Yours Truly Page 25

  I've had enough of this. I don't need it anymore; I don't have to put up with it.

  I stand up and taking Dionne firmly by the hand march her out of my room, slamming the door behind her.

  “I'm staying in my room and I'm not coming out. Please leave me alone. I do not wish to talk to you.”

  I hear her cry with protest. I don't care.

  I manage to lock myself in my room for a grand total of one hour and thirty minutes before getting claustrophobic and making a bid for freedom. Not that I've ever had a problem with claustrophobia before, but pretty much as soon as I announced to Dionne that I planned to lock myself in my room, I wanted to be anywhere other than my room.

  Also, I'm hungry.

  I make my way down to the kitchen, head down, eyes to the floor. I cross through the pub where there appears to be another meeting going on about the state of the snow. I decide that I definitely do not want to talk to any of the locals right now and try my best to sneak around the back of the crowd to the kitchen, when somebody grips my arm very firmly. It's Morag Braithwaite.

  “What are you doing?” I grump as she pulls me out of the main pub and into the corridor.

  “We've done it, Natalie. Your tape has gone viral. Yorkshire Tonight has contacted us and wants to do an interview with you. Over the phone or webcam, obviously, there's not a cat in hell's chance they're getting here in the snow, but still, they'll put it on the telly, proper and we'll -”

  “Have they found Brian?” I interrupt, my heart leaping.

  “Um. No.”

  “Has anyone found Brian? Was there any point at all to the Media Splash?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, no one has found him. Not yet. But once Yorkshire Tonight is involved, they'll be sure to come up with a lead. Everyone watches Yorkshire Tonight.”

  “Sorry,” I say, shaking her off. “Not interested. I'm not making that mistake again.”

  I turn on my heel and stalk off. The cheek!

  I get to the kitchen to see Riley dashing from worktop to table to cupboards and back again. The smells emanating from the stove are surprisingly delicious. Not that I care. I'm just here to grab myself a quick something to eat before I leave again.

  “You're here!” he says brightly as I enter the room. “I didn't see you for the rest of last night. Figured you'd gone straight to sleep.” He raises an eyebrow. “You certainly tired me out...”

  Why is he acting so normal? Like he's not cheated on his girlfriend? Like he didn't use me? What an arrogant prick.

  I'm about to tell him this when he asks me a question and I'm forced to answer. It's getting really old now.

  “Here, tell me what you think of this?”

  He's proffering a small dish with a slice of tart on it. Oh no. Another tart.

  I take the fork he's holding out and grumpily taste the mouthful of the food resting upon it.

  Oh.

  Oh!

  Plum tart. With... aniseed? Yes Aniseed.

  Yum.

  And double cream ice cream.

  Very yum.

  “Delicious,” I declare as soon as I've swallowed. “I'm impressed.”

  I hate the fact that the truth-telling means saying something nice to him. I fold my arms and scowl.

  He doesn't seem to notice. Just smiles madly and runs his massive hand over his eyes.

  “I've had about two hours sleep!”

  Oh God. He's not going to tell me that Honey kept him up all night is he? Would he really be so cruel?

  “After you and I... you know. I was inspired. I tried getting to sleep but my mind began to come up with all of these recipes. I got up and made them. Of course I got a little help from my mother's cookbooks, but the twists and turns, they're all my work! It was fun! I’m going to send a few of the final choices out into the pub this evening, see what the reaction is. We can do this! I'm not great, obviously not as good as you, but I think with the stuff you taught me too, we really have a fighting chance.”

  I get a flashback to the look of pity on Honey's face as she told me that Riley was only looking for a gullible chef to make him some money. I look at him. He lied to me. Olly would never lie to me.

  “There is no we, Riley.”

  “Natalie?” he half laughs, unsure if I'm joking.

  “There never was a we. I have a boyfriend. A fiancé. Someone who loves and respects me. I want to go home and make it work with him. I don't want to be drawn into something that isn't real. Something that won't last.”

  I hug him quickly, tears blurring my eyes. And then before he can ask any questions and I end up blurting out my discovery about Alfred Hobbs and his mother, I dash out and leave him behind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Email From: stone_chutneys

  To: nattyb

  Subject: Drugs or no drugs?

  Where are you, kid? The news people told me you were not in a detox unit but stuck in a village in Yorkshire. I didn’t believe them. I didn’t believe you would lie to me, after I rooted for you. I rooted for you so hard.

  I broke into the rehab centre and looked in every room for you. The police tackled me and locked me in a cell. Marie had to post bail. Needless to say you were not in the rehab centre.. I found out that you were never there. I soon realised that you are not on drugs at all.

  I have spoken to Marie about this and she thinks that I should fire you. I am in love with Marie so this means that I mostly have to do what she says.

  I have posted the stuff from your locker to your home address, innit.

  Best of luck with everything, kidda.

  Stone.

  The snow might be starting to ease off, but what has already fallen is frozen solid making it difficult to go anywhere that isn't in this damn village.

  At a loss for where else I might find some peace and quiet, a place to feel sorry for myself, I find myself sneaking into The Old Whimsy's greenhouse.

  I plonk myself down beside a large crate of potatoes and think.

  I need to get out of the pub. I can't stay here anymore. Not with Riley and Honey going on right in front of me. Not that I have any real feelings for him beyond lust. Obviously. But still. It's awkward. And as vile as she is, it's hardly fair on Honey.

  But where else would I go? Everyone else is already bunking up with one another in order to make village supplies last until this volatile weather settles. I can't go to the Hobbs’. Not now I know such sensitive information about Alfred and Hobbs and Riley and Jasper. That combined with the truth-telling would be an unmitigated disaster!

  I pull a potato sack from the wooden stack shelving to the right of me and bundle it up. I put it under my head, using it as a makeshift pillow. It scratches. I take off my cardigan and use it as a blanket. It only covers my belly.

  Well. This is shit.

  What the hell happened to my existence? It's three days before Christmas and instead of singing carols and baking mince pies and preparing for the wedding I've dreamed of all my life, I'm locking myself in a greenhouse that isn't even mine, with only a muddy sack for comfort.

  I want to go home.

  “Bloody Nora, you gave me the fright of me life!”

  I wake up with a painful crick in my neck. I'm still tucked away beside the potato crate. I must have dozed off. I rub my bleary eyes and see Uncle Alan looming large over me, a basket of overflowing herbs in each of his hands.

  “You're a popular one, you are. The entire bloody village has been in the pub looking for you. I've not had a moment of peace. ‘Where's Natalie?’ ‘Have you seen Natalie?’”

  “I’m sorry.” I stand up and brush down my now dirty trousers.

  “Oh, I don't mind, love. Not at all. Seems to me a lot of people want a little piece of you at the moment. You're welcome to hide out in here any time you like.”

  “Thanks.” I grin sheepishly. “What are you doing?” I nod at the basket in his arms. “Are you cooking? Would you like some help?”

  “Oh this. No, love. I can't coo
k for toffee. I'm making my cosmetics.”

  I look at him blankly. The very picture of this burly, red faced man in his wellingtons and the word 'cosmetics' at odds with each other.

  “The shampoo, love,” he says in response to my befuddled expression. “The one you've been using to wash your hair since you got here. Don't think I don't know you've been using it all. I can smell my shampoos anywhere.”

  “The shampoo is yours?” I laugh. “You made it?” Of course. Mr Harrington's Shampoo. Alan Harrington.

  Duh. That should have been more obvious.

  “Aye. It's mine. Just a hobby. For our B&B guests.”

  “It's wonderful stuff! You should sell it!”

  “Oh no, love. I don't know if anyone would buy it. It's just a bit of fun.”

  I can't believe him!

  “You should. It's really wonderful. Apart from the terrible cut my hair has never been in better condition. And the smells! The smells are amazing.”

  Alan's eyes twinkle with pleasure.

  “Do you really think people would buy it?”

  “Yes!” I cry. “And you know for a fact that I can only tell the truth. I'm not just being polite.”

  Alan chuckles and looks down into the basket of herbs.

  “Aye. Aye. Maybe I'll look into that. A proper business, like.”

  “Mr Harrington's shampoo made from scratch!”

  We hug and Alan marches off to his shed, a spring and a new sense of purpose in his step.

  I stretch and peer around at the colourful greenhouse. You know, if all this crap wasn't going on, Little Trooley wouldn't be a bad place to live at all. But for now, it's time to face the music.

  The pub is even busier than it was this morning. People are grouped around the little tables, wrapped up against the cold in colourful woolly hats and gloves. Christmas Classics provide a festive soundtrack and the lights from The Old Whimsy's Christmas tree twinkle jauntily in time with the music. The festivities only serve to make me feel even sadder about my situation. Things are so rubbish that I can't even get excited about Christmas, my most favourite holiday.

  I don't get chance to order myself a drink and a packet of cheese and onion crisps before I'm hounded. It's Morag Braithwaite again and this time Barney is with her.

  Why won't they just leave me alone?

  “Hiya, love. It's me again,” says Morag.

  “I know. I can see you.”

  She looks taken aback by my abruptness. It even surprises me how forthright I've become this past couple of weeks.

  “I thought we could have another chat about Yorkshire Tonight. You see -”

  “I'm not interested, Morag. I'm sorry to disappoint you but I'm having a rubbish day and really could do without anything making it worse.”

  She nods understandably and casts a glance at Barney who is lumbering shiftily in the background.

  “Come on, love,” she says to him. “Let's leave the poor lass alone.”

  I smile at her gratefully.

  Then it occurs to me. I said no. She didn't ask me a question and I was still able to say no. And it was okay. No one died. This is progress.

  “You take care,” I say, turning back to the bar to get served, a small smile of victory on my face.

  But I still don't get to order my drink because all of a sudden, Barney takes a fancy looking flip video camera out of his back pocket and holds it up in right front of my face.

  Oh my Gosh. He's filming me?

  “Stop that!” I scold, waving away the camera.

  “Stop what?” Barney asks, his eyes glinting.

  “Um. Stop filming me!”

  This is weird. I get a glimpse into what life must be like for Lady Gaga or Jedward, constantly hounded by the paparazzi. It's very uncomfortable. I shudder and shoo Barney away.

  “You're being silly, Natalie,” he urges. “Yorkshire Tonight is the big time. You could be a star. You only need answer a couple of questions. Just a couple.”

  “That's what you said the last time!” I admonish. “Anyway, why are you so bothered?”

  “I'm trying to help you, love.” He looks wistful for a moment. “Of course I won't deny that it would be nice to have one of my stories in the national press once more. I used to work at BBC Radio 2 you know? I was friends with Phil Collins!”

  “Yes. You said.”

  “I was a real somebody. Everyone who was anyone in radio knew my name...”

  His eyes are glassy with the ghosts of unfulfilled dreams. Morag shakes her head and looks at me with an apologetic expression, but Barney shrugs her off and forces the camera nearer to my face. He advances towards me, asking questions, licking his lips at the very thought of snaring his juicy story.

  “What are you most afraid -”

  “Shut up!”

  “What are you most afraid of Natalie?”

  The urge ripples through me and before I can get away from him I have to answer.

  “A small life. Never being excited again, always knowing what is going to happen next” I squeak.

  How embarrassing.

  Is that really what I'm most afraid of? I thought it would be poisonous snakes or Simon Cowell’s hairy hands.

  Before he can ask me another question, I spin on my heel and frantically push through the busy crowds so that I can get away.

  But I don't get to walk the distance of the bar before once again I'm stopped in my tracks.

  This time it's Jasper Hobbs. And he looks so angry that I can practically see the steam shooting out from his ears.

  Oh Boy.

  I should have thought this through. I should have stayed in that bloody greenhouse until the snow melted. It would have been fine there. A bed made of vegetable sacks and enough food to sustain me through the cold snap. A huge skylight just like I've always wanted in my dream house...

  “Thief,” Jasper hisses at me, snapping me out of my ill-timed dream house fantasising. He grabs my hand and pulls me into a secluded corner of the pub behind the chubby Christmas tree.

  I should say something to him. But I don't know what to say. He's right. I am a thief. I have no excuse. There is never an excuse for thievery.

  “Give me back those papers at once. Give them back to me and... I won't press charges.”

  Jesus. They really are that important to him.

  “No,” I say firmly, surprising myself.

  God. Why am I getting involved in this? It's none of my business. I don't even know why I'm saying no.

  “No?” Jasper repeats incredulously. “NO?!”

  “No,” I say again. “NO!” I shout.

  We sound like a couple of parents telling off a wayward toddler.

  “You have to tell him,” I say, my face going pink with embarrassment at the fact that I am even having to take part in this conversation. “What you are hiding is... fraud!”

  I lift my chin up. Looking at his oily hair and fake tan I feel a wave of repulsion. What the hell does Meg see in him? The mean, sly look on his face helps me to make a real decision about what I'm going to do with the information I am now privy to.

  “He deserves to know,” I say with a confidence I don't feel. “I have to tell Riley, not because of the money, but because he deserves to know who his father is!”

  Jasper grabs my arm and pinches.

  “You have no fucking clue what you are getting involved in.” He bares his perfectly capped teeth.

  I prise his hand away from me. He really is a nasty piece of work.

  I don't know why I even doubted telling Riley about the papers. It may be none of my business, it might mean that his mum lied to him, but she obviously had good reason. He might be hurt, but he deserves to know that his father is alive and living less than ten minutes away. Also, he's rich. He should know how rich he is.

  “I'm telling him!”

  I dart out from behind the Christmas tree towards my room. I need to get the papers before Jasper. God knows what he'll do. He'll probably burn them. Light a
fire and chuck me on too. I half walk half jog as he follows me, hissing curse words underneath his breath but not so loud as to draw any attention to us.

  “Ow!” I yell suddenly as someone stamps on my toe.

  Jesus Christ.

  I turn around and intend to give the clumsy oaf a very disapproving look before continuing the dash to my room. But I halt when I catch a glimpse of the toe stamper.

  It's Meg. And she's, whaaaat? She's snogging someone up against the jukebox.

  Huh? But Jasper...?

  I huff out loud and tap her on the shoulder.

  She glances backwards and beams at me, as if Jasper is not standing right here, watching her kiss - oh man - Robbie?!

  “What's wrong with you?” she says taking in my expression of horror and confusion. “You've got a face like a slapped arse.”

  “I'm so confuuuuuused!” I say, helpless as my mouth does all the work.

  “Natty?”

  She eyes me like I'm crazy. Maybe I am. Maybe the hypnotism has finally addled my brain and turned it into mush.

  “You're kissing Robbie,” I say in a puzzled voice, “but only last night I saw you having sex with Jasper!”

  “What?” Jasper seethes, as if he can't quite get over how much he hates me for spilling all of his secrets.

  “What?” Meg laughs, squinting at me like I'm mental.

  “What?” Robbie frowns, backing away from Meg.

  “What?!” spits Honey who seems to have appeared from thin air.

  Where did she come from? That woman is so creepy.

  And - oooooooh - also wearing a green dress.

  A green dress exactly the same as Meg's green dress... And then it kind of falls into place. It wasn't Meg in bed with Jasper. It was Honey. I KNEW there was something off about her! She’s sleeping with all of them!

  It seems that I'm the only one who has figured out what the hell is going on because what happens next is an almighty brawl.