Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  “Like a tart trying to seduce a vulnerable old man.”

  Her mouth drops open in indignation. She frowns and pulls her top up again.

  “I’m not asking you questions anymore. You’re mean when you tell the truth. And he's hardly vulnerable, Natty.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’ll stop soon. I'll be back to my old self and we can forget this whole episode. Write it off as a random adventure.…”

  We knock on the door and wait.

  “Good adventure,” Meg tuts.

  After about thirty seconds I knock again. This time I put some oomph into it.

  Bang, bang, bang! BANG!

  Nothing.

  It’s fine. It’s totally fine. He’s probably in a back room or… having a siesta or something.

  I crouch down and push open the letter box at the bottom of the door. Then I lie down and peer through. I can see... a carpet. A blue carpet.

  “Um… Brian? Are you there?” I yell hopefully.

  No answer.

  Meg crouches down with me.

  “Hellooo, yoohoooo, Amazing Brian? We need yooooou!”

  Still no answer.

  We approach the window and peer inside the house, but our view is blocked by curtains.

  “Our investigation is being thwarted by soft furnishings!”

  “He’s definitely not here,” declares Meg.

  “Let’s knock again. Just in case. We shouldn't give up so easily.”

  “He really isn’t there. The telly’s not on.”

  “So?”

  “So… when people are at home, they watch the telly. No telly. No one home. That’s the rule.”

  How do you argue with logic like that?

  “He might be in the pub,” Meg suggests.

  “You know what, I bet he is,” I sniff. “Drinking local bitter and laughing about destroying my life. Come on.”

  You wouldn’t think it, but walking downhill on an icy path is actually tougher than walking uphill on an icy path. I grab onto Meg again, sweating as I tense up my whole body in order to keep balance. It doesn’t seem to be working. We’re round about number twenty when I take a tumble.

  “Aaaaargh!” I screech, as I fall and start to slide down the hill. On my knees.

  “Bollocks!” Meg cries, tottering after me, trying her best to stop my descent. But it’s no use. I keep on slithering down like an eighties rocker doing an air guitar knee skid. Only I’m not on a stage and this really, really hurts.

  “Oooooooooow! Help, I’m going to die! My time is up!” I cry, tears stinging my eyes, teeny bastard stones stinging my legs.

  And then, as I’m pondering whether you really need a priest to do your last rites or whether you could just do it yourself, I stop sliding. Just as suddenly as I started.

  I cease all the yelling and look up. And there at the bottom of the hill is a small group of pensioners stood by the pond, looking at me like I’ve just declared a law against bingo.

  “You want to get some walking boots, love,” says one elderly woman, helpfully. She’s clutching a bottle of milk to her bosom and shaking her head. “Slippery buggers these icy roads.”

  “Yes. Yes, you’re right. Thanks.”

  I’m still on my knees in the middle of the road. Oh God.

  Meg catches up.

  “Christ, are you okay? Can you move? Are you maimed?”

  “I’m okay, I can move, I’m not maimed. But I think my knees are scraped pretty badly. Look. There’s a hole in my trousers.” I point down towards the tear in my jogging pants, flapping open to reveal a dirty, stone embedded grazed knee. “My legs look like a twelve year old boy’s! This is a horrible, horrible day.”

  I’m sobbing now.

  “Oh Natty, you poor thing. Come on. Let’s get inside the pub. Hopefully they’ll have some plasters and disinfectant so you don’t get gangrene and die.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  As we enter the pub, the first thing I notice is how cosy it feels. There are open fires crackling away on each side of the main room. If I wasn’t in such pain, I’d be marvelling at how lovely it is to be in a pub with a real fire, how festive. The pub, which is much larger than it looks from the outside, is painted in rich claret. It’s kind of kooky; there’s an eclectic mix of dusky pink velvet covered benches, battered looking chesterfield sofas and even a couple of rocking chairs. The walls are dotted with photographs and vivid abstract oil paintings in gilt frames and in the corner of the room is a chubby Christmas tree, lavishly decorated with traditional red and gold ornaments.

  The second thing I notice is that in spite of the relative quiet on the village green, The Old Whimsy is busy. The place is bustling with people drinking pints and having a natter. All of them are wearing wellington boots. Most of them are old.

  The third thing I notice is a boy. A very tall, very crumpled looking boy, stood behind the bar, wearing a soft white shirt and with flour in his hay coloured hair.

  I definitely don’t notice his danger stubble, broad, masculine shoulders and glittering slate grey eyes.

  Jesus, Natalie. Get yourself together.

  I shake my head to rid myself of such inappropriate thoughts. I’m obviously in deep shock about my accident on the sloping road of doom.

  Besides, there’s a saying, isn’t there, that when you’ve had a near death experience, all you want to do is have sex? It's a basic human instinct. So it figures that I would find the first guy I clapped eyes on sexually attractive.

  We approach the bar, drawing more than a few glances. I notice that all the men gazing at Meg in obvious delight, and then looking at me in obvious horror. I’m not surprised. Meg is the very picture of buxom, baby-blonde beauty. She exudes an air of confidence and sex appeal. Me? My orange stripy hair is plastered to my clammy forehead. I’m wearing a Goonies t-shirt, and my saggy-arse pants are flapping about, ripped at the knees.

  I exude an air of mental confusion and a faint whiff of sweat.

  I look around for Brian, but I can’t see him.

  “Hello, Mr Barman,” Meg says to the man behind the bar. “My friend here has had an accident. She’s hurt her knees. Please may we have two large glasses of Chablis, some dry roasted peanuts and a couple of sticky plasters?”

  “Meg!” I cry. “We cannot drink. You’re driving back soon. And it’s only…” I look at my watch “two –thirty in the afternoon.”

  She does a responsible face. It makes her look weird. “We’ll just have the one. To be polite.”

  I puzzle at her.

  “I’m really not sure it’s the best idea. We’ve got to -”

  “Do you not want a lovely glass of delicious, chilled, crisp white wine?”

  She grins wickedly. She’s bloody enjoying my discomfort.

  My eyes flicker up to the barman, who is studying us with vague amusement.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Very much,” I hiss in answer to her question.

  The boy leans over the bar and peers down at my knees. He grimaces.

  “Honey, will you serve these two ladies?” he says in broad northern tones. He gestures to a petite, floaty looking red-headed woman sat at the end of the bar, sucking her thumb prettily and flipping idly through a fashion magazine.

  “Of course, Riley, darling.” She flicks her hair, gracefully hops off the stool she’s perched upon and kisses the messy man, long and slow on the mouth before getting our order. It’s definitely a statement kiss. Hands off.

  Ha, like there’s any need for that.

  Riley stares back down at my bloody knees.

  “You,” he points right at me. “You come with me. I’ll find you some plasters.”

  Honey momentarily stops pouring our wine into glasses. She examines me with narrowed eyes, but after a few seconds decides that I’m obviously not a threat. She looks at Meg and frowns. I’m pretty sure I hear her snarl.

  “I’ll be right here. Drinking my one and only glass of wine,” grins Meg, looking around in excitement at all the men.

&
nbsp; I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly, and shuffle behind bar man, through a door at the side of the bar.

  “Sit there,” he instructs, pointing to a pale wicker chair in the hallway. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  I take a seat, and vainly attempt to cover my knees with my hands. Bad idea. Ouch.

  Within a minute or so he returns.

  Setting down some wet wipes and plasters by the chair, he kneels in front of me. Without a word, he slowly rolls my jogging bottoms up towards my thighs, being careful not to rub the jersey material over the cuts. He tears open the packet of wipes with his teeth and dabs them gently over each of my knees.

  He's nice...

  Natalie, you chump. He’s cleaning your scabby, grimy knees. Get a grip. Now is so not the moment to be thinking about sexy times.

  Olly. Olly. Olly. Lovely Olly, who I love dearly and am marrying.

  “I can do that,” I blurt, grabbing the plasters from him, ripping them open and haphazardly plonking one down on each knee.

  Riley smiles slightly. I lower my eyes.

  “That’s you all sorted then,” he says, standing back up.

  “Yes. Me done! All better. Um, thanks… Riley.”

  He smiles fully now, rain coloured eyes flashing, and holds out a paw-like hand.

  “Riley Harrington. Good to meet you. And you are?”

  “Oh. Natalie Elspeth Butterworth, aged twenty-seven and a bit.”

  What on earth do I sound like? Stupid hypnosis. My face goes red.

  Riley helps me up from my chair. “So, Natalie Elspeth Butterworth aged twenty-seven and a bit…what brings you -”

  Before he can finish, the sound of my phone jingling loudly from my bag catches my attention.

  I dig it out and look at the screen. Crikey, it’s Olly!

  “Excuse me,” I mutter and I scurry away towards a quiet corner of the main pub and press answer on the phone.

  “Olly, thank God.”

  “Hey. Where are you?” his voice is all quiet and dejected.

  “In Yorkshire of all places,” I say. “I’ve been hypnotised.”

  Saying it to him makes it sound all the more ridiculous. “Can you believe it? I’m trying to sort it out. It’s horrible.”

  “Nat? The reception is bad. I can’t hear you very well.”

  I dash outside, passing Meg, who seems to have made friends with a table full of gentlemen.

  “Can you hear me now?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Can you hear me now?”

  “Almost. Are you okay?”

  Well there they are. The three words that ensure that while I might have just about been okay, I’m not now. Like a bottle of pop that’s been shook and then opened, my emotions bubble up and overflow. I start to cry.

  “Oh, Olly. I’m not okay. I’ve been hypnotised by mistake. I’ve had to come to bloody Yorkshire to try to get the spell broken. It’s been a terrible day. I hurt my knees!”

  “What’s that? You're not very clear. You’re on your knees? I know you’re sorry for what you said, but I really don’t think there’s any need to beg... especially when I can’t even see you.”

  I can hear the scratchiness of bad reception crackling through the phone.

  “No, no… I…”

  Suddenly, a tap on my shoulder.

  It’s Riley, and he’s holding my bag.

  “You forgot your bag,” he says. “Not that anyone would nick it. Not round here, but just in case you need it…”

  I take it from him and nod my thanks before turning back to my conversation.

  “Who was that?” Olly asks. I can hear the frown in his voice.

  “Oh that? That’s Riley. He’s just a barman at the pub.”

  The phone crackles again.

  “The pub. I’m calling to sort out that stupid row this morning and you’re in the pub with some guy? That’s great that, Natalie. Really fucking marvellous.”

  “I’m not with him. I’m with Meg. We’re trying to find the -”

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but there is no need to lie to me. Hypnotism! That’s a good one. You must think I’m a muppet.”

  “No, no, Olly, you’re definitely not a muppet, I’m the muppet -”

  “I’m spending a fortune on this wedding. I thought it was what you wanted. All of a sudden you’re acting like this totally different person.”

  He tuts. “Enjoy yourself at the pub. Call when you’re ready to be honest with me. I love you.”

  And with that the phone clicks off.

  Honest? Doesn’t he get that honesty is so not the problem right now?

  Shit.

  How can things get so monumentally fucked up? In one day? He finally phoned, and I made a mess of it, just like I’m making a mess of everything.

  I try to call him back but it rings out.

  Right. Stop crying, Natalie. It’ll be fine. You are going to sort this. It’s just one day. One weird, crazy, stupid, shitting day. You will figure it out. You have to.

  I wipe my eyes and nose on an errant tissue from my handbag. An icy cloud forms in front of my face as I take a deep breath and then exhale slowly.

  Okay. I am sorting this out. I am sorting it out right now and nothing is going to stop me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I haven’t quite sorted it out.

  In fact, somehow, I’m well on my way to being a little bit pissed. Or a lot pissed.

  In the past forty minutes I have discovered the following things;

  1) Amazing Brian is not in the pub (neck the remainder of my first glass of wine).

  2) Amazing Brian is not even in Little Trooley. Apparently he popped into the pub yesterday and told a man called Alan that he was going away for a few days (neck the remainder of Meg’s wine).

  3) Nobody knows where he went. He only recently moved to the area and keeps himself to himself (order a vodka tonic from the bar - drink vodka tonic).

  4) Telling a table full of local men that Brian - who they know to be a quiet, straight down the line retiree with a passion for gardening and local ales - magically hypnotised you last night will make you sound a few slices short of a Hobbs loaf.

  I haven’t drunk this much this quickly since fresher's week when the local night club was holding a ‘Free till you pee night’. I lasted for three hours until I had to empty my bladder. I'm still proud of that.

  “And you say he called himself Amazing Brian?” says Alan, a local with a ruddy face and a flat cap.

  “Yes!” I yell fervently. “He had the initials AB knitted into his woolly jumper!”

  This is the funniest thing the men have heard yet. They roar with laughter, causing a few of the other customers to peer over at us curiously. I sigh and take a hefty gulp of my drink. I’m not even sure what it is. It’s local, cloudy and tastes a bit like pear cider. Robbie, a baby-faced, dark-haired, slightly chubby bloke insisted that Meg and I try it. He also insisted that Meg sit next to him while she drinks it. She doesn’t seem to mind. He’s not her type, you know, not being rich or a footballer, but they're getting on very well. At the very least she’s enjoying the attention. They’re engrossed in conversation and oblivious to the fact that I’m the brand new village idiot.

  “Look here!” I bang my glass down on the table, not caring as it splashes out over the sides. “I have a card. Brian gave me a calling card. A card that will prove to you that I speak the truth and only the truth! Hell, I'm not sure you guys could even HANDLE the truth!”

  I think the beers are making me just a teensy bit dramatic. I feel like Jack Nicholson.

  I look through my bag - digging around through unwrapped sweets and old receipts and, strangely, a plastic fork from the chip shop - for the Amazing Brian card. I can’t see it. Frantically, I look in my purse, but it’s not there.

  Shit. Where the chuff is it?

  The blokes at the table are still chuckling. Nudging each other and smirking as I bury my head deep down into my bag trying my best
to find it.

  I pull everything out of my bag and lay it down on the table.

  “Look, lads. It’s Mary Poppins as I live and breathe,” says one of the men.

  “Good one.”

  I grimace. The card is not there. I swipe my belongings off the table and back into my bag.

  “Meg, have you got the Amazing Brian card?”

  She tears herself away from her conversation with Robbie to have a look in her purse but she can’t find it either.

  Marvellous.

  “All right, all right,” I say to the men, holding my hands up in an attempt to stop them laughing. “Meg, help me out here. These gentlemen don’t believe that Brian hypnotised me. Tell them!”

  Meg nods her head solemnly, her pretty face serious.

  “He definitely did. I was right there. If you don’t believe it, just ask her a -”

  “No, no!” I interrupt. “That’s all right. Never mind, we’ll just forget about it!”

  I might have told the men that Brian had hypnotised me, but I didn’t tell them in what way I was hypnotised. I don’t want any more embarrassing truth-telling situations. I really don’t think I could handle it.

  Meg gasps. “You mean, you haven’t told them exactly what he did to you?”

  “No,” I fold my arms. “I don’t want to. It's private.”

  “You should totally show them.” She breathes, turning to the men. “Seriously, it’s a phenomenon. All you need to do is ask her a question -”

  “Meg, shush!”

  “- and she won’t be able to lie.”

  Shit. How much has she had to drink? She definitely wouldn’t do this to me if she were sober. Or would she? I frown pointedly at her. She grins back, slightly cross-eyed, jiggling her shoulders and boobs to the sound of Girls Aloud coming from the Jukebox.

  The men have stopped laughing and are looking at me with renewed interest. Oh nice! They’ll believe Meg. What? Because she’s pretty?

  I close my eyes, take a long, slow breath and brace myself for a barrage of awkward questions that I won’t be able to help but answer.

  But the questions don’t come.

  I open my eyes again to find that everyone has disappeared from the table and I’m sat alone. Oh no. Did I do a fart and not even notice amidst all the commotion? I look around, confused, and then see that everyone is huddled around the bar.