Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  What’s going on?

  I wander over and notice the barman - Riley - handing out freshly baked tomato and mozzarella tarts to everyone.

  “Be honest, people,” he's saying, brushing flour off his shirt. “Only the best can go on the menu. I won’t be offended if you don't like them. I might cry for a short while, drink too much and kick something, maybe someone, but then I shall dry my tears and get on with it. I promise.”

  I didn’t know they did food here. And why is it free? No wonder the place is so busy.

  Everyone’s tucking in heartily, including Meg, who - oh God - is drunkenly feeding a roasted tomato to Robbie. A bit of tomato seed has dripped onto his ample chin. Meg licks it off. Christ.

  The smell of fresh pastry wafts deliciously up my nose and I realise I’m starving.

  I push politely through the crowd and help myself to a tart.

  “Hello. I’m turning the place into a gastro pub. You know, bring in some more punters.”

  It’s Riley. The flour has gone from his hair, but there’s tomato splotches all over his shirt. Definitely not adorable. Not one bit.

  “Oh,” I say politely. “I thought you were -”

  “Just a barman?” he interrupts, golden eyebrows raised.

  Oh no. He heard me say that to Olly on the phone. I’ve only gone and offended him. Nice manners, Nat.

  “Yes. I mean no… I mean... I’m sorry. Ehm, not just a -”

  “I’m playing with you,” he grins, putting me out of my misery. “And not that there’s anything wrong with being a barman, but in the interest of full disclosure, The Old Whimsy is my place.”

  “You own it?”

  He looks far too young to own a pub. He looks like he should be running around a forest with a bow and arrow.

  “Yup. Well, inherited.”

  “And you’re a chef?” I say, nodding down towards the tart in my hand.

  He laughs, showing a set of nice teeth with a tiny gap in between the front two.

  “No. At least not yet. I’m an enthusiastic amateur. I’m hoping that my food will bring people to the pub, stop us from being shut down.”

  “Shut down?” I look around at the lively pub “But it’s dead busy in here.”

  “Not busy enough to stop us from being bought out, apparently. Food is where the money is nowadays.” He looks downcast for a moment but quickly recovers. “Anyway, that’s all a bit depressing. Sorry! Go on have a taste.”

  I take a bite of the tart and munch away, conscious that Riley is watching me.

  I taste the sweet, slightly blackened cherry tomatoes, nicely softened, and the salty, chewy mozzarella, and ick, far too much black pepper. What is it with men and black pepper?

  “Hmmm,” I nod politely, still chewing. “S’okay.”

  He leans down, moving his face closer to mine, challenging.

  “Just okay? Come on Natalie Elspeth Butterworth. What do you really think?”

  Why do people ask so many questions? I didn’t notice until today how many people ask questions. Crapbags. Here we go. I look straight into his dark, silvery eyes, the urge to answer fizzing right through me.

  I feel my face go hot as I tell the truth.

  “What I really think is this; I really think that they’re bland. All that pepper isn’t going to stop them from being bland. I mean, you could have added some chilli, or, ooh some plump black olives would have been nice. Your pastry is terrible. It shouldn’t hurt my teeth when I chew it. And tomato and mozzarella - hello? Hardly going to set the world alight with originality, is it?! I don’t think Heston’s got anything to worry about. I’d stick to bar-tending, mate.”

  I pause to take a breath. Why am I so horrible when I’m honest? Is this who I really am? Have I been faking being a good person all this time? My cheeks burn. I notice that the crowd has gone quiet. Honey, the gauche barmaid hurries over, puts her skinny, lacy shirt encased arm on Riley’s shoulder and shoots me a dirty look. Meg puts her head in her hands.

  Oops.

  The look on Riley’s face is a peculiar mix of irritation and amusement. Jeez. He must think I’m the rudest, scruffiest, meanest person he’s ever met. I don’t even know him and I’ve just slagged off his tart. Which he made. And gave out for free.

  “I’m so, so sorry!” I exclaim, my heart beating rapidly with horror and shame. “I didn’t -”

  “Who are you?” Riley asks hands on hips, a look of suspicion darkening his features. “Are you from Hobbs? Did that bastard Jasper send you to scare us off? Cos’ it won’t work. We’re staying here.”

  “I'm Natalie Elspeth Butterworth, aged twenty-seven and a bit.” Oh man. “I’m not from Hobbs. Though I am a huuuuuge fan of their bread.” I pat my tummy. “Their oven bottom muffins are To. Die. For. The only Jasper I know is Jasper Ian Parker who I snogged behind the stage curtain during our high school production of Bugsy Malone…”

  I can’t relax until I’ve gotten all the answers out. It’s like I’ve got OCD and Tourette's all at the same time. I will myself to shut up.

  Shut up, Natalie! For the love of all that is good and great. Just stop!

  “… so then he tried to feel my left boob and I kicked him in the shin and he told the entire school I was frigid. It was hideous. I haven’t seen him for over ten years, so I don’t think he’s the Jasper you’re referring to…”

  Meg hurries over.

  “She can’t help it. She’s been hypnotised!”

  “Hypnotised?” asks Riley, looking at us and rubbing his eyes like we’re a really weird figment of his imagination. “Oh really. Hypnotised how? Hypnotised to insult complete strangers?”

  His face is all frowny and full of indignation.

  “No…” I explain. “Just… telling the truth. I can’t help but tell the truth.”

  The parishioners are still chewing on their tarts, eyes wide in astonishment at my unwelcome outburst as a cut-throat culinary critic.

  “You should bar her,” cheeps Honey, twirling her deep red hair around her finger. “She can’t speak to you like that. I think the tarts are just utterly incredible.”

  “You’re right,” I mutter. “We should leave. I’m so sorry, everyone.”

  “But, I can’t drive,” Meg hisses. “I’ve had too much to drink. I thought we might, you know, stay and wait for Brian?” She looks over at Robbie coquettishly. He waves back, his dark eyes sparkling with disbelief.

  “Fine. I’ll ring Olly again, maybe he’ll pick me up, or Dionne might, for twenty quid.”

  I grab my phone and slink off through the pub. The crowd of people stare after me; the strange girl with terrible hair, who turned up in their village, fell down a hill, got pissed, told them that their reclusive OAP neighbour had spellbound her and insulted the owner of their local pub.

  Just as I reach the door, Meg trailing loyally behind me, somebody calls out.

  “Wait!”

  I turn around to see Alan, the ruddy faced, flat-capped man from before.

  “You’re not barred,” he says, with a pointed glance at Honey. “For whatever reason, you came here to find Brian Fernando -”

  “Brian is called Brian Fernando?” Meg nudges me and stifles a snort.

  “It’s obviously important to you,” he continues, looking serious. “And we like to think of ourselves as good, kind people here in Little Trooley. So we’ll help. Those roads are far too icy to be travelling on now. Tonight you’ll stay here.”

  “Here?”

  “There’re a couple of rooms to rent upstairs. I’m sure my nephew wouldn’t mind putting you up.”

  Riley grimaces but doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m not sure,” I sigh, my voice wobbling. “Everything’s a mess, and I’ve insulted you, and now you’re being kind and -”

  I swallow my tears. I’ve done enough bloody crying today.

  “Please, let’s stay,” Meg whispers, eyeing Robbie up drunkenly. “Please, please, pleeeease. Brian might be back in the morning.”


  “Maybe…”

  “There is one condition, however,” Alan says sternly.

  “Oh. What’s the condition?”

  “You get yourself a stiff drink and you tell us this whole bloody story from start to finish.”

  I fight a yawn, suddenly exhausted from all the drama and the alcohol and the ever present worry that I might not be able to fix this.

  “Okay then,” I sniff, going back to the bar and slouching onto a high seat. Everyone’s eyes are on me, eager to hear about my strange, shitty day.

  I settle myself in and look around at the faces of the attentive crowd.

  “Well,” I begin. “The whole ridiculous affair started just last night…”

  “And that’s how I ended up here,” I finish. “Getting really rather drunk!”

  I drain the last of my whisky, slam the shot glass onto the bar and nod for Honey to bring me another. She scowls, but I’m too drunk to care.

  The locals, who until now have been listening quietly, start to talk all at once.

  “That doesn’t seem like Brian, he’s such a quiet old thing! Are you absolutely sure it was him?”

  “What a ghastly day, you poor lass.”

  “That’s incredible. We could get you on Oprah, or Graham Norton, or something!”

  “So, Natalie, if I ask you a question you can only tell the truth? Right, well, do you like my new corduroy trousers?”

  “Olly sounds lovely. He has to forgive you!”

  “And what about my haircut? Is it too short? Oh, I’ve got one. What’s your favourite flavour of crisps?”

  “Why don’t you googlymajig ‘how to unhypnotise yourself’?”

  Instantly I find my brain weeding out questions from the crowd, and answering them as quickly as possible, much to everyone’s delight and disbelief.

  Alan shushes them down. It is pretty overwhelming.

  “Thank you for being honest with us,” he says kindly.

  “So you’ll help me sort this out?” I hiccup, taking a sip from my drink. “You believe me?”

  “I believe you, love.” He pats my shoulder.

  “I believe you too!”

  “So do I!”

  “It’s too darn odd to be a lie.”

  “I’ll help you. I used to be on the radio.”

  “A drunken man’s word is a sober man’s word, I always say.”

  “That’s not the saying, Wonky Faced Joe. Who are you, George Bush?”

  As the crowd chatter away, thinking of ways to help me I get a lovely warm feeling all through my body, like a Ready Brek glow. It could be the whisky, but I’m pretty sure that it’s the fact that after the worst day ever, all these people are being nice to me, ready and willing to help out an absolute stranger. It’s so heartening.

  Fuelled with a sudden sense of well-being, I scan the room for Riley so I can apologise once more, and thank him for attending to my knees. He’s nowhere around. Instead I spot Meg, leant up against a quiz machine, drunkenly and enthusiastically snogging Robbie who looks like all his Christmases have come at once. A couple of his mates eye the pair of them with astonishment and envy.

  “Do you play football, Bobby?” I hear her shout over the music.

  “It’s Robbie. Robbie is my name!”

  “That’s what I said!” she giggles and pulls him back to her.

  I resist the temptation to drag her away. I know she’ll probably regret this in the morning. But… she needs a little fun. He might not be the rich footballer she puts so much sway on snaring, but he seems nice, and it’s only one night. And after we find Brian, it’s not like we’ll see these people again, anyway.

  With that thought in mind, I tip back the remainder of my whisky. As it burns my throat, and sends a wonderful sizzle straight to my belly I come to the to the conclusion that the best way to deal with everything that has happened today is to get so completely drunk that I no longer care. My status as a light-weight means it shouldn’t take too long. There’s nothing I can do right now, so what’s the point in trying?

  “Sod it all!” I yell to the crowd. “Sambuca's are on me!”

  A cheer goes up around the pub. And soon enough, all the worries about Olly, Brian, the wedding and my lack of brain control hazily fade away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TEXT FROM: DIONNE

  UR not answering ur fone. Don’t forget babysitting John-Paul Gaultier 2morrow.

  TEXT FROM: DIONNE

  Hve picked a cake 4u. it is amazing. It’s an exact replica of a sleeping swan. Call back.

  TEXT FROM: DIONNE

  If u don’t want to babysit you could just tell me. Don’t have to ignore me. U R soooo selfish!

  It’s Saturday morning and I can honestly say that I have never, ever before experienced a hangover like the one that is happening to me right now.

  I was cruelly awakened about five minutes ago by my own headache. It feels like John McEnroe is playing tennis with my brain. While my brain is still in my head. Even my earlobes hurt, and it’s not because of the cheapo Claire’s Accessories earrings I’ve been wearing recently.

  I peel back my sticky eyelids and fear grips my heart.

  Where the pickle am I?

  I blink a few times and take in my surroundings.

  I am in a strange bed. I gasp and check the space beside me. No-one. Phew.

  The room is small and chintzy. It’s decorated with pink rose-patterned wallpaper, and across from the bed there’s a matching flowery couch, with what appears to be a net curtain draped over the back. It smells like lavender furniture polish. In the corner an open door leads to a tiny bathroom.

  I notice a little leaflet lying on the bedside cabinet. I rub my eyes and pick it up - “The Old Whimsy Bed & Breakfast, Little Trooley”.

  Oh.

  The events of yesterday slam straight back into my head. Ouch.

  Oh dear. Oh dear.

  The last thing I remember was Meg and I acting out a scene from The Fabulous Baker Boys. She was lying on the bar, singing Makin Whoopee like Michelle Pfeiffer and I was miming playing the piano on some drip trays. Oh balls. When did I get to bed? How did I get to bed?

  I delicately turn my head this way and that, trying to locate my phone and trying not to vom. I notice it lying on the floor on top of my ripped and muddy trews.

  9 Missed Calls.

  3 Unread Text Messages.

  1 New Voicemail.

  I scroll through the missed calls list. Three are from Dionne, one is from Olly and the rest are from Mum.

  Shit. Mum will have been expecting me back last night. She must be frantic! How on earth could I have forgotten to ring her and let her know where I was?

  I dial the voicemail number and listen.

  “Hiya, it’s your mum. Why is your phone off? Did you get the checklist I sent you?...

  I thought you were cooking tea tonight. You could have let me know you were staying at Olly’s. I’m left on my own now. See you tonight.”

  Okay, not frantic, per se.

  I answer the questions in her message out loud, although there’s no one around to hear me. Which brings my thoughts around to the hypnotism and Amazing Brian. I have to find him today if it’s the last thing I do. And it may well be the last thing I do considering my inability to process this hangover.

  Groaning, I slide out of the bed and - not feeling up to walking just yet - crawl across the carpet into the bathroom. Stepping gingerly into the bath I turn on the shower overhead and breathe deeply as the hot stream of water massages my poor, dehydrated head.

  I pick up a small glass bottle off the shelf beside the bath. Mr Harrington's Homemade Shampoo. Mint & Rosemary Made From Scratch!

  Who in this world is Mr Harrington? And why is he making shampoo?

  I unscrew the cap and take a tentative sniff, but my left nostril still isn’t working properly and it doesn’t seem to have much of a smell.

  I shrug my shoulders and squirt the shampoo onto my hair, impressed by ho
w zealously it lathers up.

  While doing my shower type business I set to thinking. It only hurts a little bit.

  I need to come up with a master plan. Not the easiest thing to do when all of my brain power is focused on not dying of a hangover, right here in the shower. But I try my best to make a mental to-do list.

  1. Locate Brian Fernando.

  2. Shout at him for hypnotising me without even asking and potentially ruining my life.

  3. Make him unhypnotise me as quickly as possible.

  4. Get back ability to lie and make things up with Olly.

  5. Not that I want to lie to Olly. I just don’t want to be brutally honest with him about things that should be firmly locked inside my mind, like sex stuff and niggly little things that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.

  6. Get married to Olly (all the while ignoring the fact that I’m wearing the world’s most horrendous dress).

  7. Live a simple, peaceful, happy existence for ever and ever, the end.

  That seems like a good enough start.

  I step out of the shower, dry myself off and just as I’m about to pull on yesterday’s torn and bedraggled outfit, I notice a little pile of fresh clothes resting on the end of the bed.

  Huh? They weren’t there before.

  I pick them up. A bright white button up shirt and a pair of soft navy joggers. I inspect them. They are massive, far too big for me, which is a new experience. I glance over at my see-through Goonies t-shirt and ripped grey pants. The fresh giant sized clothes in front of me are the lesser of two evils and so I shrug and pull them on. The sleeves of the shirt fall down way past my arms, it makes me feel all dainty like Kylie, but isn’t entirely practical, so I roll them up to my elbows. I do the same with the jogging bottoms, which luckily have elastic around the bottom, and stay in place on my shins.

  I can’t find a comb in the room, and the only cosmetic I have with me is an iridescent lip gloss covered in handbag fluff. So I run my fingers through my towel dried hair, pinch my cheeks in an attempt to put some colour into my corpse-pale face and head out of the room to find Meg.