by Cole, Tillie
Eternally North
By
Tillie Cole
Copyright © 2013 Tillie Cole
All rights reserved.
Cover © 2013 Tillie Cole
All rights reserved.
Cover Design by Ed Williamson Artwork
Edited by Rachel Weallans and Kia Thomas
eBook Edition
No Part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.
The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
Dedication
For my Father-In-Law, Jim.
Taken too soon and will be forever missed.
I hope you got your gin and tonic in Heaven!
And to all those taken by, living with,
or who are survivors of cancer – you are my inspiration.
Mam and Dad, this means you!
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgments
Playlist
Biography
Chapter 1
Out with the old…
Let’s start with an introduction.
The name’s Munro, Natasha Munro – sorry I`ve always wanted to say that!
I’m a twenty-eight-year-old high school teacher from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in England – well, a farm just on the outskirts of town – and I’d class myself as fun with a bubbly personality, and before you ask, no – that’s not code for me being ugly, but heck, I ain’t no Cindy Crawford either! But I am fab-u-lous and totally know how to work it!
“What do you look like then?” I hear you ask.
Well, where do I begin?
I have long, dark brown hair that hangs to the middle of my back, large brown eyes and light olive skin; I’m happy with my colouring. I have a small, straight nose with average-sized lips, a beauty spot under my left eye and dimples which I find excellent at getting me out of trouble!
I am not fat by any means, but I am not skinny or slender either – I like to think I'm a whole lot of va-va-voom tied up in a Coke-shaped bottle.
I'm five foot five: you know, average. My chest is... ample and – oh hell, who am I kidding? – my hips are in that category too, but my waist is small and pinches me in in all the right places.
Like many women, my main area of trouble is my stomach – my bloody ever-so-slightly curved stomach – but I cope well enough and get a little help from my daily double-wearing of Spanx to fix this little problem – that ensures I can continue to chow down on my daily doses of French pastries and Cadbury’s chocolate without too much guilt.
I bet I know what you’re thinking – where the heck is this little tale going and why is her story different from any other? What happened in her life to make her stand out?
The truth is that what happened to me could happen to anyone. I’m telling you this story as sometimes truly extraordinary things can happen to ordinary people, and sometimes it’s good to be reminded of that. My best friend once joked that my life would make a good book and so, here it is: my life laid out for your enjoyment.
Before we start, you need to know that this story isn’t anything paranormal or so beyond the realms of reality that it’s incomprehensible. There are no wizards or sparkly vampires that will appear and sweep me off my feet. There are no hobbits or elves that will request I sacrifice my life for the sake of all mankind, and I hope I’m not one of these annoyingly weak supposed-heroines who set the feminist movement back a few decades with the ridiculous choices they make.
Instead, this is the whistle-stop memoir of how a lower-middle-class girl from the north of England one day changed the way she lived her life and set off on a bumpy path that ultimately led her to her own slice of the happily-ever-after pie.
So folks, grab yourself a bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine (I would suggest you make it a large one) and when you´re sitting comfortably, I´ll begin.
"Well, slap my arse and call me Sally!"
The scene is set: groaning, moaning, the reverse cowboy and a rip-roaring orgasmic scream – and me, turning on the light to my supposedly devoted boyfriend going rodeo with his waif of a secretary in front of my very wide and disbelieving eyes.
What a frickin' welcome home this was turning out to be!
If someone had tried to tell me what I would find on the inside of my front door that evening, I would never have believed them. However, taking in the image that has since been ingrained in my long-term memory left me in no doubt about the reality I was facing.
With a whip of his head in my direction, Nathan, my lovely but somewhat currently compromised boyfriend, turned a vibrant shade of scarlet and said in a flustered yet surprisingly laid-back manner.
"Hunny Bun, you’re back early… erm... this is awkward… it… shit… it just…well happened…we were wet… mmm… from the rain and… well… we needed to dry off and things just kind of snowballed into... into…this..." he drawled on without apology while pointing down at their conjoined bodies.
Like I hadn't already noticed that his chipolata of a penis was lodged in a vice between his secretary’s legs. My eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. Was he for real? What a total and utter wanker!
Nathan straightened, pulling his living, breathing blow-up doll with him, never severing their connection, and held out a placating hand towards my furious stare.
"Sweetie, listen, I love you, and now you’re here, well, I’ve kind of had this fantasy… so, ah, why don't you come here and, you know, join in? Triple the people, triple the fun!"
I don't know what bothered me more: the ménage a trios invitation or the fact that Little Miss Twig had continued slowly grinding on my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s dick like a Black and Decker drill bit whilst he explained to his, shall we say, less-than-impressed current girlfriend exactly why he was making the beast with two backs with his employee. God only knows how I mustered up the Thor-like strength to restrain myself from launching forward and fly-kicking him, then smacking the waif directly in the porn-film smile that was plastered on her overly plumped-up lips!
"Gee, Hunny Bun, that sounds tremendously tempting, but I think I’ll pass. In fact, I'll tell you what,” I said in the overly-patronising voice normally saved for only the stupidest of kids that I teach, my index finger firmly in the air to exaggerate my point. �
�I’ll just grab my things and get out of your hair and then never see you again... as long as I live... how does that sound?"
I didn’t stay to hear the response and quickly ran into the bedroom, away from the carnal sculptures currently making arse-shaped indents on my prized Italian leather L-shaped sofa.
I bee-lined straight to the sliding wardrobe and drawers and proceeded to pack my largest suitcase as fast as humanly possible.
What a prick!
With every hammock-sized bra and frilly pair of socks I pushed into my leopard print suitcase, I became more and more infuriated. The sheer audacity of him – and her! Did she not realise the impact of her little romp? Sheesh, mental overload: my so-called knight in shining armour, the future father to my kids, was apparently a closet Hugh Hefner.
Fighting the urge to commit cold-blooded murder, I lugged my bulging suitcase in the direction of the front room, getting myself ready for my whore of a boyfriend to begin the begging and pleading for forgiveness by planning witty and dry-humoured comebacks that would make him feel as bad as I did right then.
You would think that’s what would happen next, right? That he'd grovel, tell me it was a mistake, that he loved me and that his fling meant nothing?
Not in this story, folks!
I opened the door to the front room, my anger spilling over, and ready to demand, well, something – any form of apology, some explanation, a reason, just anything! But, there he was, my sad fucking version of Ron Jeremy still pumping into that over-processed Barbie in the budget rendition of Debbie Does Dallas.
Did I not even exist? As if he was still doofing the blonde, carrying on regardless after the love of his life had just caught him in the middle of vaccinating another gal with his meat injection!
Lord have mercy! Who and what have I been with for the last three years?
Like a curtain signalling the end of a performance, a red mist descended over me, and the inner queen bitch I had nurtured and relied on all these years reared her fabulous, if not slightly psychotic, head and screamed,
"You are such a dickhead, Nathan! Are you seriously going to continue boning her while I’m here, while I’m packing to leave you?"
He was. That was evident by the fact that he was still wheezing profusely and struggling to hold her legs-a-kimbo at the perfect angle in the air. Nathan had terrible asthma and any over-exertion caused him to sound like a kettle brought to the boil.
"Mmm… aww,” wheeze, “… baby… aww… shit,” wheeze, “… yeah… there… slap me hard, that’s it! Like that...” wheeeeeeze…
What? Slap me? That’s new!
Nathan then proceeded to flip the twig into a wheelbarrow position and resume the vigorous pummelling, avoiding any eye contact with me standing frozen in his line of sight.
"Arghhh, you know what, Nathan?" I bellowed over the grunts. "You, are a waste of time; you are selfish, arrogant and for the record –” I swiftly turned to Miss Humps-A-Lot, " – not that good in the sack, so knock off the fake orgasms, Blondie. His dick's way too small to deserve those kinds of noises!” With a cough and splutter, Shade Platinum Blonde 01 kindly turned down the pipes.
In hindsight, it was probably not the most productive thing to have done, but I had a sudden urge to turn to my massively unfaithful boyfriend and ask, "Nathan, out of curiosity, why did you never use the Kama Sutra moves on me?"
He looked me dead in the eye and replied with a cold smile. "That's easy, Hunny Bun. Elephants don't manoeuvre too well."
Well, on that note...
After taking the dignified high road of flipping the middle finger at the protagonists of the blue movie currently being enacted in my, no, my former living room, I made my way out into the cold, dark street, dragging my suitcase with me. I crammed it into my little banger of a car and decided on a walk. I needed to clear my head, bloody hell, not just clear it, I think only a good old lobotomy or an extensive course of ECT would be the only thing that could erase the last thirty minutes from my frazzled brain.
I set off wobbling down the road in my work-appropriate moderately high heels and laughed at the fact that the contents of my life were currently all stuffed into a rusty Nissan Micra.
How could this be happening to me? It was all going so well and to plan: move to the city – granted it’s only Newcastle-Upon-Tyne and ten minutes from home, but it was what I'd always wanted. I planned to get a good job, make good money and enjoy my well-structured, traditional, normal life. There was not a part of the plan that involved my less-than-monogamous boyfriend power-driving a stick insect!
Could this day get any worse???
It had all begun with being late for work: another jumper off the Tyne Bridge had caused a huge tailback. Then I walked into school and boom – parental attack! I received a bollocking from a student’s mother for supposedly introducing her child to the 'Dark Arts'. Yep, the Dark Arts. After setting a book report on a Young Adult thriller novel (that was written specifically for use in schools, may I add), the horror-filled face of Mrs. Reilly blindsided me as I made my way into my classroom.
Apparently fictional vampires and wizards taint the sanctity of blood, encourage magic and give children impure thoughts that could result in evil behaviour. Naughty Ms. Munro, swaying the youth of today to the dark side with child-friendly and demographically-appropriate English literature. Just call me the modern day Darth-friggin’-Vader of the English private school system!
Then the day had concluded in spectacular fashion with Nathan having his unfaithful fun on my much-loved sofa; the one saving grace was that we had at least paid for the Safeguard coating and the love-fluids currently being spilled on the chocolate-brown upholstery could be easily wiped away.
Every cloud...
I bowed my head and let the sorrow wash over me. I had never been one to wallow in self-pity, but given the day’s events and finding out that my ex was a closet exhibitionist who couldn't stop nailing his tramp for two minutes to kindly explain what the fuck was happening to our relationship – I mean that’s unheard of, surely? – I was going to allow myself a short reprieve and have a pity party for one!
So with a sombre gait, I meandered down Northumberland Street and the many dark and dingy roads of central Newcastle, trying to come to terms with the fact that my life had just been flipped on its head.
After ten minutes of aimless wandering, I tilted my head and smiled in confusion at where I had ended up. The cinema. My mother would bring me here every Saturday growing up to see the current 'picture show', as the oldies called it.
I walked to the grandly decorated foyer and looked at the walls plastered with posters of current films and all their stars. I moved from poster to poster and studied the actors and imagined their lives. I bet they didn’t have a care in the world. They had it all – fame, fortune and the job of their dreams.
Lucky bastards.
What did I want to be? What were my dreams? It was so long ago since I’d thought about that sort of thing, I couldn’t actually remember – how sad is that?
I walked back outside and tipped my head to the sky. Then, like a crazy person, spread my arms and began to sob, begging the gods for a sign of what to do next, where to take my life.
I waited in silence, the only sound coming from my heavy breathing. Nothing. No shooting star or flash of divine intervention, just the sound of a bottle being smashed in the rowdy pub across the street.
With a huff of a laugh at my desperate cry for a mystic solution, I took one last look at the theatre and flinched as a light bulb on one of the poster frames popped, almost in my face. Even slightly less illuminated, I could see that the man on the poster was perfect – muscles, tattoos, brooding expression and pure gorgeousness. I bet right at that moment he was living in a million-dollar mansion somewhere, making love to some Amazonian goddess, not a care in the world.
Some people have all the luck.
As I headed back to my car, I tried to figure out what to do next. I passed my favourit
e bookstore and smiled at the window display – Jane Austen month, my idol. I took in the famous titles spread on luxurious red velvet, the most popular perched high on pedestals: Persuasion, Emma, Mansfield Park and of course Pride and Prejudice. The books that keep most women warm in bed but ruin our lives when we realise that real Mr Darcys do not come and save us from a life of loneliness after swimming through a lake.
Just as I was about to turn away, my breath caught in my throat as my wandering gaze fell on a small piece of paper showing a quote by the lady herself, tucked next to Sense and Sensibility.
"Why not seize the pleasure at once, how often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparations?" Jane Austen
Was this my sign? Was this the sign that I had asked for? Was Ms. Austen sending me a message from the grave that the anecdote to my current fucked up situation was to seize the day? Or was I going completely nuts? I knew it was likely to be the latter, but who isn’t just a tad off-kilter? So hell, I went with it!
I grabbed my handbag, which I’d dropped to the floor during my impromptu séance, and tottered off down the street. A short way down, I turned a corner and walked straight into a homeless man sheltering in the alcove in between a row of bars.
He steadied my wobbling frame and smiled at me with a toothless grin. “Alreet, pet? Ya look bloody miserable, like. Life’s never that bad.”
I stared at the man for what seemed like an eternity and proceeded to… laugh my flippin’ arse off!
Here was a man with no home, no job and no real prospects attempting to cheer me up. Oh, the irony!
"You’re right!" I shrieked, causing several magpies to scatter around me.
I stood there in the rain, overlooking the Tyne Bridge and the twinkling blue lights of Greggs The Bakers down the road.
I took a calming breath, inhaled the delicate Newcastle aroma of cheese and onion pasties and Lambert & Butler cigarettes, and thought of the many legends that this town had created – Sting, Jimmy Nail, Ant and Dec – and said to out loud,
"Man up, Natasha; you are a true Geordie: strong, focused and as hard as nails! If wor lass Cheryl Cole can get through this kind of shit, so can you!"