Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I close my eyes and I wish.

  I wish that Olly would forgive me for the awful stuff that I said.

  I wish that Barney Braithwaite could be trusted.

  I wish that Brian would come back and fix what he has broken.

  I wish that I’d never said those horrible things to Mum. My poor mum.

  I wish that it will all be okay.

  I wish that my hair was better.

  I wish that I had the courage to follow through on my dreams, like Meg.

  I cross my fingers and I wish and wish with all of my weary heart.

  In the moment that I make my wish a tiny robin redbreast flies out from the trees, sails across the waterfall and lands swiftly onto the log beside me.

  “Hello?” I whisper, not wanting to frighten it away. I stare as the robin shuffles its wings and dips it’s head down to taste the snow.

  “You're a handsome fellow.” I murmur, jolted by how the sound of my voice seems to muddy up this clean, untainted silence.

  My heart quickens and trips over itself as the robin scoots further along the log and then hops up onto my knee. Its head twitches as if it's listening out for something. I listen hard too, but there's nothing. It's completely, utterly still.

  I look around. Willing someone else to materialise and witness this, this miracle!

  Maybe it's a sign, I think to myself. A sign that everything is going to be okay. That my life might be in complete ruins right now but it might just figure itself out.

  “Are you a sign?” I whisper again, not quite feeling as daft as I thought I would, you know, having a natter with a bird.

  Quite unexpectedly, the robin cheeps. It's a high pitched, clear, beautiful sound.

  It hops off my knee and darts behind me. I spin around to watch it. It pauses for a second, twitches its head back at me, and then flies upwards, circling for a few moments before disappearing into the leaden sky.

  “Bye then Mr Robin.”

  I get up from the log and stretch out my legs. Tentatively, I step into the area of woods that the robin has just flown away from. I cast a glance over my shoulder and take one last long look at the waterfall. It may have stopped for now, frozen and stuck right in the middle of its journey to the river. But soon, spring will arrive and the waterfall will flow again, naturally confident of its purpose, where it's going and where it's supposed to end up.

  I wonder if spring will come for me too.

  Where will I end up?

  I walk forward, through the tall, barren trees. One hundred percent sure that a solitary little robin has shown me the way to get home.

  I don’t speak to anyone for the rest of the afternoon; I just sit in my room at The Old Whimsy (I’ve moved from Riley’s bedroom to upstairs), look out at the snow, reread Olly’s text message over and over, and get irritated at the fact that I’m unable to sleep - the only thing I actually feel like doing.

  At about five o'clock Dionne and Meg burst in, looking to stage some kind of cheer me up intervention.

  In the middle of them listing all the reasons why it’s not all bad, I silently take my phone from beside me on the bed, find the text message and hand the phone over to Meg. That pisses on their chips.

  Meg puts her hand to her chest while she’s reading Olly's message.

  “Shit. Oh Natty.”

  Dionne grabs the phone from her. “Gimme!”

  Her eyes widen and she tuts. “He can’t do that! He can’t call off the wedding!”

  “He did,” I say wearily. “And he had every right to.”

  “But… but all my hard work! All Mum’s hard work!”

  I glare at her, willing her to hear the stupidness of what she’s just said, but she doesn’t.

  “It wasn’t even that bad, what you said on the radio. I mean, obviously he’s like, embarrassed or whatever, but to call everything off! What a selfish git. Does he have any clue how much time I’ve spent on this? How long it took Bull to find that swan cake? What I had to do to -”

  “Shut Up Dionne!” I cry, unable to take anymore. “Just… shut up!”

  She jumps, like I’ve punched her. I’ve never raised my voice to her. No matter how many times I’ve wanted to, I never have. To her credit she shuts up at once. I instantly feel bad. I should apologise, but I don’t get chance.

  “I can see I’m totally not needed here,” she pouts.

  “Dionne, I’m -”

  “No. No need. I’m, like, out of here.”

  She stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “Aaaaaargh!”

  I put my head in my hands and exhale slowly.

  I’m so, so tired.

  “Come on, now,” Meg says putting her arms around me and pulling me into a hug.

  “It’s all ruined,” I cry. “It’s finished. I’m stuck here. Olly’s dumped me. I just continue to upset people and Brian’s still missing. It’s all sodding ruined.”

  Meg places her hand under my chin and gently lifts my head up.

  “It’s ruined today. That’s all. Just today.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  She puffs her cheeks out. “I honestly don’t know, pet. Wait it out… Wait for him to cool down…”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  Our whole relationship, just… poof! Dissolved because of a stupid radio interview. That can’t be it.

  Meg shrugs again. “I think you need a drink.”

  That observation is the most appealing thing that has happened all day.

  “I think I do.”

  “It’s the barn dance tonight.”

  “Oh crap. I agreed to help Riley with the food. He must be wondering where I am. I'm such a bloody let down!”

  “He’ll understand, I’m sure. Come on. Come up to my room, have a shower, we’ll get dressed all sexy and do our hair. And then we’ll go to a barn dance and drink lots and let loose a bit.”

  We look at each other for a few moments, the very notion of what is happening, the fact that my wedding has been called off, we’re stuck in a nowhere village and are now attending a barn dance, too peculiar to bear.

  Then Meg does this huge over exaggerated sad shrug. Like she's at an absolute, complete loss for what to say or do in this, the most unexpected of life situations.

  The expression on her face is ridiculous, and despite the fact that I want to bawl and blub, a little laugh trickles out instead.

  Meg jumps at the noise, pressing her hand to her chest in fright. And then she laughs too. It comes out like horn, in one loud blast. Her face creases with mirth, her eyebrows dropping low as she cracks up. That sets me off properly and I snort. We look at each other again and before I know what’s happening we’re rolling around on the bed, spluttering with laughter. There are tears streaming down our faces.

  “Oh Nohohohohoh!” I collapse, clutching my stomach. “This is just tohohohohohhoo weird!”

  As we laugh like loons the door bursts open and Dionne is standing there, her hair in rollers and her face as much like thunder as it’s possible to get with all that Botox in there.

  “Well I’m glad you find this all sooooo hilarious,” she snarls before storming out.

  And that makes us laugh even harder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  TEXT FROM: MUM

  Olly is in bits. What have you done!

  I’m in somewhat of a reckless mood. It could be to do with the double vodka and cranberry juice I’m currently sipping on but it’s more likely the fact that I’ve been dumped by my fiancé that’s making me feel like I could do just about anything and it wouldn’t matter. It’s a bittersweet sensation of pure abandon and a deep ache in the pit of my stomach.

  It’s not like I have anything to lose now, anyway.

  After many years of her trying and failing to get her hands on me, I’ve finally agreed to give Meg complete control over my ‘look’. Everything. Hair, make-up, outfit, shoes, jewellery…

  It’s an effective distraction
; the excitement that I might not come out of her style renovation looking like a drag queen and the fear that I most probably will.

  Meg’s face is full of concentration as she wraps strands of my hair carefully around a set of curling tongs. Her tongue pokes out of the side of her mouth as she focuses on not burning herself.

  “Are you sure it won’t look funny curled? It’s so short.”

  “No. Trust me.”

  I have no other choice but to trust her. She’s covered all the mirrors in the room with pillowcases, which (apart from being super creepy) makes sure I have no idea whether the curls she’s putting into my hair are Meg Ryan or Justin Timberlake circa 1998.

  Speaking of bands. “Are you doing the rude stuff with Jasper Hobbs?”

  “Nat!” She pulls my hair with the tongs.

  “What? I can’t be the only one blurting it out about my sex life around here. Fess up.”

  “He’s nice. Lovely. But no. I’m not doing the rude stuff with him.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Not through lack of flirting, mind. He’s got a girlfriend. It’s annoying because he’s the perfect man.”

  “That’s not what Riley thinks,” I say thinking back to his tale about Jasper Hobbs in the car two years ago. I consider telling Meg the story, but decide against it. It’s kind of sensitive. And I’ve already blurted enough secrets out around here. Besides which, there’s no point in warning her off if there’s nothing going on. “Have you met his girlfriend?” I ask.

  “No. She’s never around… I wonder if she even exists. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Jasper made her up to stop me from coming on to him. Oh Jeez. I bet that’s it. I’m vile.”

  “Shut up. Robbie fancies you.”

  “Oh God, I know. He won’t leave me alone. He’s always hanging around trying to do things for me. You know, yesterday he brought me hot water with honey in case the cold weather affected my voice!”

  I laugh. “He’s cute. Do you not fancy him? “

  “Nope.”

  “But you…”

  “I know. I was very drunk. He’s definitely not my type. He’s a friend type of bloke. It was kind of sweet with the honey water.”

  “Very sweet,” I say, thinking about Robbie and his cute baby face. “He really is cute. And he was great singing in the band.”

  “Natty. I see what you’re doing. Stop talking. Time to do your make-up.”

  After an hour of having my face painted, the vodka cranberries I’ve been sipping at are not doing quite enough to keep me from getting antsy.

  “Are you nearly done?” I whine. “I want to go to the dance.”

  “Stop moving your mouth, Cinderella,” Meg scolds. “It’ll make your eyeliner wobbly.”

  I harrumph as motionlessly as I can - no one likes wobbly eyeliner - and within a minute or two Meg announces that she is done.

  “About time.”

  I stand from the chair and shake out the pins and needles in my legs; the sudden movement after being sat down for so long making my eyes go bleary.

  “Woah!” I say flopping back into the chair.

  Meg takes the vodka glass away. “Don’t go so fast! You’ll have no room left.”

  I sulk.

  “Let me see then!”

  “You’re not dressed yet.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Meg hurries over to the closet and rifles through, eventually pulling out one of her dresses.

  “It doesn't fit me very well, but it's probably perfect for you,” she says handing it over.

  I’ve not seen this one before. It’s short and black with delicate beading running through the material in loops. I hold it out in front of me. The top half has a high neck at the front and a low back. The waist is nipped in and the skirt is flippy. It’s lovely. Sexy. But not something I could get away with.

  “Do you have something a bit more…”

  “Nope. That’s the only one. At least try it on!”

  Well, I suppose I did agree to relinquish all control over to Meg.

  I pull the dress over my head. It doesn’t feel tight, which is good. Meg zips up the side panel for me and ties the dress at the back of my neck.

  “Wowsers.” She beams, standing back to look at me.

  “Wowsers I look like a chump?”

  She ignores me and pulls out a pair of silver shoes. Dangerously high and a size too big.

  “They’re too big!”

  “Beauty is as beauty does,” she says solemnly.

  I don’t think she’s quite got the hang of that saying.

  “You can’t wear your trainers,” she continues. “You can put your wellies on to walk over to the barn, and then switch into these.”

  “They’ll fall off!”

  “We’ll stuff the toes.” Meg hurries over to her make-up bag and pulls out a couple of new foundation sponges from a pack. She grabs the shoes and pushes the sponges into the ends.

  I try them on again. I do a miniature walk across the room. Little shuffling steps. That’s not bad at all.

  Meg hands me a pair of silver drop earrings in the shape of snowflakes before declaring me done.

  She positions a mirror in front of me and after counting to three, pulls off the pillowcase with a flourish.

  Oh. My. Gosh!

  I gaze at my reflection, a slow smile creeping across my face.

  I look hot.

  My hair isn’t curly at all. It’s in a kind of bouffant at the top and flipped out at the ends and Meg has zigzagged the parting so that the tabby cat stripes are only half as obvious. I peer at my face. My eyes look big and dramatic, the eyeliner wings out and my eyelashes look all fluttery. My mammoth lips actually look very sexy, lined in a way that makes them look slightly smaller, and dabbed with clear lip glass so that there's the merest hint of shine.

  And the dress! It flatters my smaller boobs, skims softly over my hips and... and I have a waist!

  “You are GOOD!” I hug Meg who is clapping with glee.

  “Told ya! You look like Bridget Bardot.”

  I turn back to the mirror.

  “You know what? I actually do!” I chuckle with excitement. Woah.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t quite barn dance attire…” Meg apologises with a giggle.

  “No, it isn’t,” I agree, patting my newly shiny locks. “It’s way better!”

  Unable to drive anywhere in the snow, I throw on some wellies and my puffa jacket and trundle alongside Meg, to halfway up the hill to where Mrs Grimes' barn is. We’re carrying a huge rainbow striped golfing umbrella to protect our outfits and hair from the flurry of snowflakes that are still falling thick and fast.

  Meg looks gorgeous. She’s donned her favourite cherry red tea dress and put her hair in a sophisticated marcel wave. Her lips are painted in the same red as her dress and she’s brought a black faux fur shrug to put on once we get inside and take our coats off.

  As stunning as she looks, I find myself, for once, not feeling like the less impressive sidekick. The feeling of abandon flickering away inside of me and the fact that I know I have never looked as put together as this gives me a sense of confidence I’ve never had. I am rather enjoying it. I’m Audrey Hepburn, graceful and poised. Ooh, or Jessica Rabbit, ginger and sultry. No. Jessica Rabbit is a cartoon. I’m Beyoncé a veritable firecracker of…

  I’m a bit tiddly, I think.

  There’s a tent erected outside of the barn where Meg and I change out of our wellies and coats and put them on one of the designated hangers, manned by an old lady reading a Mills and Boon.

  Slipping into our high heels we totter across from the tent to the barn and open the door, being careful to shut it again just as quickly so that the blizzard doesn’t enter along with us.

  So! This is what a barn dance looks like!

  The party is already in full swing. People are milling about with pints of amber coloured ale; some are dancing on a makeshift dance floor in the centre of the room. Ohmigosh, over there is a group of
blokes dressed kind of like Morris men, bopping about with swords.

  I look around, impressed with what Mrs Grimes has put together. The crooked beams on the ceiling are strung with colourful lanterns and fairy lights, casting a warm, jovial glow upon the room. Chunky bales of hay are dotted haphazardly here and there, tables from the pub are covered in fresh linen and surrounded by chattering locals and right at the front is a big handmade banner, carefully stencilled in electric blue paint and reading ‘Save The Old Whimsy Barn Dance’.

  In front of the blue banner, the band is playing. It’s the same band I saw in The Old Whimsy. Robbie, some short redheaded guy I don’t know, and the hairy bass playing nurse who checked on me when I fainted. They’re playing some kind of upbeat folk song, and look like they’re having a hell of a time, dancing and stamping their feet as they play their instruments.

  Riley isn’t with them and I instinctively peer around the room trying to spot him.

  There he is.

  He’s stood behind a long wooden table, carving up a smoky hog roast for hungry dancers. He’s clearly busy and doesn’t notice me come in, which is exactly as I want it to be.

  Obviously.

  After what I said on the radio, I suspect any interaction with him would probably cause me to spontaneously combust with pure mortification.

  I ignore that distressing train of thought and follow Meg to a rough and ready bar area: a table, a few barrels, buckets of beer, bottles of wine and lots of paper cups, and help myself to a cup of wine.

  “The band is brill,” Meg shouts over the noise. “I’m going to dance!”

  I don’t quite feel like being left alone yet, but Meg looks very keen to bop and I don’t want to put any more of a downer on things then I already have done.

  I wave her off and lurk at the edges of the room, jigging a little in time to the music.

  The buzz of partying people and deafening music isn’t doing as great a job of distracting me as I’d hoped, and as I stand on the fringes of it all I find my mind drifting to Olly.

  It’s almost as if the whole thing is yet to sink in properly. An entire relationship just vanished with a text message. My stomach lurches as I think about the fact that the brand new perfect family I had been counting on having with Olly, the escape I’ve been wanting for so long, has just slipped away. It surprises me that I’m surprised. Experience tells me that men leave when the going gets tough. That’s what they do. Why should Olly be any different?