Eternally North
Authors: Tillie Cole
Eternally North
By
Tillie Cole
Copyright © 2013 Tillie Cole
All
rights reserved.
Cover
© 2013 Tillie Cole
All
rights reserved.
Cover
Design by Ed Williamson Artwork
Edited
by Rachel Weallans and Kia Thomas
eBook
Edition
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This
is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The
characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used
fictitiously.
The
publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark
ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned
in this book.
For
my Father-In-Law, Jim.
Taken too soon and will be forever
missed.
I hope you got your gin and tonic in Heaven!
And
to all those taken by, living with,
or who are survivors of cancer
– you are my inspiration.
Mam and Dad, this means you!
Table of Contents
Out with the old…
Let’s start with an
introduction.
The name’s Munro,
Natasha Munro – sorry I`ve always wanted to say that!
I’m a
twenty-eight-year-old high school teacher from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in
England – well, a farm just on the outskirts of town – and I’d
class myself as fun with a bubbly personality, and before you ask, no
– that’s not code for me being ugly, but heck, I ain’t no Cindy
Crawford either! But I am fab-u-lous
and
totally know how to
work it!
“What
do
you
look like then?” I hear you ask.
Well, where do I begin?
I have long, dark brown
hair that hangs to the middle of my back, large brown eyes and light
olive skin; I’m happy with my colouring. I have a small, straight
nose with average-sized lips, a beauty spot under my left eye and
dimples which I find excellent at getting me out of trouble!
I am not fat by any
means, but I am not skinny or slender either – I like to think I'm
a whole lot of va-va-voom tied up in a Coke-shaped bottle.
I'm five foot five: you
know, average. My chest is...
ample
and – oh hell, who am I
kidding? – my hips are in that category too, but my waist is small
and pinches me in in all the right places.
Like many women, my
main area of trouble is my stomach – my bloody ever-so-slightly
curved stomach – but I cope well enough and get a little help from
my daily double-wearing of Spanx to fix this little problem – that
ensures I can continue to chow down on my daily doses of French
pastries and Cadbury’s chocolate without too much guilt.
I bet I know what
you’re thinking – where the heck is this little tale going and
why is her story different from any other? What happened in
her
life to make her stand out?
The truth is that what
happened to me could happen to anyone. I’m telling you this story
as sometimes truly extraordinary things can happen to ordinary
people, and sometimes it’s good to be reminded of that. My best
friend once joked that my life would make a good book and so, here it
is: my life laid out for your enjoyment.
Before we start, you
need to know that this story isn’t anything paranormal or so beyond
the realms of reality that it’s incomprehensible. There are no
wizards or sparkly vampires that will appear and sweep me off my
feet. There are no hobbits or elves that will request I sacrifice my
life for the sake of all mankind, and I hope I’m not one of these
annoyingly weak supposed-heroines who set the feminist movement back
a few decades with the ridiculous choices they make.
Instead, this is the
whistle-stop memoir of how a lower-middle-class girl from the north
of England one day changed the way she lived her life and set off on
a bumpy path that ultimately led her to her own slice of the
happily-ever-after pie.
So folks, grab yourself a bowl of
popcorn, a glass of wine (I would suggest you make it a large one)
and when you´re sitting comfortably, I´ll begin.
"Well, slap my
arse and call me Sally!"
The scene is set:
groaning, moaning, the reverse cowboy and a rip-roaring orgasmic
scream – and me, turning on the light to my supposedly devoted
boyfriend going rodeo with his waif of a secretary in front of my
very wide and disbelieving eyes.
What a frickin'
welcome home this was turning out to be!
If someone had tried to
tell me what I would find on the inside of my front door that
evening, I would never have believed them. However, taking in the
image that has since been ingrained in my long-term memory left me in
no doubt about the reality I was facing.
With a whip of his head
in my direction, Nathan, my lovely but somewhat currently compromised
boyfriend, turned a vibrant shade of scarlet and said in a flustered
yet surprisingly laid-back manner.
"Hunny Bun, you’re
back early… erm... this is awkward… it… shit… it just…well
happened…we were wet… mmm… from the rain and… well… we
needed to dry off and things just kind of snowballed into...
into…
this
..." he drawled on without apology while
pointing down at their conjoined bodies.
Like I hadn't already
noticed that his chipolata of a penis was lodged in a vice between
his secretary’s legs. My eyes were practically bulging out of their
sockets. Was he for real? What a total and utter wanker!
Nathan straightened,
pulling his living, breathing blow-up doll with him, never severing
their connection, and held out a placating hand towards my furious
stare.
"Sweetie, listen,
I love you, and now you’re here, well, I’ve kind of had this
fantasy… so, ah, why don't you come here and, you know, join in?
Triple the people, triple the fun!"
I don't know what
bothered me more: the ménage a trios invitation or the fact that
Little Miss Twig had continued slowly grinding on my
soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s dick like a Black and Decker drill bit
whilst he explained to his, shall we say, less-than-impressed
current
girlfriend exactly why he was making the beast with two backs with
his employee. God only knows how I mustered up the Thor-like strength
to restrain myself from launching forward and fly-kicking him, then
smacking the waif directly in the porn-film smile that was plastered
on her overly plumped-up lips!
"Gee,
Hunny
Bun
, that sounds tremendously tempting, but I think I’ll
pass. In fact, I'll tell you what,” I said in the
overly-patronising voice normally saved for only the stupidest of
kids that I teach, my index finger firmly in the air to exaggerate my
point. “I’ll just grab my things and get out of your hair and
then never see you again... as long as I live... how does that
sound?"
I didn’t stay to hear
the response and quickly ran into the bedroom, away from the carnal
sculptures currently making arse-shaped indents on my prized Italian
leather L-shaped sofa.
I bee-lined straight to
the sliding wardrobe and drawers and proceeded to pack my largest
suitcase as fast as humanly possible.
What a prick!
With every
hammock-sized bra and frilly pair of socks I pushed into my leopard
print suitcase, I became more and more infuriated. The sheer audacity
of him – and her! Did she not realise the impact of her little
romp?
Sheesh
, mental overload: my so-called knight in shining
armour, the future father to my kids, was apparently a closet Hugh
Hefner.
Fighting the urge to
commit cold-blooded murder, I lugged my bulging suitcase in the
direction of the front room, getting myself ready for my whore of a
boyfriend to begin the begging and pleading for forgiveness by
planning witty and dry-humoured comebacks that would make him feel as
bad as I did right then.
You would think that’s
what would happen next, right? That he'd grovel, tell me it was a
mistake, that he loved me and that his fling meant nothing?
Not in this story,
folks!
I opened the door to
the front room, my anger spilling over, and ready to demand, well,
something – any form of apology, some explanation, a reason, just
anything!
But, there he was, my sad fucking version of Ron
Jeremy still pumping into that over-processed Barbie in the budget
rendition of
Debbie Does Dallas
.
Did I not even exist?
As if he was still doofing the blonde, carrying on regardless after
the love of his life had just caught him in the middle of vaccinating
another gal with his meat injection!
Lord have mercy!
Who
and
what
have I been with for the last three years?
Like a curtain
signalling the end of a performance, a red mist descended over me,
and the inner queen bitch I had nurtured and relied on all these
years reared her fabulous, if not slightly psychotic, head and
screamed,
"You are such a
dickhead, Nathan! Are you seriously going to continue boning her
while I’m here, while I’m packing to leave you?"
He was. That was
evident by the fact that he was still wheezing profusely and
struggling to hold her legs-a-kimbo at the perfect angle in the air.
Nathan had terrible asthma and any over-exertion caused him to sound
like a kettle brought to the boil.
"Mmm… aww,”
wheeze
, “… baby… aww… shit,”
wheeze
, “…
yeah… there… slap me hard, that’s it! Like that...”
wheeeeeeze
…
What? Slap me?
That’s new!
Nathan then proceeded
to flip the twig into a wheelbarrow position and resume the vigorous
pummelling, avoiding any eye contact with me standing frozen in his
line of sight.
"
Arghhh
,
you know what, Nathan?" I bellowed over the grunts. "
You
,
are a waste of time; you are selfish, arrogant and for the record –”
I swiftly turned to Miss Humps-A-Lot, " –
not
that good
in the sack, so knock off the fake orgasms, Blondie. His dick's way
too small to deserve those kinds of noises!” With a cough and
splutter, Shade Platinum Blonde 01 kindly turned down the pipes.
In hindsight, it was
probably not the most productive thing to have done, but I had a
sudden urge to turn to my massively unfaithful boyfriend and ask,
"Nathan, out of curiosity, why did you never use the Kama Sutra
moves on me?"
He looked me dead in
the eye and replied with a cold smile. "That's easy,
Hunny
Bun
. Elephants don't manoeuvre too well."
Well, on that note...
After taking the
dignified high road of flipping the middle finger at the protagonists
of the blue movie currently being enacted in my, no, my
former
living room, I made my way out into the cold, dark street, dragging
my suitcase with me. I crammed it into my little banger of a car and
decided on a walk. I needed to clear my head, bloody hell, not just
clear it, I think only a good old lobotomy or an extensive course of
ECT would be the only thing that could erase the last thirty minutes
from my frazzled brain.
I set off wobbling down
the road in my work-appropriate moderately high heels and laughed at
the fact that the contents of my life were currently all stuffed into
a rusty Nissan Micra.
