Yours Truly Read online

  “That’s nice of him,” I say, thinking that in fact it is more than nice. If someone offered me the entire Hobbs range at a third of the price I would eat nothing but toast for the rest of my life.

  “So,” I say, watching over the warming milk. “If Alfred Hobbs was such good friends with your mum… why is he letting Jasper get away with all this buying up the pub malarkey? Surely your mother wouldn’t have been happy about that?”

  I can see Riley’s shoulders tense and he lays out roast beef onto the bread.

  “Because Jasper is heir to the Hobbs throne. Alfred retired a couple of years back and while Jasper doesn’t actually do much work at Hobbs, he still has a majority say in every major decision. Alfred is kind of a recluse. I haven’t seen him in well over two years. Nobody has.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Why did I say that? Oh God. Riley’s mum is dead. Why am I talking about people being dead? Total foot in mouth, Natalie.

  But Riley laughs. “No. He’s not dead. People catch glimpses of him every now and then. It’s a running joke around here. Seeing Alfred Hobbs is akin to spotting Bigfoot.”

  I giggle at the thought of the locals taking binoculars and cameras up on the hills - Alfredwatching.

  “Since my mother died, actually, he kind of dropped out of society. It’s funny. He has this helicopter. The Hobbscopter. He sends it out with his pilot, Carlos, all over the country so that he can still have access to everything he used to enjoy in the outside world.”

  “How decadent! Like what kind of stuff?”

  “According to Edna Grimes, meals from posh London restaurants, French champagne, tailors and barbers flown in. All sorts.”

  “Sounds a bit excessive.”

  “He's a very rich old man. He can afford it.”

  I finish making the hot chocolate and take it over to the table, where Riley joins me with a platter of delicious looking roast beef sandwiches.

  “So…” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. “If your mother and Alfred Hobbs were close, then surely you know Jasper quite well? Surely you can reason with him about The Old Whimsy? Talk to him and tell him how much this place means to you.”

  Riley doesn’t speak for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m being nosy.”

  “No. No, it’s fine. You’re right. I did know him well. We were friends. Not best friends, but I’ve had my fair share of pints with the guy.”

  I think of Riley, scruffy and boisterous looking, and then Jasper. The slick suited man I saw only briefly in the pub last week. They don’t look like two men who would ever be friends.

  I bite into my sandwich. Oh man, it’s delicious. I sigh in delight.

  “Is that good?” Riley asks.

  “Orgasmic,” I say at once, the hypnotism doing its work. “You can’t cook but you make a mean sarnie.”

  In the space of a sentence I’ve talked about sex and insulted him again. I’m on fine form today.

  Where are you, Brian Fernando? Come back and save me from this.

  “Orgasmic,” Riley repeats, a smile playing around his eyes. “I do like to please.”

  Argh! Is he just being friendly, or was that completely flirty? I try to shake off the dart of excitement that pierces my stomach.

  “So why did you stop having pints together, then?” I ask, desperate to move away from chatting about orgasms. “Was it because of him wanting to buy the pub for office space?”

  “No,” Riley says biting into his sandwich. “Mmmn. Orgasmic indeed.”

  I blush.

  “No. Jasper and I don’t get along because I believe he’s the reason my mum died.”

  He says it so simply and without emotion. Like he’s just told me he’s nipping to the shops.

  My eyes widen at this revelation. “What happened?”

  Riley takes a sip of his cocoa and shrugs.

  “She died in a car accident. It was two winters ago and snowing out. You’ll probably have already noticed that the roads around here aren’t the safest. Scrap that, it’s a death trap if there’s ice.”

  I nod in agreement. The roads here are skinny and winding. Not safe, especially in winter.

  “Mum was a careful driver. I used to make fun of her for how she always indicated early, never, ever exceeded the speed limit. The night it happened she was driving up the hills to see Alfred for dinner at Hobbs Manor when she full on collided with a speeding car. The driver of the other car was Jasper Hobbs.

  “Shit. What happened?”

  “He’d just got a new sports car and thought it’d be a good idea to treat Little Trooley like his own personal racetrack. Showing off to some girl he’d picked up in London. Mum didn’t stand a chance.”

  Gosh. No wonder he doesn't like Jasper.

  I think about the article I saw online. It mentioned nothing of Jasper Hobbs.

  “Was Jasper arrested?” I ask.

  “Yeah. But he was cleared of dangerous driving. The whole thing was blamed on the icy roads and his entire involvement was hushed up. It’s sickening what being rich can afford you. But I had been in cars with Jasper before; I knew how reckless he was. Growing up with money has led him to believe he can do exactly what he likes without any consequences. But then it cost my mother her life.”

  “Jesus,” I say softly. Poor Riley.

  “And now he wants to take away my pub. My mum’s pub.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder.

  “Cheers,” Riley says blinking hard. “I can’t seem to let it go. I’ve tried, but. It’s fucking hard.”

  “I know.”

  And then, as if that conversation never happened, he takes a deep breath and changes the subject.

  “So, Natalie Elspeth Butterworth. You know I’m actually rather glad you’re back here.”

  Wow. What does that mean?!

  “Your ratatouille was a huge success.”

  Oh.

  Pleasure warms my body despite my embarrassment at thinking that he might just have meant something else.

  “It was incredible. I’ve never seen people react that way to food before. They were sharing it with each other, asking for seconds and thirds, offering to pay for some to take home to their wives and husbands. It was mad.”

  His face lights up at the memory. It occurs to me that he may just be saying this stuff to be nice, but no, my ratatouille is that good, I’m sure of it.

  “That’s fantastic,” I laugh. “I’m so glad I could help.”

  “You did,” he nods and drains the last of his hot chocolate. “But, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to bend your ear some more. Your ratatouille has made me rethink the whole menu. The whole focus of what I’m trying to do.”

  “Of course I’ll help!” I say, covering an errant yawn with my hand.

  “Great. Tomorrow then, before you leave. It shouldn’t take long.”

  He gets up and takes the sandwich dishes over to the sink.

  “Right,” he says, once he’s rinsed them off. “Well, you should probably get some sleep.”

  “Yep. Defo. Thanks for the food.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Oh wait… where are you going to sleep?”

  I’d forgotten I was taking over his room. I wonder if he’s going to stay in there with me. On the floor, of course.

  “Honey lives up the road. I’ll sleep there.”

  “Oh yes. Obviously,” I say, not entirely comfortable with the jealous sensation that prickles me.

  “Well,” I say brightly. “Good night, Riley. Thanks for the song.”

  “Good night, Miss Butterworth.”

  I do a stupid little wave. And without looking back, I plod off to bed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dionne is not happy. Really not happy. I haven’t seen her this angry since Adam Rickett left Coronation Street.

  She storms into Riley’s room early the next morning; Jean-Paul Gaultier tucked under one arm, the
other arm on her bony hip.

  “We’re fucking snowed in,” she fumes. “Snowed. Fucking. In!”

  I wipe away the sleepy dust from my eyes.

  “Pardon?”

  “Did I stutter? It’s been snowing like a motherfucker all night. And now we are stuck in this godforsaken village. I’ve had to phone work. They were not happy. I’m supposed to be seeing Bull tonight an’ all!”

  Oh no.

  I scramble up on the bed and peer out of the window above the headboard.

  Jesus Christ.

  It’s like Narnia out there. Every inch of land is covered in a thick layer of snow. And it’s still falling.

  “I’m so sorry! Are you absolutely sure you can’t get the car out?”

  Dionne huffs. “Oh yes, I’m sure. I’ve been out there with a bleeding spade. A spade! It didn’t do anything. I manage to clear the snow around the car, so yes; I can drive a few inches back and a few inches forward. But other than that we’re stuck. I’m stuck. Why did you have to faint? Why did you do that to me?”

  Jean-Paul Gaultier gives a little yelp as if confirming her speech.

  “I didn’t do it to you. It just happened. I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “Calm down,” I try, rubbing my eyes and sipping from a bottle of water that’s been put out on the bedside table.

  “I’ve called Bull. He’s working on it. See if he knows someone. But your mate, the old dude with the red cheeks and the cap -”

  “Alan?”

  “Whatever. He says it won’t clear for at least the next few days.”

  “Oh. How does he know?”

  “He says this happened before, two winters ago. That this place is one of the highest points in England. That it’s too cold for the snow to melt and that no one can drive anywhere. I’ve not even got any fresh clothes with me! I probably stink.” She sniffs dramatically at her armpits. “I do stink! Maaaaan.”

  Oh crap. My stomach begins to churn uncomfortably as I realise the implications of being stuck here. I haven't three days to waste. I need to sort out my wedding. And, you know, make friends with the groom. I need to sort things out with Mum.

  “Shit.”

  “Bastard.”

  The door bursts open once again. This time it’s Meg. Not looking at all troubled by the situation. In fact, she looks as happy as I’ve ever seen her.

  “Isn’t this exciting!” she trills, moseying over to sit on the bed.

  “About as exciting as herpes,” Dionne huffs, throwing her a dirty look.

  “You’d know,” Meg throws back before turning to me. “It’s like a film! There’s a big commotion and everyone’s here in the pub already. Get up! Get up and dressed! It’s so romantic…”

  “Is drinking really the answer?” I say worriedly, a sudden vision of the locals gathered around the bar doing absinthe shots in distress.

  “I’m pret-ty sure it is for me,” Dionne pouts, storming out of the room, Jean-Paul Gaultier in tow.

  “They’re not drinking, silly,” Meg giggles. “They’ve all turned up to discuss a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “Apparently Wonky Faced Joe has a tractor -”

  “Who’s Wonky Faced Joe?”

  “Oh, one of the locals. He’s got a wonky face.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, he has a tractor.”

  “Right?”

  “But it’s broken.”

  “Oh.”

  “And he knows someone who has a gritter.”

  “Great!”

  “But he can’t get in touch with him.”

  “Not so great.”

  “So until the tractor is fixed or he can reach his mate with the gritter and they can drive to the next village for supplies, they’re planning for survival.”

  “Ooh, that does sound exciting,” I say, in spite of myself. “Do they think we’ll die?”

  “No one knows,” Meg says seriously. “The snow doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon.”

  “What about my wedding?” I say in a small voice.

  Meg ponders. “It will definitely be cleared by then. I’m sure of it. And even if it’s not, Wonky Faced Joe’s tractor will be fixed, and they’ll be able to drive us home.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, not entirely reassured. “But I still have lots of planning to do!”

  “Not that much. It’s pretty much finished, and your mother is taking care of the rest. Or we can do it online. God bless the internet.”

  I sigh.

  “Come on,” she chides. “I brought a suitcase of clothes with me. Get a shower and I’ll put you out an outfit. Hurry, we need to find out what we should do if we’re going to beat this blizzard and stay alive!”

  I use the en suite shower in Meg’s room, delighted to find some of Mr Harrington’s shampoo made from scratch. This time it’s basil flavour. It’s delicious. My hair smells like Italy.

  Drying myself off, I look at the outfit Meg has laid out on her bed for me.

  It’s a dress. I haven’t worn a dress since I was ten and forced to wear one for the junior school maypole dance. My backside does not work in a dress.

  I find Meg’s suitcase and dig through it in the hopes of finding some trousers. But there are none. Just lots of dresses and skirts and sexy tops.

  I sigh and pick up the dress from the bed again. It’s actually one of my favourites. When Meg wears it, of course. It’s an emerald green Jaquard shift dress. It was all the rage last year at the fashion shows. Not that I know anything much about fashion, but it was hard to get away from this dress. It was the ‘It’ dress and in all of the shops. It's perfect for Meg. The cut of it accentuates her milkmaid curves beautifully.

  I pull it on and look in the mirror. I look like an emerald green sausage. I take it off immediately and decide to stick to the jeans I was wearing yesterday, but with one of Meg’s very tight, very white t-shirts - the best of a slutty bunch.

  I dig into her make-up bag and dash on some mascara and cheek stain. I fully ignore my lips. They are so gargantuan they need no highlighting at all.

  I don’t bother doing anything with my hair besides a quick comb through. There’s no point. It’s determined to look bad whatever I attempt. Stoopid Barbara the hairdresser.

  I pull on my woolly blue cardigan and my trainers, and with a quick spritz of Meg’s Ralph Lauren Romance, make my way downstairs to the pub.

  Meg was right. This is a commotion if ever I saw one. And it is rather exciting.

  The pub is chock-a-block with locals sipping on cups of tea and nattering away. It’s buzzing. Meg is chatting animatedly to Morag and Barney Braithwaite and from behind the bar Alan is holding court, while Riley hands out toast and juice to whoever wants it.

  “Those of us who have wood burning stoves, would be best to invite those with oil burning stoves over to stay,” Alan is saying, much to the approval of the rest of the people in the pub.

  “Hear hear!”

  “My oil will only last another day!”

  “We have two spare rooms at our house. But men only, please!”

  I smile at the fact that it’s only the first morning of a snow-in yet the village are thriving on the notion of pulling together, of being a real community. It’s heartening.

  “I have lots of tins of tuna,” someone in the crowd calls out.

  “I can knit extra blankets!” adds a gruff voice.

  “I too have tuna to spare!”

  “I can cook!” I call out, completely unaware until I hear the sound of my voice echoing back to me.

  It’s very infectious, this pulling together stuff. From her table Meg raises her eyebrows at me, laughing.

  Someone prods me on the shoulder.

  I turn around to see that it’s Dionne, dressed in a stylish denim jumpsuit and a fur cape. Behind her, looking gorgeous and surprisingly friendly, is Honey.

  “This is Honey,” Dionne says. “She lent me some clothes. We’re, like, exactly the same size.”

  �
��We’ve met.” I smile warily at Honey. She smiles back but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “It’s sooooo good to see you again!” she says twirling her wavy read hair around her finger.

  “Oh. It’s good to see you too!” I say wondering what has brought about her apparent personality transplant.

  “Yah, Riley said you were back. He said you fainted, you poor, poor thing.”

  Her expression doesn’t equal her words. She looks about as sympathetic as a wooden spoon.

  “Um yes.”

  “It’s a good job he’s so big and strong. Having to carry you to bed like that.”

  She laughs. It’s an irritating scratch of a noise.

  I don’t quite know how to respond to that. What she’s saying isn’t exactly rude, but it still bristles.

  Honey turns to Dionne and blows her a kiss.

  “I have to work now, sugar. But just pop by if you need anything at all. Bye bye Jean-Paul Gaultier.” She wiggles her fingers daintily in an impression of a wave and floats off.

  Dionne beams, staring with heart eyes as Honey saunters off to the bar.

  “She’s amazing,” Dionne sighs in admiration. “I was outside, crying in the car and up she comes like a tiny, fashionista angel. Offers me the use of her clothes. Just like that.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “And she goes out with that woodcutter lad. Riley. She told me he’s great in bed, an animal, in fact! She said that when they’re together, she -”

  I feel sick as an unwelcome vision of Riley and Honey flashes into my head. I do not want to know this information. I do not want to know about them doing rude stuff to each other.

  “Look, Dionne,” I butt in, my voice weirdly strangulated, “I have to nip to the loo. Why don’t you get us some tea and toast, find us a seat. I’ll meet you back here in a second.”

  And before she can answer I run to the ladies room, leaving her to stare after me.

  I stand in front of the mirror and take deep breaths.

  What is wrong with me? I’m about to marry the man of my dreams and here I am getting jealous over some guy I barely know. Some guy who has a girlfriend, no less.