Yours Truly (18 page)

Either way, I’m glad to be out of that bizarre place. What was I thinking? Getting all lusty and dangerous with a stranger in a kitchen. Maybe it was the kitchen. Maybe magnificent interior design is a real turn on for me.

Oh dear.

I feel awful. Like a bad, terrible, hideous person. Olly’s probably sat at home in his pants watching Dave Ja Vu and eating spaghetti hoops straight from the tin; a sa
d and lonely vision of handsome
ness and heartbreak. And here I am almost…
well…
almost kissing another man.

What is wrong with me? I haven’t felt lust like that since the first time I saw Patrick Dempsey going shirtless in
Grey’s Anatomy
(Season One Episode One about five minutes in). And now…
now I can’t stop thinking about that look in Riley’s silver eyes. Like he wanted to take me roughly in the barn…

Meg’s question filters through.

“
I’m sorry. We had to leave… I - I’ve been unfaithful.
”
My voice is all wibbly.

“
What? Whaaaat?
”

Meg makes a bizarre yelping
noise and swerves over onto the hard shoulder, attracting the anger and beeping horns of her fellow drivers. She flips them the V’s and once we’re safely at the side of the road, unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to me, eyes shining like they always do when she’s about to receive some really good gossip.

“
What happened?
”
she breathes.

“
Well, we were cooking,
”
I say lowering my eyes in embarrassment.
“
And Riley made me suck my finger
-
”

“
Ew! Gosh! I wouldn’t have pegged him for a finger fetishist.
”

“
No, no, my finger was bleeding.
”

“
Ohmigod. A sadomasochist?!
”

“
NO! I cut my finger,
”
I say showing her the plaster.
“
And it wouldn’t stop bleeding. He said sucking it would make it stop.
”

“
And did it?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Ooh, I didn’t know that. Isn’t that odd?
”

“
Yes, it’s odd. And then he looked at me funny.
”

“
Funny how?
”

“
Funny, sexy funny. You know.
”

“
Oh yes…
I know,
”
she says looking nostalgic for a moment.
“
And then?
”

“
And then it went quiet and we were looking at each other for what felt like ages.
”

“
Yes?
”

“
And then…
I ran away.
”

“
What? He chased y
ou? Like role
playing? Are you into that kind of thing, Natty?
”

“
No, you great pervert! I ran away from the kitchen and into the pub, to get you.
”

Meg’s shoulders slump.
“
So, you didn’t have sexual relations with that man?
”

“
God no! What do you think I am?
”

“
And you didn’t kiss him?
”

“
No. Definitely not.
”

“
You daft bugger! What are you flapping about? That’s not unfaithful. You didn’t do anything wrong.
”

Losing interest, she digs out a packet of half eaten Maltesers from the dashboard compartment.

“
I thought about kissing him. That’s just as bad.
”

Meg sighs.

“
Nat, do you honestly believe that Olly has never thought about having sex with another woman?
”

I ponder for a moment.

“
Well, maybe that woman from Mad Men. The secretary lady with the -
”

“
Obviously her. But I mean women that he meets. At work, in the pub, the gym?
”

“
No,
”
I say immediately.
“
He’s not like that. He thinks I’m almost perfect.
”

Meg rolls her eyes.

“
Fine. What I’m saying is that thinking about something isn’t the same as doing it.
”

“
No,
”
I say, still unsure.

“
So you’ve done nothing wrong.
”
Meg folds her arms and nods decisively.
“
And we’ve left now. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again.
”

“
Yes.
”
I nod, feeling suddenly bereft.
“
I won’t ever see him again. It’s all good. It’s fine.
”

“
All good in the hood,
”
Meg says putting her seatbelt back on.
“
Anyways, talking of sexual activity, did you see the man I was chatting to, the one you rudely dragged me away from?
”

“
Yeah. Sorry about that.
”

“
It was that Hobbs fella.
”

Jasper Hobbs? The man who wants to buy Riley’s pub?

“
He was lovely. Lovely!
”
Meg is saying, a wistful expression crossing her face.
“
Polite, funny, gorgeous.
”
She drops her voice and raises her eyebrows.
“
Rich.
”

“
Hmmm,
”
I mutter distractedly, wondering whether Jasper Hobbs is even allowed inside the pub or whether he just snuck in.

“
He’s very interesting, you know. He does music producing in his spare time. Like a creative hobby away from all the Hobbs businessy stuff. He knows so many people in the music biz. He’s going to get in touch with this guy he knows, Ian. See if they can’t get me a demo sorted.
”

I turn to Meg in surprise. She’s always talked about wanting to be a pop singer, for as long as I can remember, really. But I never really took her seriously. I just thought it was one of those things she chats about while pissed. She’s never really done anything about it.

“
Singing?
”
I ask.

“
Yeah. I didn’t say anything because you’ve got all this going on.
”
She waves her hands around as if my troubles are right here in the car.
“
But I’m thinking it's about time I
quit voice
over. Start, you know, seeking my dream.
”
She blushes as she says this.

Seeking her dream? We don’t seek our dreams. We just talk about them and chicken out. That’s what we do!

“
Are you sure?
”
I say, shocked.

She shrugs.
“
I just… I want to stop going on and on about how much I want to sing. I want to actually sing. In front of people. I want a bit more recognition. I want to be…
a pop star. I want to finally go for it and make it happen. It's about time to make the big leap!
”

Well this is a turn up for the books.

I feel odd. Not jealous but... I guess I always saw Meg's popstar dream like I see my restaurant dream. Something to fantasize about when life is tough or tedious. Nothing more. Not a real life thing.

“
Did you give him your number?
”
I ask, trying to be excited for Meg, in spite of myself.

“
No. I don’t know it. I gave him yours.
”

“
I hope he rings, Meg.
”
I say, smiling at her and squeezing her hand.

“
Oh. He will,
”
she says, grinning back.
“
Course he will!
”

It takes us another two hours to get back into Manchester. It’s slightly disappointing to go from somewhere as beautiful and serene as Little Trooley to the high rises and suburban estates of Manchester. It all seems a little greyer somehow.

Meg pulls up outside Dionne’s terrace.

“
Which one are you moving into?
”
she asks.

“
That one.
”
I point at the house next to and above Dionne’s.

“
You weren’t kidding when you said it was next door!
”

“
Nope. There it is. My marital home.
”

“
Dionne. Next door. All the time. Nat-
”

“
I’m going in, I’m already late. Do you want to come in for a brew?
”

“
Nah. As much as I’d LURVE to spend time with your lovely sister, I have things to do, songs to write, plans to make!
”

I lean over to give her
a kiss on the cheek, i
t’s nice to see
her so excited.

“
Right,
”
she says firmly.
“
Enjoy your night with the John-Paul Gaultier. And remember, don’t let Olly know you’re back. At least not until we can contact another hypnotist to sort you out.
”

“
Okay. Yes.
”

I plan to use the entire free evening to
g
oogle local hypnotists and call each one until I find someone able to fix me.

Meg waits for me to get out of the car. But I don’t. I sit there, worried.

“
What is it?
”

“
What if Dionne asks me questions? Or Mum?
”

“
You love those guys. I’m sure they won’t ask anything you wouldn’t be happy to answer honestly.
”

“
I suppose. Thanks, Meg.
”

“
No worries. Love you. And remember…
don’t let Olly know you’re back, not unless you want disaster - the sequel, kay?
”

“
Kay,
”
I say grinning and getting out of the Beetle. I’ve hardly shut the door before she takes off down the road, leaving a puff of engine smoke behind her.

I shake my head and smile before heading down the front path of Dionne’s house. Ignoring the ‘Let’ sign looming large in the garden of the house next door, I pull the brass lion knocker and after a few seconds the door opens. Standing behind it, the remnants of a smile fading from his face, is Olly.

TEXT FROM: STONE CHUTNEY’S

Good luck, kidda. Remember. The drugs don’t wrk, they jst make it wrse. But I know I’ll c ur face again. Keep me updated.

“
I haven’t even got time to ask where the chuff you’ve been.
”

To a blaring soundtrack of Lady Gaga, Dionne is using one hand to frantically hairspray her blonde beehive into place, and the other hand to simultaneously smoke a cigarette and swig from a bottle of red wine.

I resist the urge to tell her that hairspray and cigarette is a precarious combination, because she is already clearly unhappy with me.

“
Thank God Olly was available,
”
she hollers over the music.
“
Else I’d have been staying in tonight.
”

She throws me a dirty look and then simpers prettily at Olly who is sat on her sofa, cross legged and pretending to read one of her old copies of Heat Magazine. He doesn’t look at me.

“
I really am so sorry I’m late,
”
I apologise for the gazillionth time. I desperately hope that she doesn’t ask me where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing. I needn’t worry, though. She has no interest in asking me any questions about myself.

I let her have her rant.

“
I mean, you promised me you’d babysit Jean-Paul Gaultier. I wouldn’t have even minded if you’d have like, let me know. A text! You could have sent a teeny little text. But nooooo. And here I am sorting out your whole wedding. Bending over backwards to make it as beauti
ful and as classy as possible.
”