Yours Truly Read online

  And why the hell don’t I know the answers to my own questions? I certainly know the answers to everyone else’s!

  I splash some cold water onto my face before going into a cubicle, pulling down the loo seat and sitting down.

  Is it nerves? No it can’t be. I can’t wait to marry Olly. The idea of sleeping with only one man for the rest of my life has never bothered me. I like the idea… the security. The comfort of knowing that one person is yours forever, and you are theirs.

  I wonder if the hypnotism made me into a sex maniac?

  No. That can’t be it. I don’t fancy anyone else.

  There.

  I said it.

  I fancy Riley.

  I fancy the spectacularly muscular arse off Riley.

  As I’m pondering this unsettling revelation there’s an impatient knock on the cubicle door.

  “Let me in!”

  It’s Meg.

  “Oh noes.” She frowns when she sees my face. “We’re not really going to die, Natty. There’s enough tinned tuna in this village to last seventy gazillion years.”

  “Is that an exact number?” I ask, a slight grin lifting the corners of my mouth.

  “It is. Really, Natty. Whatever's wrong?”

  “I fancy Riley,” I blurt out in answer to her question. My face contorts into a shamed grimace.

  Meg is unperturbed.

  “So what? He’s hot! It’d be weird if you didn’t fancy him!”

  “So what? So what? I’m marrying Olly. I love Olly. I can’t fancy anyone else.”

  Meg crouches down so that her face is level with mine.

  “I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, pet. There is nowt wrong with being attracted to someone else. Loads of married couples probably have crushes on other people. You don’t have to do anything about it.”

  “But it’s weird. I’m not used to feeling like this.”

  “That’s because you’re lovely and loyal. It’s only a crush.”

  “A massive crush,” I correct.

  “But you love Olly?”

  “Yes.”

  “See. That’s the truth. That’s the only thing that matters. As long as you love Olly, you’re not going to act on a little crush. Stop fretting.”

  She’s right. I obviously do love Olly. The truth-telling says so. And I’m excited about our wedding. About our life together as a family.

  “You’re right,” I say to Meg, feeling stupid for getting into such a tizz. I’ll just stay out of Riley's way. Wait until the snow clears, go home and forget all about him.

  “I’m always right. Anyway, come on.” She takes my hand. “We don’t want to miss all the free cups of tea.”

  “No.” I follow her out. “We definitely don’t.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NATALIE TEXT TO: OLLY

  Thinking of you. Please text back?

  “We were so disappointed when you left the last time, duck. We had the whole media splash planned out!”

  It’s midday and the pub has emptied considerably. Mrs Grimes and the Braithwaites have gathered round a table with Meg and I. It’s Operation Locate Brian reunited. Well, apart from Uncle Alan who is off tending to his vegetables in the greenhouse.

  Dionne has gone for a lie down with all the stress of being snowed in and Barney Braithwaite is talking about putting me on the radio.

  “I think it’s your only hope now, love,” he says earnestly. “Brian might be listening, or someone else who could help you.”

  “We could put it on our site too,” Morag says eyes alight. “Little Trooley dot online dot co dot uk dot.”

  “Oh yes. And I can do a video on my iPhone,” says Mrs Grimes. “My son could put it on YouTube. See if we can’t get it to catch a virus!”

  “It’s viral, Edna. It’s called going viral,” says Barney irritably. “But she’s right,” he says, turning back to me. “You need all the publicity you can get, young lady. The more people who know about the hypnosis means a higher chance of finding someone who can help you.”

  Hmmm. I don’t really like the idea of going on the radio or on the internet, especially not in my dangerous state of mind. It’s one thing to embarrass yourself in front of a few people. But loads of internet viewers and radio audiences? That’s quite another.

  “I'm not sure there are any other options,” Meg shrugs. “Brian really is nowhere to be found. Olly may be peeved at you right now. But there is no way he’ll call off the wedding. You know that. And when you get to the church, you need to be able to take your vows with a completely clear head. You can’t do that under mind control.”

  “Oh yes. Vows are very important,” Mrs Grimes nods, glancing at Meg with approval.

  “And worse,” Meg continues. “What if the vicar asks you a question and you do the truth-telling bit and say something you regret?”

  “I won’t,” I answer at once.

  “But you said to me that sometimes you don’t even know what you think until it comes out of your mouth. The vicar might say ‘do you promise to love him in sickness and in health’ and you might say something daft, like ‘only in health, he’s a real pain in the arse when he’s got man flu’.”

  It’s supposed to be funny, but I don’t laugh. Because as silly as it sounds, saying something like that is a very real possibility. Olly is horrible when he has man flu. Grumpy and groaning and shuffling from room to room, bumping into furniture. I could very well say that. It would ruin the entire day and our wedding memories would be forever tarnished.

  “Okay,” I say, knowing that I have little or no alternatives. “I’ll do it.”

  A little cheer goes up around the table.

  “Good girl,” Barney rubs his hands together. “The public will love it.”

  What have I let myself in for?

  Staying away from Riley is about as easy as threading a needle in boxing gloves. Especially since I agreed to let him bend my ear about his plans for serving food at The Old Whimsy.

  While Meg is trekking through the snow to Hobbs Manor to do pop star stuff, and Dionne is talking Honey (I can only hope) half to death in the pub, Riley and I are sitting in the kitchen of dreams with a bottle of Barolo, a stack of battered looking cookbooks, his mum’s recipe notes and the scent of the beef stroganoff Riley prepared earlier wafting out from the oven and under our noses.

  “And the thing is,” Riley is saying. “Your ratatouille made me realise that I was thinking in completely the wrong way. Yorkshire is stuffed full of poncy gastro pubs, foams and jus’ and quenelles of everything under the sun. But it’s also stuffed full of pubs that serve basic home cooked pub grub. No taste and no flair. I was thinking I’d like The Old Whimsy to be somewhere in the middle.”

  I take a sip of my wine and try not to think about how delicious he’s looking today. That white t-shirt clings to his torso and arms. Revealing - not a sculpted body like Olly’s - but a strong, natural muscle definition. His deep silver slate eyes are glowing with excitement at his plans.

  “…So somewhere in the middle. But a bit different, if you know what I mean. What do you think?”

  He eyes me hopefully.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” I say at once. “Home cooked food with an indulgent twist.”

  “Yes! The dishes people have grown up with, but taken to a new level. A bit more sophisticated.”

  “I like it.”

  “Really?” he asks grinning madly.

  “I do. But… are you sure you can take that on? I mean, it’s hard enough to get basic dishes right. Putting a twist on them takes training.”

  His smile falters. “I was worried you might say that.”

  Well, he did ask the question.

  “I have been practising. Ever since I saw people’s reaction to that ratatouille, I’ve been practising new dishes every day, you know.”

  He gets up from the table and, putting on some flowery oven gloves, takes the stroganoff out of the oven. He sets it down in front of me and hands
me a fork.

  “What do you think?”

  I pull a face, not happy at his blatant questioning.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll stop with the questions. I’d like to know what you think. No questions. I promise.”

  I take a forkful of stroganoff, blowing gently first to cool it down.

  I chew and taste, examining the flavours on my tongue. Hmmm. It’s meh. What a shame! I was so hoping it would knock my woolly socks off.

  “The mushroom sauce is fine, though it could stand to be a tad creamier,” I say carefully. “And the beef is a little bit sinewy… I can’t taste any gherkins.”

  “Gherkins?” he looks horrified.

  “Yes! You must have gherkin in Stroganoff. It’s a definite improvement, though. You know, on the pig’s trotters.”

  “But it’s still not amazing.”

  He doesn’t say it as a question, so I don’t have to answer. But looking at his face, disappointed after he’s been trying so hard, I speak without thinking, and it’s nothing to do with the hypnotism.

  “Let me help you. I want to help.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah really. I don’t know how long I’ll be here for but your Uncle Alan says it will be at least three days before we can leave. It’s not like I have anything else to do and I wouldn’t mind the distraction… so I’ll teach you.”

  “In three days?”

  “Sure. I can teach you a few of the recipes you want on the menu. It would be intense, but it’s possible.”

  “I can do intense,” he says widening his eyes into a silly intense stare.

  My heart flips.

  “At least you’ll have a good basis to be getting on with.”

  “Thank you, Natalie,” he says sincerely. “But… I’m afraid we can’t afford to pay you. Except in beer. I could probably pay you in beer. Or bread.”

  I nod slowly, thinking. “All right. I’ll do you a deal.”

  “Go on?”

  “I’ll teach you six dishes in three days. And in return, you let Meg, Dionne and I stay here for free.”

  “Done,” he says at once.

  He holds out his hand for me to shake. I think about last time we held hands when I cut my finger. Not a good idea.

  I grab onto my wine glass with both hands and grin stupidly.

  “Done.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Email From: alisonbutterworth

  To: nattyb

  Subject: Re: CHATTERLEY WEDDING CHECKLIST

  Natalie,

  You’ve buggered off again. I wish you would let me know when to expect you. It’s like living with a fifteen year old.

  Dionne texted me to say that you were stuck in Yorkshire. How the bloody hell did that happen? I tried to ring you but for some reason I cannot get through.

  Anyway, I just wanted to say that everything is on track for Christmas Eve.

  I’ve thought long and hard about what you said. I’m afraid it’s too late to change everything about the wedding now. You should have said something earlier - not blurted it out like that, last week. It’s your own fault.

  I’m sure on the big day you will only notice Olly and not the decor which you might not like. If you don’t, then tough. You’ll just have to deal with it because I cannot face any more stress.

  I have picked up your Tiara, and your shoes have arrived. They are lovely, but you’ll probably whinge about them too. There is just no pleasing some people.

  All that is left to do is for you to choose a DJ as Mickey McCann who I had booked has been sent down for burglary.

  I must go now as I am busy with the girls. We are playing bridge tonight, so lots to do.

  From,

  Your Mum.

  I have never been so cold in my life. Seriously. Brrrr.

  I’m trudging over to the Braithwaites’ house, and while it’s supposed to be only a five minute walk, snow fall up to my knees and a whining Dionne are doubling the time it takes to reach their house on the other side of the green.

  It’s 6 PM and the village, though mega cold, is looking spectacular. Since I was last here a mammoth Christmas tree has been erected in the centre of the green. It sparkles with crystal clear fairy lights that reflect gorgeously off the frozen pond that lies to its left. Most of the huge houses are now decked out with lights and decorations in time for Christmas. Actually, decked out is an understatement. Each stone house is festooned with holly wreaths and nativity scenes and lights in every shape size and colour. It’s truly magical.

  Although it’s a Friday evening, the hazardous weather means that most of the locals are tucked safely away, inside their houses or the pub. Warm and snug.

  I’m beginning to think that that’s exactly where I should be, rather than out here, in a pair of borrowed wellies that are two sizes too big and a little sister who doesn’t know when to shut up.

  “My Uggs!” Dionne is squealing. “My poor, poor Uggs. Ruined, they are. Do you know how expensive Uggs are? I’m so sorry, darling Uggs.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say stomping through the snow. “I appreciate you coming but you didn’t have to, you know. I’d have been all right on my own.”

  Dionne pulls her scarf a little more snugly around her neck.

  “I had to come. I can’t have you going to some old stranger’s house on your own.”

  “It’s Barney Braithwaite, Dionne!” I scold. “He’s got a wife. And probably loads of grandkids. And he used to work for BBC Radio Two.”

  Dionne snorts. “Well, I can be your agent then. I don’t want them taking advantage of you on the internet and radio. And it’s not like Meg is here to help, is it?”

  “No,” I shrug. “It’s not.”

  I haven’t seen Meg since this morning. She’s been living it up at Hobbs Manor all day. Lord knows what she’s been doing all that time. I mean, how long does it take to ‘lay down backing vocals’?

  Do you know what? I bet she’s shagging Jasper Hobbs. He is her idea of a perfect man, after all. Rich and typically handsome and with a recording studio in his massive house.

  I make a note to myself to tell her what Riley told me when she gets back. Not that I want to put a dampener on things if she is embarking on a brand new relationship. But I’m her friend. I should tell her everything I know. And what I know is that Jasper Hobbs doesn’t sound like a particularly nice person.

  We reach the Braithwaites’ house, a beautiful chocolate box cottage with twinkling star-shaped Christmas lights in every window.

  I haven’t even a chance to reach out to the gorgeous old-fashioned pewter knocker because the door is pulled open and Morag Braithwaite is standing there, red cheeked and very happy to see us.

  “Come in, come in, ducks!” she says warmly, waving us through to the living room. “What a darling dog!” She reaches into Dionne’s handbag and gives Jean-Paul Gaultier a friendly ruffle. He eagerly licks her hand in a return greeting.

  “Hi,” I say, noticing that she appears to have done her hair differently. The curls are a little neater and it looks like it’s been blasted with so much hairspray that five hundred high powered wind machines would struggle to shift it.

  The Braithwaites’ living room is warm and cosy, full of low beams, rich colours and nooks and crannies. Christmas cards are propped up on every available surface. Brass ornaments hang off the walls and there is the most wonderful smell of cinnamon in the air.

  “Take off your shoes, lovies. I’ll put them in the airing cupboard. See if we can’t get them dry.”

  Dionne and I do as she says. I check my socks. Phew, no holes.

  “I hope you like apple pie? It’s my speciality.”

  “Mmmm, I love apple pie!” I say, beaming at such hospitality.

  “Do you have vanilla ice-cream?” Dionne asks. “I like my apple pie with vanilla ice cream.”

  “Oooh yes!” Morag clasps her hands together. “Of course, petal. Whatever you like. Oh this is exciting. It’s been a while since we’ve had any y
oung’uns up here!”

  Dionne and I take a seat on the plump, pale blue sofa, while Morag bustles about pouring tea and slicing up apple pie.

  “Barney is just upstairs in our media room. Getting things ready for you.”

  Dionne sniggers at the very thought of their being anything as high-tech as a media room in this house.

  As soon as Morag goes to the kitchen to fetch the ice cream she’s forgotten to bring in, Dionne leans over toward me and whispers,

  “Did she say media room?”

  “Yes.”

  “I bet it’s, like, a tape deck and a Commodore Sixty Four. Ha, or a gramophone!”

  “Shhh!” I hiss as Morag returns with the ice cream.

  “There you go!” she says cheerfully, spooning some out into Dionne’s dish. “Enjoy!”

  We tuck in. Oh yum. This is amongst the most delicious things I’ve ever had in my mouth.

  “It’s scrumptious!” I say, mouth still full.

  “Mmmhmm,” Dionne chimes in, looking even more pleased than me.

  “Oh, it’s an old family recipe,” says Morag, flushed with pleasure. She drops her voice. “A dash of whisky in the apple sauce!”

  I nod with approval. Whisky!

  “Morag, dear! Send them up please!”

  It’s Barney, his voice coming from somewhere upstairs.

  “He’s ready!” Morag says. “Eat up now and I’ll show you girls to our media room.”

  Dionne and I scoff the remainder of our pie and follow Morag up some creaky stairs. Tons of photographs are hung up neatly above the banister. At each step Morag explains who the picture is of.

  “And that’s our granddaughter Amelia, with Barney, of course. Amelia lives in London. She's very clever. A big wig in a bank.”

  Next step.

  “And this here is our old cat, Paws. She passed three years ago.”

  Next step.

  “Here we are at our holiday apartment in Paris. We don't get to go as often as we'd like. Barney's always so busy.”

  “And this is Barney with the editor of the Daily World. He used to work there!”

  “Morag!” Comes Barneys voice. “Are you showing them those bloody photographs? Let them get up the stairs for chuff’s sake!”