Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Yours Truly

  Kirsty Greenwood

  Yours Truly © Kirsty Greenwood 2012

  The moral right of the author has been asserted. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locales and to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  First Published in 2012 by Novelicious Books

  Cover design by Kirsty Greenwood, Novelicious Books

  Find out more about the author at www.kirstygreenwood.com and www.novelicious.com

  For Edd. I love you.

  About the Author

  Kirsty Greenwood was born in 1982 in Oldham, Greater Manchester. A graduate of North Trafford College and Salford University, she is the founding editor of the popular female fiction and chick lit website Novelicious. Yours Truly is Kirsty’s first novel.

  She hopes you like it.

  Kirsty Greenwood is represented by Hannah Ferguson at The Marsh Agency.

  Connect with Kirsty online…

  www.kirstygreenwood.com

  www.facebook.com/kirstygreenwoodbooks

  www.novelicious.com

  www.twitter.com/novelicious

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  In all my twenty-seven years of life, I have never before noticed the astonishing similarities between my own head and a ten pin bowling ball.

  Thanks to Barbara - senior stylist at Hair Hackers, Manchester - the resemblance is now uncanny.

  In only two hours this ruthless hair destroyer has managed to enhance my already round face with a ‘Friar Tuck’ inspired bob that cups my plump cheeks. Add that to the magic forehead widening fringe, and the double chin boosting tuck under, and the result is nothing less than extraordinary…

  “It looks fabulous, just… stunning,” Barbara chirps, waving a teeny pink mirror behind my head. “The colours have turned out gorgeous, don’t you think?”

  Ah, the colours. I should probably mention that the Luxurious Caramel, Sticky Treacle and Ash Blonde I asked for have somehow turned out to be Felt Tip Orange, Poo Brown and Ash… as in ash of cigarette.

  Also? It’s stripy.

  I stare into the huge mirror in front of me, bewildered. I’m getting married in a month and my head has just been gravely mistreated.

  What the chuff was I thinking?

  First rule of getting married; don’t go to a brand new hairdresser mere weeks before your wedding and expect it to be okay.

  Hmm.... that's probably not the actual first rule of getting married. I bet it's somewhere in the top ten, though.

  Right.

  I have to fix this.

  I look up at Barbara and give her my most gracious smile.

  “I don’t think -”

  “Do you know, I think I might have these colours myself,” Barbara butts in, beaming. “They’re really complimentary, aren’t they?”

  No. They are not. They’re insulting. I look like the love spawn of Anne Widdecombe and a... really round headed tabby cat.

  I should tell her.

  I’m definitely going to tell her. Right this instant. Barbara’s a perfectly nice woman, I’m sure. But what she has just done to my hair is cruel, and I, Natalie Butterworth, am going to have the guts to be honest. I am going to ask her why, when I requested face-slimming, feathery layers à la Jennifer Aniston, she adorned me with a Lego head helmet à la no one since the 1960’s.

  I will tell her this. For victims of bad hairdressers here and beyond I will stand up to her. I will firmly tell her that I absolutely refuse to pay for this - the most unflattering hair cut in all of England. I will absolutely insist she makes it better. I will…

  “Yeah, and the cut is brilliant,” I say brightly. “The condition is sooo much better. It’s so smooth and so shiny.”

  I am cooing.

  Barbara calls over the junior stylists and some of the other clients who all clamber up to gawp at the monstrosity now sitting atop my horrified face.

  Massive balls.

  I can’t do it. I can’t tell her. She looks so proud of her handiwork. And it took her two whole hours. I can’t just refuse to pay. That would be terribly rude. Plus, when you think about it, it’s not Barbara's fault I have a fat head, is it?

  “Would you like to make your way over to the payment area?” she asks, untying the black plastic cape from around my neck and leading me towards a till by the door. One of the hair washers totters over with my denim jacket. See, why can’t I have hair like her? Subtle, not scary…

  “It looks reeeeally trendy,” she says, her pretty teenage face turning cherry red. Wait… was that a snigger?

  Oh man. I want to reach up and ruffle it into submission, but I can hardly mess up Barbara’s hard work right in front of her.

  Okay. I’ll just fix it when I get home. Maybe I could buy one of those do-it-yourself hair dyes. Yep, I’ll do that. Better than causing some dramatic and embarrassing scene.

  “Right, flower, that’ll be eighty-nine pounds and ninety pence,” says Barbara. “And I’ll book you an appointment for four weeks for a trim, shall I?”

  Ninety quid? Ninety quid?!

  Nooooo!

  I cannot pay ninety pounds for this. It’s absurd.

  “Um… look…” I say carefully. “I -”

  “You look stunning, love,” she cuts in, her expression one of overt pride. “I’m so glad it’s come out so well. You, know… I think it might just be one of the best hairdos I’ve ever done…”

  Shit.

  I hand over my credit card, tip about thirty percent, and jog on out of the salon, never to return again.

  As the door clicks shut behind me, I’m pretty sure I hear a burst of laughter…

  Can you get married in a hat?

  Shuffling through a puddle soaked Piccadilly Gardens, amongst the final throngs of late night shoppers, I keep my eyes lowered. The shops have all closed so I haven’t been able to buy a hat, and I’m now having to face the general public with my terrifying hair on full show.

  I arrive at the bus stop and dig my phone out of my leather satchel. I’ll call Meg; best friend since primary school, wannabe pop star, bad hair sympathizer and all round good egg. She’ll know what
to do.

  While the phone is ringing a pair of yummy mummies stroll by, perfect, chubby children in tow.

  “Mummy,” peeps an angelic looking girl. “What is wrong with that lady's head?”

  I peer around, trying to locate the object of the little girl's interest. But I’m the only lady at the bus stop. Hang on…is - is she referring to my head?

  Both mothers squint over before their eyes widen slightly in polite horror. They swiftly grab hold of their respective children’s hands.

  “Some people are just different, Olivia,” says the taller mum dragging her daughter away. “Don’t stare at the lady...”

  They hurry off, only glancing back when they’re far enough down the road to be safe from my evil hair woman clutches.

  Excellent.

  “Hello? Natty?”

  Meg’s voice booms out loudly through the mobile, her lush Geordie accent as broad as ever and with no discernible use of the letter T.

  “Meg, thank God! I have issues.”

  “Didn't we establish that when you were sixteen?”

  “Ho ho. Really, I just had my hair done and it’s horrible. It’s so bad that I’m going to scare people at my own wedding! When I walk down the aisle the guests won't be tearfully moved by my radiant beauty. They'll just be tearful.” I take a deep breath.

  Meg’s less than sympathetic response is to crack up into giggles.

  “Cheers,” I huff. “Your understanding means the world to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Meg, still chuckling. “It’s just, this is classic Natalie. I bet you didn’t even tell them you didn’t like it, did you?”

  “No, but -”

  “Did you pay for it?”

  “Yes, of course! I didn’t want to cause a scene and -”

  “You need to go back and ask them to fix it!”

  She's right. That's what any assertive, independent, grown up woman would do.

  But...

  “I can't,” I sigh, noticing the approaching bus. “It’s completely unfixable anyway. It’s too short to cut again without me looking like a fatter, more ginger Annie Lennox, and any more hair dye and it’ll probably, I don’t know, explode from all the toxic chemicals. Besides, I never want to go there again. They were laughing at me!”

  “Were they heck,” she soothes. “You should stand up for yourself. You should tell the truth.”

  “I don’t want to be rude, Meg. It would have been completely bad manners. Hang on, I’m just getting on the bus… Fallowfield please.” I hand over my fare and find a seat at the back, so no one can sit behind me and take mobile phone pictures of my barnet and spread them viciously around the internet. “Okay. I’m here again,” I say once I’ve taken my seat.

  “Look. Olly’s not marrying your hairdo, he's marrying you,” she says. “Don’t stress, it’ll bring you out in spots. We’ll sort it.”

  “Yeah… I suppose so. It’s just, I really wanted to look nice.”

  “You will! You’ll look perfect, Natty. And I’ll be really, really jealous.”

  That’s true. Meg has wanted a wedding day ever since she saw footage of Princess Diana’s nuptials when we were fifteen. The desire to be a bride has upped to magnificent proportions since the wedding of Wills and Kate, and finding her very own prince (a footballer will also do apparently, as will an investment banker, or an heir or some kind of Greek shipping magnate) is now a frequent topic of conversation.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go,” she says. “I’ve got spinning in ten minutes and I’ve not done my make-up yet.”

  Meg’s gym is one of those shiny posh ones, full of Hollyoaks cast members and people who wear luminous leotards in a non-ironic way.

  “Don’t work too hard, will you?” I grin. We both know that Meg doing anything other than look pretty at the gym is about as likely as me ever setting foot inside the gym.

  “Of course not. Oooh, and don’t forget the pub tomorrow night. I’ve got tickets for that hypnotist.”

  Ah, the hypnotist. Meg got super excited when she discovered that a real live hypnotist was coming to town. She’s been meaning to visit one ever since she read in a Sunday supplement about some woman who was hypnotised into believing she’d had gastric band surgery and losing three stone in as many months. She was all set to get an appointment when she discovered that the hypnosis cost five hundred quid a session. Now she reckons that if she asks nicely, this pub hypnotist will give her a session for free. I can’t see it myself… but am looking forward to seeing her try.

  “Yup, I’ll see you there at around half six-ish.”

  “Brill. Gotta go. And don’t worry, your wedding will be just perfect.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly. Now bugger off, I have my own husband to find.”

  “Germaine Greer would be proud.”

  “Who?”

  We both laugh because Meg has a Masters degree in Gender, Sexuality and Culture studies. You wouldn’t think it to look at her but she’s startlingly bright.

  “Bye.”

  “Toodle pip.”

  I hang up, and make an executive decision not to get so worked up. Meg’s right. It is only a hairdo. There’s always a little disaster before a wedding, it’s tradition. This is just my little disaster.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TEXT FROM: OLLY CHATTERLEY

  Sweetness, did you manage to pick up my dry cleaning? Can't wait to cu later.

  REPLY TO: OLLY CHATTERLEY

  Of course. Love you lots.

  I’m not a wimp. At least, I never used to be. Honestly. As a kid I was feisty and assured, forever bossing around my little sister, Dionne, standing up for student council (which basically involved making decisions on vital issues such as themes for the school disco and protesting about the teachers’ ban on friendship bracelets), and pretty much not giving a shit. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t have been half as bad, had my parents gotten it together enough to get divorced. Their petty irritations with each other had turned into full scale, noisy rows that continued well into the night. As they screamed, and cried and chucked plates at each other, I’d creep into Dionne’s bedroom and sing her New Kids on the Block songs as loudly as possible, just to drown out the racket. It took ten years for my father to decide he’d had enough and he eventually left last year for a life of solitude and self-discovery in India. But those ten years took the fight out of me.

  While Dionne acted out by drinking vodka/cider/raspberry-ade cocktails in the park, failing all her exams and becoming a loud-mouthed attention demander, I went the other way. I kind of got quiet and undemanding, trying my best to keep my parents happy so that they wouldn’t argue and studiously avoiding any situation that may end in a conflict. After ten years it’s become a pretty tough habit to break. Don’t get me wrong, my parents didn’t ‘fuck me up’. I just learned that a quiet life equals an easy one. It makes sense that way.

  I’ve barely stepped through the front porch when Mum calls my name from the kitchen. I’ve been living with mum for about twelve months now. When my dad upped and left for India last year, Mum had this horrible nervous breakdown. I deferred (indefinitely) on my course in catering, left my flat share with Meg in Chorlton and came back to my childhood home so that I could look after her.

  It’s not so bad, really; outside the city centre, but still close enough to get to Chutney's Deli in Piccadilly where I work as a counter assistant. Of course, I miss living with Meg. The silliness and late nights and… well… the freedom, I suppose. But sticking by your family is much more important than playing house with your best mate. And my family needs me. Mum needs me. That’s why, after we’re married, Olly and I are going to move into the flat above the corner shop down the road, so that we’re never too far away. It’s huge, and has brand new wooden floors and Mum managed to convince Irene, the shopkeeper and landlord, to knock fifty pounds a month off the rent. It also means that the whole family will be within a street or so of each other because we’ll be living next door t
o my sister, Dionne. The sister I can now hear shouting me in along with Mum.

  “Natalie! Get a move on, we've got a surprise!”

  I startle. A surprise? Oooh. Maybe they’ve ironed my clothes for this week, or moved Dionne’s gym equipment out of my bedroom. Let’s face it, a cup of tea not made by me would have me flailing in shock.

  I push open the door, and there they are. My family. Beaming proudly and holding up the most horrendous looking piece of clothing I have ever seen in my life.

  Ever.

  “Surprise!” they yell in clearly rehearsed unison. “We got you a wedding dress!”

  And then they catch sight of my hair and their expressions of joy melt into ones of shock.

  “What the fuck happened to your head?” says Dionne, dashing over to inspect it.

  I reach up to touch the pudding bowl haircut. See? I was right. It really is that bad.

  I grimace. “I asked for caramel highlights and a layered trim. This is what happened.”

  “Shit…” she whispers. “Why would someone do that to you? Have you pissed anyone off recently? Any gangsters? Is it, like, an act of revenge?”

  I tut.

  Apparently Dionne’s new boyfriend, Bull, has close associates within the Manchester gangland scene. Since they've been dating she's become a bit obsessed by gangster culture, reading all the Godfather books in a week and watching TV shows that feature Ross Kemp scuttling around in different countries with only a camera man and a nervous facial expression for company.

  She peers around furtively, as if at any moment a gangster may pop out from behind mum’s brand new fridge and deliver the same horrid fate to her long blonde hair extensions.

  I wonder about the information she's getting if she thinks that the mafia retribution involves giving someone an unfortunate haircut.

  “It was Hair Hackers in the town centre,” I answer.

  “Hair Hackers?” Dionne repeats. “As in hackers of hair? Ehm, I think the clue might have like, been in the name, Sis.” With this she attempts (and fails) to cover a grin, before picking up the dress Mum dropped in shock.