Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  “Course it bloody didn’t!” Meg guffaws. “S-sorry Bri-hi-hian! Heehehe.”

  The crowd begin to boo, and I’m not sure if it’s directed at Meg and I or at poor Brian, who clearly is NOT amazing. I feel the giggles approach my mouth, and before I know it I’m howling with laughter too.

  “Come on, Meg! Let’s go,” I chuckle, feeling the atmosphere souring at the fact that people have paid good money for what essentially has been a bit of a wind up. And there I was, thinking that maybe, just maybe it might have been real. I’m such a chump!

  I hand Meg her bag, and gather mine from underneath the table. What a weird day.

  I see Brian begin to pack away, eager to get away from the braying crowd. Before we leave I catch his eye once again. He smiles at me. Properly smiles and then does a little wave. So odd. Still giggling, I wave back and escort a cackling Meg out of the pub.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I awaken the next morning with – apart from the slightly crusty eye snot - no major symptoms of hangover. Possibly, I am still pissed and the hangover will turn up later, smug and brutal. I’ll admit, I was a bit (see, lot) tiddly last night.

  After the weirdly disastrous hypnotist show Meg and I decided, in the middle of our giggling fit, to go for a drink at StarRock, an indie nightclub in Manchester centre. I was already feeling a bit worse for wear so had only the three shots of tequila as opposed to the six that Meg downed. Olly’s insistence at non-alcoholic wine has, I fear, led to my status as an utter lightweight.

  I spent the remainder of the night dancing conspicuously amongst scruffy, stoned students, and listening to Meg say “Your face was a picture. You actually thought I was some kind of secret sex paraphernalia collector!” again and again while doubled up at the thought.

  It felt nice to be out in the world after dark. I felt young and fizzy, kind of like I did before I moved back in with Mum, actually.

  Olly was far from impressed when I poured myself into his bed, drunk, giggly and horny at about four this morning.

  I had climbed under the warm, white, feather duvet and pressed myself up against Olly’s back, kissing his neck and telling him how really, really handsome and sensible and perfect he was. Grumpy at having his requisite eight hours interrupted (and maybe by the fact that I was trying to initiate sex without showering first) he told me to bugger off and returned to snoring.

  I would have been offended, I think, had I not drunkenly passed out immediately after his snub.

  Olly seems to have forgiven me, though, as fresh from the shower, he begins making the sexy moves on me.

  I dash to the bathroom, bleary eyed for a quick rinse and tooth clean and then return to bed where Olly is waiting for me, naked and sporting an impressive erection.

  “Hop on!” he laughs, reaching out for me. And giggling like a teen (or a drunken person), I oblige.

  About five minutes and fifteen seconds later Olly slumps back against the pillows, spent and happy. I join him for a cuddle, less satisfied, but, you know, happy to be close to him. He catches his breath and says, as usual,

  “How was that, then, baby?”

  I stroke my fingers up his arm, look up at him coquettishly and answer.

  “Well, you know. Short. Could have been longer. Longer time wise, I mean, not willy wise, though of course, that would be lovely too. I didn't have an orgasm, but what else is new, hey? You've left me unsatisfied, if truth be told, Olly.”

  While I’m speaking I watch Olly’s eyes widen in horror. And then, as if in slow motion, what I’ve just said replays in my mind and it hits me. My cheeks go all hot.

  Oh God! Did I just say that? Out loud?

  Olly’s face is stony. The post coital flush has drained from his face and a small frown has gathered in between his eyebrows.

  Why the hell would I say those things? They're not even true. Well... maybe they're a teensy bit true, but still. Why on earth would I say that to him?

  I sit up at once and try to make amends.

  “Um… Hahaha.” I attempt to laugh but it comes out sounding like a cruel cackle. “Only kidding! It was a joke!”

  “A joke?” Olly nods, confused and still frowning.

  “Jay, oh, kicking kuh, eh! You know me, ever the joker!”

  I can’t remember the last time I told a joke. I sound like an absolute chump.

  “Weird joke, if you ask me,” Olly grumbles, hopping out of the bed and pulling on his boxer shorts. “You don’t like really think that stuff do you?”

  His face is hopeful.

  “Yes.” My answer is loud and clear. “Yes, I really do think it…”

  As I hear what I’m saying I immediately try to close my mouth, but I can’t. My vocal chords and my tongue and my lips are all working of their own accord. I continue to blab, like some kind of bitchy, idiot blabber-mouth. “... and before, when I said I was joking, I was actually lying. It wasn’t a joke. It was the absolute truth.”

  Whaaaaaaat?

  The words tumble out, unstoppable. Why am I saying these things? Am I having some kind of stroke?

  Olly’s face has transformed now from pasty white to beetroot red. Anger? Embarrassment? I titter nervously, but to Olly it just sounds like I’m laughing at him. He shimmies into his work trousers and sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly together.

  “I don't get it. Is this cold feet, Natalie? Are you trying to cause a row because you’re getting cold feet? Because I -”

  “It’s not cold feet,” I plead, my mouth moving, though I don’t ask it to. “I promise. I don’t know what’s going on. I honestly didn’t realise what I was saying. Oh God. Please forget I said that stuff. Olly. I love you.”

  “Sure, only you wish I was better in the sack?”

  Say. No.

  Say NO, Natalie. Just one word, two letters. It’s easy. It's the easiest word ever. I mean, I've said no plenty of times before. Like when Auntie Jan asked if I minded picking her up some Imodium from the chemist – No! Or when the fellow who works at the cake shop asked if I wanted the small chocolate éclair rather than the large one – No! No!

  I raise my tongue towards the roof of my mouth and form the word, while sending an angry message to my brain to please, for the love of God, please, please, please do what I say.

  But my brain ignores me.

  “YES!”

  I put my head in my hands, and just to make the whole thing worse I bleat:

  “Maybe it’s a stamina thing. There are things we can do to fix it.”

  Shut UP, Natalie.

  Olly stands from the bed and glares at me.

  “Stamina?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stamina?”

  “Yes.”

  “STAMINA? I have plenty of stamina, thank you very much. I’m the king of stamina. Just look at me.” He gestures to his toned arms and stomach. “I’m the very model of stamina. If there were a national contest for stamina I would come first.”

  We pause for a few seconds as the unfortunately worded end of that last sentence sinks in. Olly's face is now the colour of a plum. A vein pulsates in his forehead.

  “Jesus, Natalie,” he croaks, running a hand through his hair. “Any other little nuggets of information to share with me? You know. Just to top off your festival of cruelty.”

  My eyes well up. My heart jolts at the realisation that I will not be able to stop what next comes out of my mouth.

  “You have horrible taste in music. That perfume you get me for every birthday and Christmas makes me want to puke. I give it to the charity shop and tell you that I’ve used it all. When you drop me off for work I secretly go to a café and eat thick Hobbs toast full of butter. I don't like that you're so short. Can't we buy you some stacked heels? And…”

  Stop this. Stop this!

  “…your cooking is truly awful. It doesn’t even have a smell!”

  Olly gasps as if I’ve just sucker punched him, which let’s face it, I may as well have done.

  I begin to
cry. What the hell is happening? Have I got a brain tumour? Am I a latent schizophrenic? Oh God, poor Olly. He doesn’t deserve this! I am a horrible person.

  I can only stare and blink as he angrily shoves on his suit, tying the tie extra tightly. He checks his hair in the mirror before turning to me.

  “I knew you were eating behind my back. I knew that. You must have been because you haven’t lost any weight for the wedding.” He sighs long and low and controlled. “I love you, Natalie. But I suggest you sort yourself out if you want to get married. And…” he raises an eyebrow as he delivers the final blow. “I think you should take the bus to work.”

  With this he storms out, leaving a trail of slammed doors behind him.

  Oh Gad.

  I have never argued with Olly, hell, I’ve never argued with anybody! It’s deeply unpleasant.

  “Aaaargh!” I scream, a wave of sharp frustration overwhelming me. I grab one of Olly’s pristine white pillows and chuck it across the room. It bounces softly off the wardrobe and knocks over my handbag.

  “What the hell is happening?” I cry to the ceiling.

  And then I spot it. Scattered amongst the lipsticks, tissues and two pence coins that have all fallen out of my handbag, a small gold card with shiny red writing, in a gothic font.

  I hurry across the room and pick it up. What is this? Where did it come from?

  The Amazing Brian – Hypnotist, Mind Reader, Spell Caster, etc.

  I flip it over to find a phone number and address scrawled on the back in blue ink.

  All of a sudden, mad images of last night flash into my head. Brian’s desire to hypnotise me, his attempt to make Meg tell the absolute truth, the fact that it didn’t work, all those peculiar, dizzy, anticipation feelings I was getting…

  Oh. Feck.

  Oh Feck.

  I think it worked. It actually worked. Amazing Brian can hypnotise. Only he didn’t hypnotise Meg. Somehow... he hypnotised me.

  Balls.

  I’m not panicking. Honestly.

  Okay, I’m totally panicking. Running around in little circles of distress, I’ve phoned the number on the Amazing Brian card about fifty gazillion times, only to get a standard voicemail answer service. I left a series of messages in which I tried my best to sound angry, though it’s been so long since I did angry that I’m pretty sure I ended the message with “If you could call me back whenever you get a moment, I’d be very grateful, sir Brian.”

  I’m still naked, I’m late for work, my fiancé hates me and I appear to be under some kind of hypnosis spell thingy. Brilliant morning. Really, just fandabidozi.

  I speedily pull on the first clothes that come to hand, these turn out to be a pair of shapeless grey jogging bottoms and my old, too small Goonies Never Say Die t-shirt.

  Fuck it.

  After a quick comb through my hair, I make a run for the bus stop, thankfully reaching it just as the bus turns up.

  Ignoring the other passengers’ glances at my frantic wheezing and odd attire, I take a seat, pull my mobile out of my handbag and call Meg.

  “Nghhgnh,” she answers after a few rings.

  “Meg!! I shout into the receiver, causing a couple of old ladies to tut disapprovingly at my volume. I lower my voice.

  “Meg. Wake up!”

  “Whathefuuuu?” she groans sleepily.

  “Meg,” I hiss. “Wake up now. I need to see you. Now.”

  “S’early Natty. Ugh. Ew.”

  “Meg. I . Am. Serious. Wake up!”

  Hearing the sternness in my voice works because after a couple of sniffs and what seems to be the sound of her downing of a whole glass of water, Meg is awake.

  “Sorry, Nats. Fook, my head hurts. Why are you talking like that? Oh no. Has someone died? Has a celebrity died? Oh no, is it Phillip Schofield?”

  I want to get to the point and tell her to meet me asap, but this bizarre need to immediately answer her questions is too strong.

  “Nobody has died. Not a celebrity. Phillip Schofield is fine. I think. I hope. Listen -”

  “Phew! Wow, imagine if Phillip Schofield had died. Then it would just be Holly Willoughby doing This Morning on her own. It wouldn’t be half as good, would it? They'd probably get someone really shit in as a replacement. Somebody like Paul Ross or Russell Grant. You know, I'm forever getting those two mixed up. “

  Speak, Natalie!

  I try, but it appears that I cannot leave anything unanswered.

  I get a vision of watching a solo hosted This Morning. My answer is swift.

  “Yes, it would be shit.”

  “Yeah -”

  “Meg, listen,” I snap. “Listen to me carefully. Do not say anything. I am so late for work, I haven’t got long and I really need to get this out. Something has happened. I cannot tell you about it now because I am on the bus, and it’s really bizarro and I’ll sound like a total nutcase. If you understand what I am saying, you will get out of bed and meet me at Chutney’s as soon as possible. Do you understand?”

  Meg can obviously sense my desperation because she answers with a simple “Yes. As soon as poss” before gently clicking down the phone.

  Right. Done. Okay. There is no need to panic. We’ll just find Brian, get him to make this hypnosis stuff stop, I’ll make things up to Olly, tell him I had low blood sugar and went mental or something. He’ll forgive me for being so unnecessarily mean and everything will be normal again. We’ll get married and live happily ever after forever and ever, Amen. And until then, I just have to avoid talking to anyone. How hard can it be?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Why are you so late? Do you value your job at all? And what the bloody hell are you wearing?”

  Marie is in a bad mood. I can tell because the frown line in the middle of her forehead is cavernous. She looks like a Sharpai dog, or Gordon Ramsay. As I make my way behind the Cheeses of the World counter and put on my apron, Marie’s questions cause the overwhelming feeling of needing to speak to fizz through my body. It feels kind of like when you get the urge to laugh, and you know you mustn’t. Like when a person trips in the street, or someone is mad at you. You know that laughing would be wildly inappropriate but you can do nothing to control those errant chuckles.

  I try once more to send my brain a message.

  Say nothing, Natalie. Just keep your head down, get to work and wait for Meg.

  Of course, it doesn’t work. Out it comes.

  “I’m late, Marie, because I was hypnotised last night, I told my fiancé that I wished he was better in bed, I was still drunk this morning, though I don’t think I am now. I do value my job. I’m skint, and I need the money. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t be such a bitch to me, and sometimes I wish I was still at chef school instead of here. My outfit is some saggy arsed jogging pants and a Goonies t-shirt, through which I’m pretty sure you can see my nipples,” and then my voice goes all loud. “So why don’t you be quiet and give me a sodding break?”

  I take a breath. A strange mixture of relief at having answered, surprise at what I’ve said and utter embarrassment overcomes me.

  The small queue of customers stare at me in shock before looking down towards my breasts, which, thank the Lord are now covered by my apron.

  Oh God.

  Marie marches over to me, eyes blazing. Her fists are clenched. This is it. She’s going to beat me up. I always knew she would beat someone up. I just never imagined it would be me. I’m the nice girl. The nice, polite girl who shuts up and gets on with it. I close my eyes and wait for the impact of fist in head.

  “Ahem.” I open my eyes to see Stone looming large in front of Marie, essentially blocking her path towards me. Where did he come from? Behind him Marie is shaking a fist at me. Surely only people in black and white films shake fists at each other. Now is so not the time to giggle. What is wrong with me?

  My face flushes red.

  “I’m so sorry,” I bleat. “I didn’t mean to say that, something has happened to me. I have no control over my br
ain, I -”

  Stone puts a hand up to stop me from talking, and points Marie in the direction of the bemused, waiting customers. She bares her teeth at me briefly before following his instructions. God. That was close.

  Stone ushers me into the storeroom, runs a hand through his dark, Liam Gallagher style hair and raises his monobrow in concern.

  “What have you been taking, love. Is it shrooms? Blow? Cat’s Pee?”

  In all the time I have worked here this is the first time I’ve heard Stone speak. His voice is scratchy and actually rather high pitched. My shock doesn’t get a look in as I feel the urge to answer him at once.

  “I’m not on drugs. Of course I’m not. Cat Pee? That’s horrible. Do people actually do that? Ugh!”

  Stone frowns and mutters “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt” to himself.

  “Really. I’m not on drugs,” I try.

  “Love, I have been around a lot of drugs, and that little speech you just made in there was not you. Now, will you be honest with me?”

  It’s so weird that he’s actually talking. Like a normal, actual person, rather than the silent, shady figure that sits in the corner all day.

  “That’s the problem. I can’t be anything but honest. I’ve been…” I can already tell how weird this is going to sound. “… I've been hypnotised. Somebody has cast a spell over me. Taken over my mind. I’m sorry, I am trying get it sorted out and then I’ll be back to normal. I promise!”

  Out in the shop I can hear Meg’s voice demanding to see me, and Marie snapping at her to wait.

  Stone bites his fist and shakes his head sadly.

  “It’s always the quiet ones. It always gets to them.”

  “What does?”

  “The lure of hard drugs.”

  Suddenly he envelops me in a hug. What is it with this morning? We’ve never spoken and now there is physical contact?

  I pull back and try once again to explain that I’m not on drugs, but Stone is having none of it. I’m between a rock and a hard place. Try to get the owner of my workplace to believe that I am under some kind of creepy mind control, or let him think I’m a drug addict. Either one could get me fired. And I need this job…I have to make an executive decision. Stone is clearly far more sympathetic to the idea that I've been using drugs. And so...