving up the voiceover stuff and taking the big leap the more excited I got. I’m tired of waiting around. So I called him.”

  “And?”

  “He invited me up to record a demo in his studio.” Her eyes sparkle. She looks all energetic and new.

  “Jasper has a studio?”

  “At the family home up the hill.”

  “He lives at that massive house?” I say thinking of the huge manor type building up in the hills behind the pub.

  “Yeah, that's Hobbs Manor! It was brilliant, Natty. I felt like a proper star. Jasper’s friend Ian, you know the music biz one, really thinks I’ve got something special. He said I was like a young Lulu.”

  I nod, unaware of whether this is a compliment or not.

  Dionne strolls over with a glass of lager and some prawn cocktail crisps. She brings me no change from the note I gave her.

  “All right Meg,” she says, opening the packet of crisps and handing one to Jean-Paul Gaultier who is perched obediently beside her.

  “Hiya.” Meg acknowledges her with a brief, not particularly friendly, nod.

  I wish they got on a little better.

  “That guy behind the bar is well hot,” Dionne says, nodding over towards Riley who keeps shooting peeks over at our table. “He looks like a hot woodcutter.”

  Meg laughs in spite of herself and pokes her tongue out at me.

  “Anyway,” I say trying not to think about Riley as a woodcutter - naked and chopping up wood in the sunshine.

  “Anyway,” Meg carries on. “I’m going there tomorrow to put down the backing vocals. See? Check me out! I just said ‘put down the backing vocals’. I'm like Mariah Carey.”

  “What are you on about?” Dionne asks, mouth full of crisps.

  “Meg is going to try to become a pop star,” I explain.

  Saying it out loud I realise how bizarre it sounds. So out there. I can’t help feeling that she’s setting herself up for a fall. I mean, who really thinks that they can just decide to be a pop star and it’ll just happen? It’s silly. Of course, I don’t tell Meg that. She seems so happy.

  “You?” Dionne scoffs. “And that band?” She smirks and looks over to the corner of the pub where Robbie and the other two men are messing half-heartedly with various instruments. Robbie appears to be banging the tambourine on his rotund bottom.

  Meg rolls her eyes and scowls at Dionne. “Yes me. Not with them, though. That’s just a mess about. They’re rehearsing for Mrs Grimes’ fundraiser.”

  Oh yes, I remember Riley saying something about that. Though he never mentioned he could play the guitar. But then, why would he?

  “Ooh, I’d love to be a pop star,” Dionne says, sipping from her drink. “I think I’d be dead good at it.”

  “Hmmm. You have to be able to sing.” Meg leans down to pat Jean-Paul Gaultier who growls at her.

  “Um. No you don’t. Look at The Saturdays. What, you’re the only one who’s allowed to be a good singer?” Dionne grumps. “I think -”

  “Wait a second,” Meg interrupts, turning to me. Why are you here?”

  Shit. Seeing Meg and Riley, I completely forgot about Brian.

  “Oh crap!” I say. “I got a text message from someone. Brian’s back!”

  “Is he? That’s fabulous!”

  “Well, yes, according to the text. So you haven’t seen him?”

  “No, not in here. Riley might have.”

  Is it me or is she wiggling her eyebrows?

  Well I’m going to have to speak to him at some point. It would be rude if I didn’t.

  I leave Meg and Dionne to throw evils at each other and approach Riley behind the bar.

  “Hello Miss Butterworth,” he smiles when I get there. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again so soon.”

  “Yes, yes. Here I am. Surprise!” I feel myself blush. “I actually came to see Brian Fernando. I heard that he was back in Little Trooley, here in The Old Whimsy, actually. Have you seen him?”

  He thinks for a second. “Nope. I’m pretty sure he’s not been in the pub.”

  Maybe the sender of the text was mixed up. He’s here in the village, just not in the pub.

  “Hang on a second,” Riley says before darting into the back. He returns a second later, his Uncle Alan trailing behind in a pair of mud stained blue overalls.

  “Hello, lass!” Alan booms when he sees me, ambling around from the bar to envelop me into a huge muddy hug. “Did you get yourself fixed?”

  I hug back, surprised, but thrilled at his enthusiastic greeting.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. Somebody text messaged me to say that Brian was back. In fact, they said he was right here in this pub.”

  I pull out my phone and show the pair of them the message.

  Alan grimaces and shakes his head. “Oh. I’m sorry love, but we’ve not seen hide nor hair of him for weeks now.”

  My stomach drops.

  “Maybe he’s at his house.” I try. “I’ll pop over. Have a look.”

  Alan shakes his head again, this time putting his hand on my shoulder.

  “I was there about an hour ago love, watering his roses. He wasn’t home.”

  Oh no. What the hell?

  “But the text message,” I say. “Someone -”

  “I think perhaps you’ve been the subject of a practical joke, lass.”

  That can’t be right. I can’t have driven all this way again to find out that he’s not even here.

  The disappointment stings. I thought I was close to getting my life back. Who would joke about that? Why would someone joke about that? It’s really not funny. I could understand if it was amusing, but it really isn’t. I look around at everyone in the pub, suspicion glinting in my eyes. Who was it? Who sent the message?

  “Has anybody seen Brian Fernando?” I address the pub at large, my voice shaky but strident. But there’s hardly anyone in here. Just the band and Dionne and Meg and Riley and Alan, and another two men who are playing cards at a table by the fruit machine. Most of them look at me like I’m mental. None of them answer.

  So he isn’t here. Great. I’m in exactly the same position as I was last time I was here. The only thing that has changed is that Mum is mad at me now, as well as Olly, and I’ve accidentally had my lips inflated.

  Shit.

  SHIT!

  What am I going to do? Olly said that if I didn’t get myself sorted then he’d call the wedding off. I want to get married. I want to start a family of my own and live happily ever after. And Mum. Poor Mum. I can’t live my life like this. Letting everyone know my deepest darkest thoughts. I’ll have to live like a hermit forever. One week was horrible enough. But forever?

  Oh God.

  I feel dizzy, suddenly. As if all the blood in my head has dropped into my feet. And I feel sick. And my lips hurt. They throb. Oh no.

  “Oh dear,” I choke as I realise I’m having some bizarre kind of panic attack. Zooming my vision in on the nearest chair. I wobble towards it before my knees buc
kle, but before I get there everything blurs before me, tables, and people and bottles of alcohol swim in and out of focus. And then it goes black.

  I awaken in a dark room. In a bed with a soft woollen blanket wrapped around me. My head hurts. And ouch. My mouth hurts. Jeez. It feels like I’ve been kissing a brick. A brick that’s been chucked at my face repeatedly. What the focaccia have I been doing?

  I press my hand to my lips and feel their swollen puffiness. Oh yes. My huge trouty mouth.

  “Natalie? Are you awake?” comes a deep voice from across the room.

  It’s Riley. He’s sat cross-legged on a leather tub chair at the end of the bed, a newspaper folded upon his lap. Is it creepy that he’s sat there? Has he been… watching me?

  “Yeeeeah. Er… Where am I?”

  “You’re in, well, you’re in my bedroom”

  What the what?!

  “In The Old Whimsy. This is the only downstairs room. It was easier to carry you here.”

  “Where’s Meg?” I croak. “Where’s Dionne? What happened?”

  “They’re asleep in bed. In the guest rooms upstairs. It’s about two-thirty AM. You fainted.”

  “I’ve been out all this time?” I squint towards the window. “It’s so dark outside.”

  “We put you in here to rest.” Riley explains. “You were a bit muddled and then you fell asleep.”

  “Oh Gad. I’m sorry. How rude of me!”

  “It’s alright,” he says kindly. “Your sister said that you had nothing to eat today and that you had a massage and, um, a lip filler injection. That might be why you were so tired and a bit woozy. Luckily Liam, you know the hairy fella with the bass guitar, is a nurse. He checked you over, said you were fine, probably a bit low on sugar. Do you not remember?”

  “Vaguely.” I have a blurry image of a bearded guy checking my pulse while I was splayed out on the pub floor.

  This is embarrassing, isn't it? Who does that? Who even faints nowadays? I’m like a Victorian woman with a too tight bustle. And who on earth goes to sleep at a pub? Oh yes. Hi there! I’ll just have a little nap, now, in your pub! Sweet dreams y’all.

  Is there no end to how much I’m going to humiliate myself in this place?

  I rub my eyes and jump as something drops off my face and onto the bed cover.

  Oh. It's a fake eyelashes strip. I peel off the other eyelashes and sneakily chuck them onto the floor beside me. Riley lights a candle at the end of the bed. I wonder if he's going to pray for my sanity.

  Or... is he trying to set a mood?

  “I keep meaning to fix the lights,” he clarifies. “But the wirings properly messed up in here and it’s too expensive to redo at the moment.”

  Ah. The lights are broken. Obviously.

  As the candle illuminates the room slightly I take a surreptitious look around. Riley’s bedroom is… full of clutter! I sit up and try not to exclaim out loud as I take in the three huge bookcases stuffed to the brim with classic and contemporary fiction as well as a load of dusty old reference books. The wardrobe doors are forced open by the one million shirts and sweaters and outdoorsy coats piled up in there. I rub my eyes. There’s so much stuff! The wall opposite me is covered in photographs which, from what I can gather, span Riley’s entire life.

  I feel around my body to make sure I’ve still got my clothes on before getting out of the bed and shuffle over to get a closer look at the pictures. There are images of Riley at school, so much taller than the rest of the kids, his hair as messy as it is now, and one or two of him with Honey. She’s looking at him with an intense, devoted expression, clinging onto his arms, while he looks sleepy and relaxed, grinning toothily at whoever is taking the picture.

  Right in the middle of the wall is the photo of his mother that I saw on the internet. Once again I feel a lurch of sorrow as I remember that Riley is an orphan.

  While I gaze at the pictures, a strange aroma pervades the room. It smells like brandy. I sniff up suspiciously.

  “It’s a stinky candle.” Riley says. “I’ve already used all the normal ones. This one’s the only one left. It’s Christmas pudding scented.”

  “Hmmm,” I turn back towards him and breathe it in. “It’s lovely.”

  I perch on the end of the bed, not quite sure what to do with myself. I fiddle with one of the buttons on my cardigan.

  “Oh no,” I blurt as I suddenly remember Dionne. “Dionne is going to be so mad at me. She has to work tomorrow. Did she have a tantrum?”

  “She was a little… irate” Riley says with a bemused expression. “But she had no other choice but to stay here, regardless of your passing out. The snow is really coming down hard now. It would have been dangerous for you to drive back through it. Alan forbade it, actually.”

  “Gosh. Well. I suppose it’s good, in a way, that I fainted. I mean. If I hadn't we might have tried to drive back and gotten caught in the storm with no way of escaping and we’d have had to eat each other like in that film Alive. Jean-Paul Gaultier would be the first to go.”

  I don't think I've properly come round. Riley kindly overlooks my wittering on about dog consumption.

  “I hope you don’t mind me being here,” he says. “I thought it’d be best if someone kept an eye on you. You know, just in case.”

  I nod, inwardly cursing Dionne and Meg for not insisting that they be the ones to keep an eye on me. This is just too weird.

  We fall into silence, Riley scanning his newspaper and me watching the candle flame dance and flicker in the dark. I have no idea what to say to him because this situation, let’s face it, is utterly awkward.

  “Oh, you play the guitar!” I say when I can bear it no longer. I gesture over to the two acoustics propped up against a bookshelf.

  Riley answers back super quickly as if he too had been waiting for something to break the silence.

  “Yeah! I learned at school.”

  “You took guitar at school? Lucky!”

  “Well. After school. I was in a performing arts group,”

  I can’t help it. I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I can’t picture you in a performing arts group. That’s all. You’re too gruff.”

  “Gruff!” Riley raises a sandy brow. “I’ve never been described as gruff before. Lanky, chunky, great big bastard, always. But, oddly enough, never gruff. Is gruff a good thing?”

  “Totally.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “So did you do musicals and stuff? Like Chicago and… Annie?” I giggle again at the very thought. Riley looks mildly offended.

  “No way! We were cooler than that.”

  “Yeah, it sounds like it.”

  “We were! We did original stuff.” He gets up off his tub chair and plucks a photo from the wall. “This guy here wrote the plays,” he says pointing to a short, dark kid with long hair. “And now he writes for Coronation Street.”

  “Impressive.”

  “You bet. And I wrote the songs.”

  “You can song write?” I ask, impressed.

  “Yeah. I’m an exceptional songwriter, a genius, some might say.” He lifts his chin up and folds his arms.

  So cocky.

  “Write me a song then.”

  He looks around. “What now?”

  “Yeah now, Mr Exceptional.”

  He pauses for a second before shrugging. “No problemo.”

  I don’t really expect him to write me a song but he hops over to his guitar, picks it up and starts to strum.

  After a few moments he starts to sing.

  “Natalieeeee, you are so cruel to meeee. You made me write a soooong, when I didn’t have very loooong, erm, to prepare.”

  “Genius” I say, smirking.

  “Hold on, I’m just getting started.” He coughs and plucks at the strings again. “You say you’re hypnotiiiised, but I think it’s all liiiiies”

  I open my mouth in indignation.

  “It’s a good job you’re so pretty, else I’d think
you a teensy bit mean and… shitty.”

  “Pretty?” I say before I can stop myself.

  “Um. Yeah. “

  “Right. Good song.”

  We go quiet again then, because the atmosphere shifts. It’s imperceptible, but it’s there.

  Things improve further when my stomach lets out an almighty growl.

  Oh nice one, Natalie. Real classy.

  Riley grins and puts down the guitar. “Food?”

  Good idea. I’m ravenous.

  “Yes please. If that’s okay? I don’t want to put you to any trouble?”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Oh, it's cool. We don't want you going hungry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problemo.”

  We make our way to the kitchen.

  He thinks I’m pretty.

  When we get there, the range is throwing out heat and fresh snow is stuck to the outside of the huge windows. It’s bright, cosy and smells of buttery thyme roasted potatoes. Perfect, really.

  Apart from the hum of the lights and the soft flutter of the snow outside, it’s totally silent. So quiet that it’s hard to believe that there’s anyone else in the entire village, let alone the pub.

  I take a seat at the huge table while Riley pulls open the fridge.

  “How about a sandwich? Let’s see… there’s some cold roast beef left? And some horseradish cream. Will that do? We’ve hot chocolate, if you’d like some of that? Or I can do you a cold drink?”

  “Hot Chocolate would be lovely. It all sounds lovely. Thank you,” I say graciously.

  He gives a single nod and pulls out the sandwich ingredients before slicing up thick doorstops of bread.

  I notice that the bread is Hobbs Rye Bloomer bread.

  “I thought you hated Hobbs?” I say getting up from the table to warm some milk for the cocoa.

  “Nah. I don’t hate Hobbs; I'm no fan of Jasper Hobbs, though. The bread I have no problem with. It’s good bread. We get it at a discount.”

  “Ohmigosh, lucky you!”

  “Yeah. My mother was great friends with Alfred Hobbs. Jasper’s dad. He continues to honour the agreement that we get all of his products at a third of the price.”