Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Now I’ll be stuck. Stuck living with Mum until I can save for a place of my own. Stuck in an everlasting childhood. Getting up, going to work, going to bed. Over and over and over.

  Oh shit. Mum. All her hard work has been for nothing. Damn it.

  My thoughts echo back through my head and it occurs to me how weak I sound, like the anti-feminist. But when you’ve spent so much time with an idea, an expectation stuck so firmly in your head - I am going to be married. I am going to have a family of my own. I will be a grown up. It’s bloody hard to take when that notion has disappeared. You're left not knowing what the hell is supposed to happen to you next.

  I think about Brian, wherever he is, doing whatever he’s doing, with no idea that he has taken an innocent woman’s life and sent it into free fall. I try to send a message to him telepathically.

  What? You never know. Hypnotism, psychic abilities - they’re all the same jurisdiction, kind of.

  I close my eyes so tightly that I can see imprints of the barn lanterns on my retinas.

  Brian, if you can hear me, please come back. Please come back and fix me so I can have my life back.

  Hmmm. Actually, politeness has not been working well so far. I close my eyes again.

  Brian, you bastard. You better come back and sort this out. Or else I will… I will be very mad. I’m unstable enough as it is at the moment. Who knows what I’m capable of doing. If you get this message in your brain I strongly suggest that you come back from wherever you are and fix me at once. At once!

  I open my eyes and half expect the doors to burst open, Brian lumbering in wearing his jumper and announcing that he is going to make everything better. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

  I go to drink my wine and notice that the cup is already empty. God. Everything is going wrong!

  I wander back over to the bar area to get some more and catch my reflection in the silver beer pump. Oh. That’s right. I look hot tonight. Nothing at all like a woman who has just been dumped. Whose very future has just been snatched away. In fact, I look like very put together. A woman in control of her life, a woman who does not get dumped but does the dumping.

  Looks are so deceiving.

  I pour myself another drink, lift my head up a little higher and make an executive decision to try to have fun.

  Okay. Fun.

  Fun, fun, fun. Fun times.

  I should bolster myself up for all this fun I’m about to start having but honestly, I’m at a bit of a loss.

  It’s not like I can go over to random villagers and start off some witty repartee, is it? No doubt I would just insult someone else with the truth-telling. I mean, I would almost certainly tell that man over there that when he dances he looks like a cockerel. And that woman by the food table? I would likely let slip that that particular shade of custard yellow she’s wearing makes her look very pasty faced indeed. I would almost certainly do that.

  And so I drink. I drink because I want to fuel this burgeoning feeling of recklessness inside my tummy. I drink so that I no longer care about this worrying situation, what I might say or do. I drink to let loose. To relax. It’s par for the course after a break up, aren’t them the rules?

  I drink because it’s not like I have much else to do.

  I’m just pouring my third paper cup of wine when the barn doors swing open and the resulting blast of cold air sends a collective shiver around the room. The new arrivals are Dionne, who is wearing a pair of tight leather trousers and has her platinum hair scraped back into a high ponytail; Jean-Paul Gaultier on his lead and wearing his tartan bow; and Honey, petite and beautiful in a pale pink, expensive looking chiffon dress. They look stunning, linking arms and laughing together like BFFs.

  Apparently oblivious to the admiring and curious looks they’re getting, they saunter through the room, Dionne towards me and Honey making a beeline for Riley.

  “You look nice,” Dionne chirps, her face flushed prettily from the cold.

  “So do you,” I say absently, peeking over to where Honey has draped herself across Riley, shooting me ‘hands off’ glances and nibbling his ear. Is it me or does he look irritated by her attention and the ear nibbling? But then he is trying to carve up a hog roast, which isn't easy at the best of times.

  “I told Mum about what happened,” Dionne says. “She cried. You should ring her.”

  “I will,” I sigh, thinking that being on the other end of one of Mum’s meltdowns is the last place I want to be right now. I don't think I could cope! “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Good. You also need to like, cancel everything. Mum’s going to email you the details. She said she’s well too embarrassed to do it herself.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  Dionne switches Jean-Paul Gaultier to her other arm, a sour look on her face. “Of course, I understand?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s it? You’re just going to give up? Just like that. The wedding’s off. Oh well! All that hard work down the drain. No more Olly?”

  “Yes, I’m going to give up.” I look at her, answering at once. “What else am I supposed to do? I can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Can you really see me dragging him down the aisle by his ear? You WILL take this woman to be your wife, Olly. You WILL!”

  “Olly’s just mad, yeah. You can at least try to sort it out.”

  “Dionne, I can’t even talk to him. A simple conversation is out of the question because I don’t know what I’d end up saying to him. I have no clue what horror is about to pop out of my mouth. I’d make things worse and he’ll hate me even more than he does now.”

  “Hmm,” Dionne considers. “Maybe I can talk to him.”

  I don’t want this conversation. I don’t want to talk about Olly right now. I just want to forget. Just for tonight I want to forget. So I change the subject to something that will distract Dionne enough not to force this conversation.

  “Your make-up looks ace.”

  It does. She has gold sparkles all over her eyelids. It’s very funky.

  “Honey did it,” she beams, thankfully taking the bait. “She’s, like, totally amazing. These are her leather trousers too. I feel like Sandy at the end of Grease. You know she’s not even mad at you.”

  “Who? Sandy?”

  “Honey, duh. After what you said on the radio about Riley. About wanting to bonk him. She said that you’re nothing to worry about.”

  Oh.

  I’m nothing to worry about.

  She’s probably right. I glance over towards the food table again, but Honey's not there. She’s dancing, her arms waving around delicately to the music. She looks like a French ballerina.

  Dionne follows my gaze. “Oh look. Honey’s dancing! She’s so awesome. I’m going to dance too. Here.” She bundles Jean-Paul Gaultier into my arms and struts over to join her new best friend forever on the dance floor.

  I gaze into Jean-Paul Gaultier’s big soulful brown eyes. He huffs grumpily.

  “I know how you feel, Jean-Paul Gaultier,” I say, hugging him close. “I know just how you feel.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  TEXT FROM: MUM

  Will you answer your blasted phone!

  By about quarter past ten the alcohol is starting to take effect. I’m feeling nicely warm and relaxed, Jean-Paul Gaultier’s attached to his lead beside me and we’re dancing away in our own corner of the room.

  The party has revved up a few gears too. There’s been a display of long sword dancing by the men in the Morris type outfits. Apparently it’s a traditional Yorkshire dance and the Little Trooley team are national champions. The dance was both peculiar and entertaining, especially to Dionne who, watching the men in their short pants and funny hats, clinking swords and hopping, failed to cover the tears of laughter running down her face. I'll admit I had a sneaky giggle too. And there’s a tombola in which a bottle of vintage champagne was won by Barney Braithwaite. Hello? Are you there, Karma? It’s me, Natalie.
<
br />   The lights have dimmed now and the band has started to play songs that I recognise. Robbie really is a wonderful singer, blasting out a Sam Cooke song through the microphone, tunefully and with astonishing soul.

  With almost everyone full up on hog roast and apple sauce, Riley has finished his stint at the food table and is up on the stage with the band, engrossed in his guitar playing with a dozy smile on his face.

  I don’t quite know how to feel about the fact that he doesn’t appear to notice I’m here. You know, I bet he probably has noticed me, but has been scared shitless by my declaration of amorous feelings towards him on the radio. He probably thinks that if he chats to me, or even glances my way for a second, I’ll start salivating like a rabid, sexed up bitch on heat, and pounce on him, tearing off his cashmere sweater and his undies with my teeth.

  Mortifying.

  “Come and dance, you boring git. You’ve been stood there all night. The point of this thing is to have fun.”

  It’s Meg. She must have danced with every man in the place by now. Her cheeks are shiny and pink, and her hair has loosened out of the Marcel wave. She looks brilliant.

  “All right,” I acquiesce, tying Jean-Paul Gaultier’s lead to the foot of the chair next to me and following Meg to the dance floor.

  The band segue into a fantastic, bass-heavy version of She Wants to Move by N.E.R.D, and though the rest of the villagers don’t seem to have ever heard of it, everyone cheers and start to dance like maniacs.

  I jump about, absorbing the deep vibrations of the music at my feet, and occasionally look up to where Riley is playing. Man oh man, he looks sexy with that guitar.

  Dionne and Honey are across from us on the dance floor. They look like they too have been drinking and are now exhibiting some sort of sexy dancing duet, much to the disgust of Mrs Grimes whose eyes are on stalks as she waltzes by with Alan.

  I glug the rest of my drink and gesture to Meg that I’m going for a refill.

  “Get me one!” she shouts, swaying to and fro in time to the song.

  I stumble over to the bar and check on Jean-Paul Gaultier. He’s sipping from the water I got for him earlier and being fed hog roast by everyone who passes by. He's one very happy poodle.

  “So, you must be Natalie. The girl with the curious truth-telling problem,” says a smooth, well-to-do voice from beside me.

  I turn around and recognise Jasper Hobbs, smiling a rather friendly smile as he helps himself to a bottle of beer from a metal bucket.

  “That’s me!” I say, not quite sure how to behave towards a man I’m supposed to hate, but don’t really know.

  Jasper holds out his hand. He’s very handsome. Not particularly tall, but well built and wearing an exquisitely cut navy blue suit. His teeth are white and his skin tanned, his dark hair artfully foppish. He looks expensive.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I find myself saying. “You’ll probably get into trouble.”

  His expression is amused.

  “I suppose you’re right. I am the big bad villain of this entire drama.”

  “Well…” I shrug uncomfortably, and as if to confirm his statement a few people end their conversations, look over to cast him the stink eye and start whispering behind their hands.

  From the dance floor Mrs Grimes spots Jasper and does a tiny ‘O’ shape with her mouth. She marches over, a massive scowl on her thin face.

  “Oh no. Busted,” Jasper says in a mock shaky voice. A wayward chuckle escapes my mouth.

  “Mr Hobbs,” Mrs Grimes sniffs, her bottom lip wobbling. “It is not appropriate for you to be here.”

  Jasper looks at me, eyebrows raised, before smiling toothily at Mrs Grimes.

  “Oh come on, Edna. It all looks like such fun. You've done a marvellous job. I’ve only come for one teeny tiny little beer.”

  “But this event is only on because of you,” Mrs Grimes replies, putting her hands onto her narrow hips. “Because of your dastardly plans to take over our pub. It’s you we’re trying to stop. You’ve got a flaming nerve, young man.”

  “It’s a board decision, Edna. It’s not entirely my fault.” Jasper holds up his palms, the universal signal of innocence.

  “It’s Mrs Grimes. That charm won’t work on me, Jasper, lad. Believe me. I’m immune.”

  “Really? I always thought you were rather fond of us Hobbs men.”

  At this Mrs Grimes flushes and seethes.

  Meg, having spotted Jasper, hurries over, beaming.

  “Hello Jasper!” she says fluttering her false eyelashes.

  “Meg!” he kisses her on both cheeks, equally delighted to see her. “What an utter pleasure to see you, and looking so beautiful too.”

  Meg spins around in her dress, leaning over slightly so that her boobs look as big as possible.

  “I think you should leave,” Mrs Grimes says to Jasper, studiously ignoring Meg’s escaping bosom.

  Jasper rolls his eyes comically, putting his hand to his chest.

  “Mrs Grimes, you are breaking my heart. Let’s see. How about if I donate one thousand pounds to your cause. Would you let me stay then?”

  Mrs Grimes looks as confused as I feel. Why on earth would he donate a thousand pounds to the very cause that is opposing his plans to buy out The Old Whimsy.

  “But why - “ I begin, before it hits me.

  Of course. He knows that a thousand pounds or however much money raised tonight isn’t really going to change anything. It isn’t going to make a dent in the cost of keeping the pub open. A thousand pounds is nothing to him. He’s pretty much mocking the whole event. He knows that he’s going to take over the pub no matter what happens.

  Mrs Grimes appears to struggle with the offer, frowning and twisting her hands together in distress.

  “Oh go on, Mrs Grimes,” Meg pleads. “He only wants one beer!”

  “Two thousand pounds. And one drink,” Mrs Grimes says eventually, lifting her chin up and glaring at Jasper through her spectacles.

  Jasper chuckles and pulls out a chequebook from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, as if this is the early nineties and people carry around cheque books on nights out. I wait, expecting him to produce a Filofax too. He doesn't, of course. “You drive a hard bargain, Edna. Father always said you were a feisty lady.”

  “Oh I know what you’re doing, Sonny Jim,” Mrs Grimes spits. “But if you want to throw your money away then that’s fine by me. And don’t think it won’t make a difference to our cause, because it will. We’ll save The Old Whimsy. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Whatever you say, Edna,” Jasper grins, handing over the cheque to Mrs Grimes who snatches it and stalks off.

  “Wow!” Meg says, looking at Jasper with reluctant admiration.

  I have to admit, it is kind of exciting, the way he just paid that much money for a bottle of beer. But also, I don’t know, a bit vulgar.

  Jasper swigs from his beer, eyeing the room. His gaze rests on Dionne and Honey, who oblivious to anything else that is going on are now grinding dirtily in the middle of the dance floor.

  Meg follows his gaze and frowns.

  “Come dance with Natalie and me!” she says suddenly, grabbing his hand and then mine and dragging us to the dance floor.

  She gives me a look, her grip on my arm tighter than Russell Brand's trousers. I have no choice but to follow.

  I’m not a particularly good dancer. All right, I’m properly shit. So shit, in fact, that I got kicked out of ballet school as a kid for having a sickle foot and ‘about as much natural grace as an over boiled broccoli’. So while Meg is shaking her bum at Jasper, and Jasper is half dancing and watching Meg’s bum, I’m sort of hopping from side to side and clapping in time to the music. I look like a PE teacher.

  Suddenly the tempo of the music changes and the band begin to play Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow by The Shirelles.

  Meg makes a swift move towards Jasper in an attempt to get a slow dance, her eyes alight at the very thought of getting up
close and personal. But before she can reach him Uncle Alan appears, grabs a hold of her hand and starts to spin her around the dance floor. As he waltzes her off into the crowd I’m pretty sure I see her crying out. It looks like she’s saying ‘Nooooooo’.

  “Dance with me.” Jasper holds out his hand.

  I glance up at the band and see Riley eyeing us while he strums his guitar.

  Oh. So he’s paying attention now, is he?

  My logic is likely probably skewed because of all the alcohol, and despite the fact that I find this man to be arrogant and a bit smug, I smile back at him and say:

  “I’d love to dance with you.”

  As we move across the dance floor, passing Dionne who is slow dancing with an elderly local and Honey, whose eyes linger on us for a curiously long time, we reach Meg and Alan spinning wildly on the floor. She catches my eye and grimaces before Alan twirls her off into dance floor oblivion.

  “You think I’m a prat, don’t you?” Jasper announces out of nowhere, his plummy voice at odds with the broad northern accents I can hear conversing around me.

  The forceful fizzing in my tummy urges me to answer his question.

  “Yes. I mean. I think what you’re doing is prattish. The whole hostile takeover of The Old Whimsy. It’s uncalled for, I think.”

  He looks delighted with my straight up honesty but then it occurs to him what I’ve just said and he pulls a face.

  “You know, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Natalie”

  “No?”

  “Not at all. Riley is behind on every one of his bills -”

  “How do you know?”

  He smirks. “Oh, I have ways. And frankly, if I don’t force the takeover, his obstinacy means he’ll go bankrupt.”