Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  See? How great is this? Whenever I stay at his he cooks me dinner. None of those archaic gender stereotypes going on in this relationship. No-siree. I mean, I love cooking. Really love it. For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be a chef. Making people happy with delicious food must surely be one of the most wonderful experiences there is. It’s too late in the year to take up my catering course again, but I did Google ‘Manchester + Evening Cooking Courses’ and there are few night classes which look interesting. I'm digressing now. The point I'm trying to make is that as much as I adore cooking, it’s kind of nice to know that I don’t have to cook should I not want to.

  I scoot around the black marbled kitchen counter and take a seat over at the little two person table in Olly’s kitchen. As he dishes up he sings quietly to himself. It sounds like an old Kylie song, but I’m not sure. Bless him. As usual he’s set the table up with a pristine white tablecloth, a couple of tea-light candles in navy blue glass holders and a well chilled bottle of non-alcoholic Bonne Nouvelle Chardonnay has been placed at the centre of the table. I pour us both a glass and take a sip. It tastes a little like apple juice that’s past its sell by date, but it’s worth it because it has only a third of the calories tasty real wine has. Plus no hangover tomorrow!

  “Dinner is served, my love.”

  Olly zips my wine glass onto a coaster, places my napkin over my lap and sets down the plate in front of me.

  “Oooh, yum! It looks great!” I say.

  This isn’t strictly true. It’s a steamed fish stew and boiled brown rice. It’s beige.

  Olly sits across from me, lifts his plate up to his nose and takes a big old whiff. He says “Aaaaaah” before setting his plate down. This is a ritual he has. It’s kind of cute, really.

  He nods towards my plate. Oh yes. That’s another part of the ritual. I have to sniff too. Apparently it's possible to get full just from sniffing your food before eating it.

  So I lift up the plate and inhale.

  I can’t really smell anything.

  This is often the case. The first time it happened I snuck into the kitchen after Olly had gone to bed and took some pickled garlic out of the cupboard to see if my sense of smell still worked. The pungent, acidic scent of it made my eyes water, which was excellent because I was beginning to worry about the sudden disappearance of my smelling powers, especially as a wannabe cook. I suppose that no discernible flavour is just the way with healthy food, though, isn't it? If it smelt and tasted amazing then you’d want to eat loads of it and you'd eat more than you normally would need to eat and then you'd get fat and that would defeat the point of it being healthy.

  “Take a bite! Fill your boots!” says Olly excitedly.

  I do an eager face, heap some of the fish broth and rice onto my fork and put it into my mouth.

  Nothing. It is air flavoured, oh and there's a bit too much black pepper. Any flavour that may have initially existed has been cooked away. “Mmmm… lovely!” I smile, giving my tummy an enthusiastic pat.

  “Come on!” Olly admonishes. “You reckon you want to be a chef. You can do better than lovely.”

  I nod and then pretend to be the blokes from Masterchef.

  “Um. Soft... grainy rice. And um. Sweet, sweet fish. A fishy explosion! The whole thing is... delectable. A cuddle on a plate, if you will.”

  “And the best thing is that it’s so good for you!” Olly contributes, proud of his prowess in the kitchen.

  Satisfied with my judgement he declares that I should ‘tuck in before it goes cold’ and heartily scoffs his own.

  I eat up as instructed and, trying hard to ignore all thoughts of a big bloody filet mignon with some French beans and onion tempura, repeat to myself that it doesn’t taste that bad and at least I’ll look all svelte and radiant with good health on my wedding day.

  A couple of hours later Olly and I are tucked up under the covers of his low platform, Zen style Japanese bed. Before we go to bed Olly always insists we shower together so that we’re nice and clean before we make love. It does take the spontaneity away somewhat, but at least neither of us smells or anything, which would be infinitely worse. I used to try and encourage Olly to combine the shower and sex into one sensual, soapy activity, but he takes his showering seriously. So now we take turns to stand under the jet stream and wash thoroughly. It’s actually a rather nice bonding experience, though it can get a bit cold when it’s not your turn to stand under the hot water.

  In bed, Olly leans over me and unties my dressing gown so that I’m naked. I feel slightly self-conscious of my stomach, though he strokes it and doesn’t appear to notice that it’s perhaps not as tight as the bellies of the women he must see at the gym. He grins at me, his eyes shining before heading straight for my neck.

  “You’re so damn cute, Natty,” he groans, doing little kisses around my ears.

  “Thanks. You too.”

  “I mean it. Your cute little nose,” he kisses my nose. “Your cute little freckly cheeks,” he kisses my cheeks. “Your cute little chubby wubby belly,” he kisses my belly. “You’re… almost perfect.”

  Wait a second.

  Did he just say almost perfect? I startle for a second before mentally shrugging. Almost perfect is pretty good going, I’d say. At least he’s not lying. If he said I was totally perfect then he’d be lying.

  I place my hand on his bicep and give a little squeeze. Mmmm. He really is delicious. Any girl would be lucky to have him. So, so lucky.

  Our lips find each other and we kiss for a while, feeling every inch of each other’s bodies pressed up close. It’s lovely. Right before we get down to the rude stuff, Olly stops and gazes deep into my eyes.

  “I really, really can’t wait until we’re married, sweetness. I love you so very, very much.”

  I sigh with content, all thoughts of bad hair, shiny wedding dresses and diamante banished from my mind. Those things really don’t matter. I’m getting married to a gorgeous, kind, sexy man who thinks I’m almost perfect. That’s what matters.

  “Me too.” I grin, grabbing his bottom and pulling him into me…

  “How was that, then?” Olly says six minutes later, climbing off me and catching his breath.

  He always asks this. It’s another of his rituals. We finish and then examine just how good we are at sex. I love that he’s so concerned about whether he’s pleasing me.

  “I did good, yes?”

  “It was lovely. Really lovely,” I reply, leaning over to kiss him softly on the cheek. I pat his shoulder in a congratulatory way.

  What?

  It was lovely. Okay, it was a teensy bit quick and I didn’t quite, you know, you know. But one look at his satisfied, eager face and it’s impossible not to put a positive spin on my answer.

  Anyway, it’s not like I’m lying to him. Everyone knows that sex in real life isn’t like the animal monkey sex in films. No one actually does get taken roughly in the barn. Although sometimes, I kind of wish they did. Okay, I kind of wish I did. Honestly, though, it’s about closeness. We made love and it was lovely. Him cuddling me and snogging me is brilliant. All right, so the snogging was a little bit sloppy, but at least he’s enthusiastic. Like an adorable puppy.

  Olly gently kisses my hand before hopping off to get into the shower again. I turn over and stare at the silky black curtains over the window. I try to think about how lucky I am, rather than the fact that I’m still a little bit horny.

  I think about nothing else until gone midnight when I eventually fall into a warm and dreamless slumber.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The great thing about staying over at Olly’s flat is that I get a lift to work with him in the morning. He technically lives close enough for us to walk, but if we did then Olly wouldn’t get the chance to air the shiny red Audi that is his pride and joy. He even gets free parking behind Dino’s Suits and Ties, which is excellent for me as it means I am ferried from flat to work like a celeb.

  Turning on the engine, Olly flips the bu
ttons on his state of the art car music system. I feel my body tense in anticipation of the thumping, bass-y House music (which Olly loves because it reminds him of the gym, and I hate because it reminds me of being puked on in a dubious nightclub last year) and prepare to stealthily cover my ears until we get to work. Only this morning the music that bounces out through the high tech speakers at the back of the car doesn’t appear to be music at all…

  No.

  Is it… is that… happy hardcore?

  My eyes widen in horror. The assault on my ears sounds like a sped up, souped up version of the theme tune from Alvin and the Chipmunks. Only now Alvin, Simon and Theodore are on speed. And helium. It’s terrible.

  I look over towards Olly and fervently signal for him to turn it down. But he seems to think my hand gesture is some kind of appreciative dance movement.

  “Isn’t this great!” he yells, speeding out of the flat’s exclusive car park and onto the road. “God, I feel pumped!”

  He laughs with glee and begins to drum his hands against the steering wheel. I’m about to shout at him to please turn it off, but just as I’m opening my mouth to say it I stop. It’s his car. I shouldn't really dictate what he listens to. Plus, I am getting a free lift into work. And it does seem to make him happy. Did he just flex his bicep in the wing-mirror?

  I decide to leave him to it and wind down the window, which, while helping to drown out the noise of the terrible music, forces the wind to whip up my hair into a short, untamed afro. Though this could in fact be an improvement on Barbara the hair-hacker’s attempt.

  Which reminds me... Olly didn’t say anything about my hair last night. I expected a chuckle, or even a cuddle of sympathy but he didn’t say a thing. That's so much better when you think about it. He treated me exactly the same as usual which just goes to show that our relationship is about so much more than good looks and normal (or really abnormal) hairdos.

  Saying that though, I have to admit that it was his incredible looks that first drew me to Olly. Okay, I know, that that’s a bit like saying it was the taste of chocolate that first led me to become addicted, but in the past I promise I was a little nobler than that. For example, when I lived with Meg I had a boyfriend who was, shall we say, a bit unfortunate looking. Meg used to refer to him as Gollum on account of his facial features - which to be fair, were a bit withered looking - and his greyish pallor. I however, managed to see past that, all the way through to his wit, kindness and shared love of Aretha Franklin. Besides, I’d done the whole good looking men thing at University and my experiences led me to the conclusion that the more average looking men were much nicer, funnier and, dare I say it, grateful. Meg said that that was down to my fear of taking a risk and being rejected, but I knew the truth. Gorgeous men generally weren’t very nice.

  Gollum eventually cheated on me with a hobbit-y looking girl from the local Blockbusters, but I still found myself drawn to the less perfect looking guys. Until Olly of course, who walked into Chutney’s one Saturday morning a year ago and was quite simply the most handsome man I had ever seen in real life. As he ordered a hummus and avocado on wholewheat pitta and a skinny soy latte, I gazed at his perfectly honed body, shiny blue eyes and haughtily high cheek bones, and realised that perhaps I wasn’t so noble after all.

  The nicest surprise was that he was actually as kind and lovely as the unfortunately featured guys I’d been out with. Yes. A model-esque man who was sweet and nervous and had no clue how gorgeous he really was. They really did exist and I was in with a shot.

  We went out on a few dates (pictures, restaurants, health clubs). He told me all about his wholesome, high achieving family and idyllic childhood in the countryside, I told him about my not so idyllic childhood of arguing parents, a loudmouth, overbearing sister and pre-braces goofy teeth. This was just after Dad had left Mum for good, and Olly didn’t even seem to mind when our fourth date at Manchester Art Gallery was gate crashed by Mum who couldn’t bear to be alone at the time, and who talked about what a bastard Dad was the whole way around the Pre-Raphaelite collection. Olly was a keeper. And still is. Of course we have those little irritations that all couples do. But he looks after me. He’s this sweet, sexy outlet from the horrors of family life. And that is just what I need.

  At Dino’s Suits and Ties, Olly parks up, turns off the music (Thank you, Jesus) and we get out of the car. He gives me an extra long kiss and a tight squeeze and I remind him that I’ll be home late because of the hypnotist show before waving him off into the shop.

  Trundling my way through the busy streets of the Northern Quarter, I look at my watch. I have fifteen minutes before I start work so nip over towards Piccadilly Gardens and into a tiny café for my usual latte and toast. This is kind of a secret daily occurrence. Olly of course, served me a lovely grapefruit, carrot and celery smoothie this morning (okay, it was cack), but nothing beats the taste of an extra shot frothy coffee and a slice of toasted Hobbs bread (which Olly thinks is the food of the devil) all doughy and sweet and dripping with best butter. I look back furtively, as I always do, in case Olly suspects my secret bread eating habits and has decided to follow me here and put me under carb arrest.

  He’s not there.

  Of course he’s not.

  I get my order and walk back through the gardens, munching on the toast. Considering it’s winter time, the weather is bright and clear, albeit frosty. I mooch past the garden fountains and negotiate my way through the streams of busy suits. I pause for a moment, feeling a sudden sense of confusing anticipation. I can’t quite tell if it’s good anticipation or a bad anticipation. Just an odd feeling in my gut, an expectation that something big is going to happen, that everything’s about to change. It’s the weirdest feeling. And then I remember. Of course everything is going to change. Hello! I’m getting hitched! That’s it. I’m just excited about the wedding. Either that or that smoothie I had this morning is playing havoc with my digestion.

  I reach Chutney’s and knock three times on the huge expanse of locked glass door.

  Marie pops her head up from behind the meats counter like a meerkat. She rolls her eyes, as if answering the door to me is the most annoying thing she has ever had to do, ever. She still won’t give me my own set of keys, though. Marie is the manager of Chutney’s, and a bit surly, if truth be told. She’s attractive in a thin, harsh blonde, hard-nosed way, but old before her time. She reminds me of one of those put upon characters in a Catherine Cookson book. A weary, young, salt of the earth type, who scrubs potatoes and walks around looking like life has done her in.

  I wave as she approaches. She moves her mouth into a smile-like shape. I can’t hear it, but I think she is sighing.

  Back in the olden days (the nineties) Chutney’s was a greasy spoon caff called Eggs, Beans and Stuff. About seven years ago, the café was bought by Stone, who was a drummer in some early Madchester band (that I’ve never heard of) called Chunky Rug. Rumour has it that he walked in one day with the munchies and craving for some French Chevre cheese. When the owners told him that the only cheese they had was Tesco’s own mild cheddar or Dairylea, he had a strop and announced that he was going to bloody well build a place that would provide the foodies of Manchester a place to buy Chevre Cheese, should they need it. The married owners of Egg, Beans and Stuff saw an opportunity for early retirement and offered to sell the café for much more money than it was worth. Stone accepted, they signed contracts on napkins and the rest is foodie history. Stone still comes in every day. He barely talks. Just sits at one of the tables, sampling all the food, looking around at all the customers sampling all the food and drinking herbal tea, occasionally nipping outside for a cigarette (spliff?). Other than that, there’s just me and Marie.

  Marie unlocks the door, leaving me to push it open as she immediately walks back to the meat counter.

  “Hello!” I say brightly. “How are you?”

  “Some new spicy Spanish sausages have come in this morning. They’re in the big fridge. We need some putti
ng out on display, please.”

  “No probs. Lovely and bright today, isn’t it?”

  “The salad delivery is late again. Don’t know why we bloody bother. Have you seen the big bowl? The glass one for the black olives? Have you lost it again? Bloody hell. What are you bloody standing there for? I told you to get on with those sausages.”

  I resist the urge to tell her to stop being such a grumpy cow. After all she is my boss. No one likes their boss, do they?

  “Righto,” I sigh, wishing that just for once she would be a bit nicer.

  I shuffle through the crowded back storeroom and into the walk-in fridge. Marie doesn’t like going in here on account of the fact that it’s 5 degrees. The rumbling whir of the fans and the steel walls make it a creepy like a morgue, but I actually quite like it. When I need to have a think about, you know, life and the universe, I come in here. I look around at all the speciality foods (alright, sometimes I eat them too) and wonder what it would be like to have a restaurant of my own. I sit on the mini stepladder and think about what I'd call it and what I'd put on the menu. And then I imagine myself in the kitchen. Dressed in starchy white with a quirky bandana, creating magical sauces and confidently barking orders at lesser chefs.

  I laugh to myself. It's silly really. I know it is. Olly says that I'm hardly likely to have my own restaurant when I haven't even got a full year at catering college and he’s absolutely right. But I do have my experience in Chutney’s and I cook loads at home. Once mum is feeling better I’ll definitely get myself back onto a college course. Maybe even take up an apprenticeship somewhere fancy nearby.

  “Natalie! What the bloody hell is taking you so long? I asked you to put out the sausages, not bloody invent them!”

  I roll my eyes and load up the sausages into a small trolley. Time to stop daydreaming, Natalie.

  CHAPTER FIVE