Yours Truly (8 page)

I can’t remember the last time I told a joke. I sound like an absolute chump.

“
Weird joke, if you ask me,
”
Olly grumbles, hopping out of the bed and pulling on his boxer shorts.
“
You don’t like really think that stuff do you?
”

His face is hopeful.

“
Yes.
”
My answer is loud and clear.
“
Yes, I really do think it…
”

As I hear what I’m saying I immediately try to close my mouth, but I can’t. My vocal chords and my tongue and my lips are all working of their own accord. I continue to blab, like some kind of bitchy, idiot blabber-mouth.
“
...
a
nd before, when I said I was joking, I was actually lying. It wasn’t a joke. It was the absolute truth.
”

Whaaaaaaat?

The words tumble out, unstoppable. Why am I saying these things? Am I having some kind of stroke?

Olly’s face has transformed now from pasty white to beetroot red. Anger? Embarrassment? I titter nervously, but to Olly it just sounds like I’m laughing at him. He shimmies into his work trousers and sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly together.

“
I don't get it. Is this cold feet, Natalie? Are you trying to cause a row because you’re getting cold feet? Because I -
”

“
It’s not cold feet,
”
I plead, my mouth moving, though I don’t ask it to.
“
I promise. I don’t know what’s going on. I honestly didn’t realise what I was saying. Oh God. Please forget I said that stuff. Olly. I love you.
”

“
Sure, only you wish I was better in the sack?
”

Say. No.

Say NO, Natalie. Just one word, two letters. It’s easy. It's the easiest word ever. I mean, I've said no plenty of times before. Like when Auntie Jan asked if I minded picking her up some Imodium from the chemist – No! Or when the fellow who works at the cake shop asked if I wanted the small chocolate éclair rather than the large one – No! No!

I raise my tongue towards the roof of my mouth and form the word, while sending an angry message to my brain to please, for the love of God, please, please, please do what I say.

But my brain ignores me.

“
YES!
”

I put my head in my hands, and just to make the whole thing worse I bleat
:

“
Maybe it’s a stamina thing. There are things we can do to fix it.
”

Shut UP, Natalie.

Olly stands from the bed and glares at me.

“
Stamina?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Stamina?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
STAMINA? I have plenty of stamina, thank you very much. I’m the king of stamina. Just look at me.
”
He gestures to his toned arms and stomach.
“
I’m
the very model of stamina. If there were a national contest for stamina I would come first.
”

We pause for a few seconds as the unfortunately worded end of that last sentence sinks in. Olly's face is now the colour of a plum. A vein pulsates in his forehead.

“
Jesus
, Natalie,
”
he croaks, running a hand through his hair.
“
Any other little nuggets of information to share with me? You know. Just to top off your festival of cruelty.
”

My eyes well up. My heart jolts at the realisation that I will not be able to stop what next comes out of my mouth.

“
You have horrible taste in music. That perfume you get me for every birthday and Christmas makes me want to puke. I give it to the charity shop and tell you that I’ve used it all. When you drop me off for work I secretly go to a café and eat thick Hobbs toast full of butter. I don't like that you're so short. Can't we buy you some stacked heels? And…
”

Stop this. Stop this!

“
…
your cooking is truly awful. It doesn’t even have a smell!
”

Olly gasps as if I’ve just sucker punched him, which let’s face it, I may as well have done.

I begin to cry. What the hell is happening? Have I got a brain tumour? Am I a latent schizophrenic? Oh God, poor Olly. He doesn’t deserve this! I am a horrible person.

I can only stare and blink as he angrily shoves on his suit, tying the tie extra tightly. He checks his hair in the mirror before turning to me.

“
I knew you were eating behind my back. I knew that. You must have been because you haven’t lost any weight for the wedding.
”
He sighs long and low and controlled.
“
I love you, Natalie. But I suggest you sort yourself out if you want to get married. And…
”
he raises an eyebrow as he delivers the final blow.
“
I think you should take the bus to work.
”

With this he storms out, leaving a trail of slammed doors behind him.

Oh Gad.

I have never argued with Olly, hell, I’ve never argued with anybody! It’s deeply unpleasant.

“
Aaaargh!
”
I scream, a wave of sharp frustration overwhelming me. I grab one of Olly’s pristine white pillows and chuck it across the room. It bounces softly off the wardrobe and knocks over my handbag.

“
What the hell is happening?
”
I cry to the ceiling.

And then I spot it. Scattered amongst the lipsticks, tissues and two pence coins that have all fallen out of my handbag, a small gold card with shiny red writing, in a gothic font.

I hurry across the room and pick it up. What is this? Where did it come from?

The Amazing Brian – Hypnotist, Mind Reader, Spell Caster, etc.

I flip it over to find a phone number and address scrawled on the back in blue ink.

All of a sudden, mad images of last night flash into my head. Brian’s desire to hypnotise me, his attempt to make Meg tell the absolute truth, the fact that it didn’t work, all those peculiar, dizzy, anticipation feelings I was getting…

Oh. Feck.

Oh Feck.

I think it worked. It actually worked. Amazing Brian
can
hypnotise. Only he didn’t hypnotise Meg. Somehow...
he hypnotised me.

Balls.

I’m not panicking. Honestly.

Okay, I’m totally panicking. Running around in little circles of distress, I’ve phoned the number on the Amazing Brian card about fifty gazillion times, only to get a standard voicemail answer service. I left a series of messages in which I tried my best to sound angry, though it’s been so long since I did angry that I’m pretty sure I ended the message with
“
If you could call me back whenever you get a moment, I’d be very grateful, sir Brian.
”

I’m still naked, I’m late for work, my fiancé hates me and I appear to be under some kind of hypnosis spell thingy. Brilliant m
orning. Really, just fandabidozi
.

I speedily pull on the first clothes that come to hand, these turn out to be a pair of shapeless grey jogging bottoms and my old, too small
Goonies Never Say Die
t-shirt.

Fuck it.

After a quick comb through my hair, I make a run for the bus stop, thankfully reaching it just as the bus turns up.

Ignoring the other passengers’ glances at my frantic wheezing and odd attire, I take a seat, pull my mobile out of my handbag and call Meg.

“
Nghhgnh,
”
she answers after a few rings.

“
Meg!! I shout into the receiver, causing a couple of old ladies to tut disapprovingly at my volume. I lower my voice.

“
Meg. Wake up!
”

“
Whathefuuuu?
”
she groans sleepily.

“
Meg,
”
I hiss.
“
Wake up now. I need to see you. Now.
”

“
S’early Natty. Ugh. Ew.
”

“
Meg. I . Am. Serious. Wake up!
”

Hearing the sternness in my voice works because after a couple of sniffs and what seems to be the sound of her downing of a whole glass of water, Meg is awake.

“
Sorry, Nats. Fook, my head hurts. Why are you talking like that? Oh no. Has someone died? Has a celebrity died?
Oh no
, is it Phillip Schofield?
”

I want to get to the point and tell her to meet me asap, but this bizarre need to immediately answer her questions is too strong.

“
Nobody has died. Not a celebrity. Phillip Schofield is fine. I think. I
hope
. Listen -
”

“
Phew! Wow, imagine if Phillip Schofield had died. Then it would just be Holly Willoughby doing
This Morning
on her own. It wouldn’t be half as good, would it? They'd probably get someone really shit in as a replacement. Somebody like Paul Ross or Russell Grant. You know, I'm forever getting those two mixed up.
“

Speak, Natalie!

I try, but it appears that I cannot leave anything unanswered.

I get a vision of watching a solo hosted
This Morning
. My answer is swift.

“
Yes, it would be shit.
”

“
Yeah -
”

“
Meg, listen,
”
I snap.
“
Listen to me carefully. Do not say anything. I am so late for work, I haven’t got long and I really need to get this out. Something has happened. I cannot tell you about it now because I am on the bus, and it’s really bizarro and I’ll sound like a total nutcase. If you understand what I am saying, you will get out of bed and meet me at Chutney’s as soon as possible. Do you understand?
”

Meg can obviously sense my desperation because she answers with a simple
“
Yes. As soon as poss
”
before gently clicking down the phone.

Right. Done. Okay. There is no need to panic. We’ll just find Brian, get him to make this hypnosis stuff stop, I’ll make things up to Olly, tell him I had low blood sugar and went mental or something. He’ll forgive me for being so unnecessarily mean and everything will be normal again. We’ll get married and live happily ever after forever and ever, Amen. And until then, I just have to avoid talking to anyone. How hard can it be?

“
Why are you so late? Do you value your job at all? And what the bloody hell are you wearing?
”

Marie is in a bad mood. I can tell because the frown line in the middle of her forehead is cavernous. She looks like a Sharpai dog, or Gordon Ramsay. As I make my way behind the Cheeses of the World counter and put on my apron, Marie’s questions cause the overwhelming feeling of needing to speak to fizz through my body. It feels kind of like when you get the urge to laugh, and you know you mustn’t. Like when a person trips in the street, or someone is mad at you. You know that laughing would be wildly inappropriate but you can do nothing to control those errant chuckles.

I try once more to send my brain a message.

Say nothing, Natalie. Just keep your head down, get to work and wait for Meg.

Of course, it doesn’t work. Out it comes.

“
I’m late, Marie, because I was hypnotised last night, I told my fiancé that I wished he was better in bed, I was still drunk this morning, though I don’t think I am now. I do value my job. I’m skint, and I need the money. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t be such a bitch to me, and sometimes I wish I was still at chef school instead of here. My outfit is some saggy arsed jogging pants and a
Goonies
t-shirt, through which I’m pretty sure you can see my nipples,
”
and then my voice goes all loud.
“
So why don’t you be quiet and give me a sodding break?
”

I take a breath. A strange mixture of relief at having answered, surprise at what I’ve said and utter embarrassment overcomes me.

The small queue of customers stare at me in shock before looking down towards my breasts, which, thank the Lord are now covered by my apron.