Yours Truly (11 page)

“
Well, hellooooo Brian!
”
Meg wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“
If I’d have known he lived here in this big old house I’d have been much nicer to him last night. Still…
I can always make amends.
”
She reaches discreetly into her top and hoists up her boobs so that they spill out of the tight navy halter she’s wearing.

“
How do I look?
”
she asks, wetting her finger and wiping mascara crumbs from under her eyes.

“
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 sl
ithering down like an eightie
s 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.
”

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.

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.
”