Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Depression genetic

  Some of the internet searches have proved more fruitful than others. For instance there are far more hypnotists in Manchester than you might think. The first three numbers I call don’t pick up, which is understandable - it being a Saturday night and all. I imagine that they’re all out together. Drinking cocktails and gleefully telling tales about whose minds they’ve messed up recently.

  The fourth number I dial picks up after only one ring.

  “Hello, Alice McKee speaking.”

  Her voice is young and professional. I feel a glimmer of hope. As calmly as I can manage I explain my situation to her.

  “And so I need you to hypnotise me into not being hypnotised. If that’s okay?” I finish.

  “Oh. No no no,” she says in a voice that suggests I just asked her to do a naked samba outside Manchester Town Hall. “I’m afraid I cannot help with that.”

  “But why?” I ask, trying to disguise the hiccups that have now appeared, courtesy of all the crying.

  “It just wouldn’t work. Only the person who put you into trance, can take you out of it. That’s the way it is.”

  That can’t be it? She must be able to do something!

  “But can’t you just say some stuff and… you know, clap me out of it?” I whine. “It’s ruining everything! Some charlatan has hypnotised me and it’s ruining my life! Come on… Alice!”

  “Calm down,” she replies in a soothing radio presenter type voice. “You are feeling caaaalm. You are at the seasiiiide…”

  I take in Dionne’s animal print and sequins decorated living room. No. I’m definitely not at the seasiiiiide.

  “…The subconscious part of your miiiiiind that is under hypnotic traaaaance will only respond to the voice that put you into that traaaaance. My voice, or anyone else’s, wouldn’t be able to terminaaaaate the suggestions locked into your braaaiiiin. And if we tried… it could just make things wooooooorse.”

  Worse? Surely it's impossible for this to be worse.

  “Worse how?”

  “Well, complications can include side effects such as nausea, irritability, guilt, identity crisis…”

  I can handle those! I am handling those!

  “…Vomiting, hallucinations, sexual acting out…”

  Sexual acting out?

  “I could go on?”

  “No, no need. Thanks a million. Bye.”

  I slam the phone down. Sexual acting out… I wonder what that involves. I think back to Riley in the kitchen. Shit. I wonder if that was me sexually acting out.

  I wearily put my head onto the laptop keyboard. I can feel the keys pressing into my head. They’ll probably leave a mark. Natalie keyboard head.

  What the bloody hell am I going to do now?

  I can’t just sit around and wait around for Brian to appear. What if he doesn’t? My entire life is at stake. Telling people exactly what I think ALL the time is only going to leave me with nothing and no one.

  Exasperated, I click the search engine tab on the laptop once more. I’m about to do a search for ‘sexual acting out’ but without really thinking about it my fingers fly over the keyboard to spell out ‘Riley Harrington + The Old Whimsy’.

  The first result is a news article relating to the death of Mary Harrington. I click onto the item, my heart lurching with sorrow as I take in the details of how Riley’s mother was killed two years ago in a car accident in Little Trooley. How awful. Poor Riley. I examine the picture of Mary in the article. She’s standing outside The Old Whimsy and she’s beautiful. Rosy cheeked and smiling - her wavy yellow hair plaited and tied with a bright red ribbon. Beside her are two young boys. One is skinny and dark haired, the other is chunky and blonde, very clearly Riley. He’s shielding his face from the sun, but it’s definitely him. Poor guy, losing his mum like that.

  As I click off the computer, Jean-Paul Gaultier trots over from the basket he’s been lying in and licks my knee.

  I smile in spite of myself, and pick him up, burying my face into his soft white fur.

  And then the doorbell goes.

  Olly! Please be Olly. I pull the anaesthetic condom from the dressing gown pocket and clutch it in hope.

  I race to the door. Jean-Paul Gaultier follows me, jumping up and running around in circles of excitement.

  I pull open the door with a rush of optimism.

  “So, the Queen of Sheba has returned.”

  It’s Mum. She’s wrapped up against the cold in a huge hand knitted mustard coloured scarf and a long black wool coat. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and her long dark brown hair is all messed up and windswept. It’s not Olly, but the disappointment fades quickly. I realise I am pleased to see mum. Mums make things better.

  “Well let me in then,” she tuts. “Or should we just stand here looking at each other like a couple of plebs?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Of course. Sorry.”

  I open the door and follow her through to the kitchen.

  “Cup of tea?” I ask.

  “I’ll make them. Yours are too weak.”

  I perch at the breakfast bar and wait for her to finish preparing the drinks. She lays the teapot out on a tray, and pulls a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, fanning them out onto a saucer - mum style.

  “Dionne texted me, said you were here,” she says, carrying the tea tray into the living room. “Down boy!” she scolds Jean-Paul Gaultier who is trying to climb up her leg with impressive commitment.

  “Yes. I made it!”

  “Only just, I hear.”

  She leans forward and sniffs at my hair. “You know… you smell like a Sunday Roast. Have you been eating a Sunday Roast? On a Saturday?” She gives me a disapproving glance.

  “No… No Sunday Roast.” I shake my head, thinking. I wish I had been eating a Sunday Roast.

  She sniffs again. “Well, what’s that smell? It’s like… Rosemary and Thyme. Have you been cooking?”

  Rosemary and Thyme… The shampoo at Little Trooley! I’d forgotten about that. “No,” I say running my hands through my hair. “It’s this fabulous shampoo I used. Some herby thing.”

  “I don’t like it. Where’s Olly?” she asks. “Dionne said he was here.”

  “Oh. He left. We had a row. It was horrible, Mum.”

  Mum shakes her head and tuts. It occurs to me to ask her not to ask me any questions. But knowing how she is, that’ll only encourage her to ask more. It’s fine. It’s not like she’s going to ask me anything that I can’t answer.

  “You need to be careful, love,” she says stroking Jean-Paul Gaultier, who has nestled comfortably in her lap.

  “About what?” I ask, sipping my tea.

  “Olly. You mustn’t nag him.”

  The anger from before makes another reappearance. She assumes that it’s me who has caused the problem. That a row with Olly must surely be my fault.

  In this case she’s right, of course. But that isn’t the point.

  I decide not to reply. Just stare into my tea.

  “Did you read the checklist?” she asks, breaking the silence.

  This is safer ground.

  I smile. “Yes. Yes, I read it. Thanks.”

  “Well? What do you think?”

  “I hate most of the ideas.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand. Oh no. I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t even know I hated the ideas they’ve come up with. I’ve really not thought this truth-telling through. How could I be so lax?

  “Sorry. Shit. Just kidding,” I say, hoping this works. But pretending that I'm the kind of person who says mean things and then claims to be joking about it for my own amusement doesn’t work. It didn’t work with Olly, so why on earth would it work now, eh?

  “What do you hate?” Mum asks.

  She's far calmer than I expected. Nevertheless, I feel terrible as the truth-telling does what it does best and causes me a whole heap of shit.

  “The cake is going to be a replica of a sleeping swan. Do you not think th
at’s creepy? It’s so creepy. And I don’t like the dress you chose. It’s not what I wanted at all. I’m grateful that you bought it, but it’s so far away from what I wanted, you may as well have dressed me in a sparkly pink cat suit and I’d be more comfortable in it.”

  Mum stares at me, her mouth opening and closing like a stuttering guppy. But I have a lot more to say, it seems.

  “I feel sad that you and Dionne are planning it all and I’m not involved. And I don’t like diamante.”

  Mum reels.

  “How on earth can you not like diamante?”

  “I don’t. It’s too shiny and distracting. Diamante is Dionne’s thing. Not mine.”

  Mum puts her cup of tea down on the table.

  “Why the bloody hell didn’t you say anything?”

  This one takes me longer to answer. I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t say anything. Because I’m a wimp? Because I can’t bear to offend anyone. The answer eventually comes out.

  “Because you need this. You need something to do. After Dad.”

  Oh dear. I sound like a patronising bitch. I am a patronising bitch.

  Mum’s face crumples, her chin jutting outwards with wounded pride.

  “Let’s get just one thing straight, young lady,” she sniffs, eyes steely. “I might be having a bad time of it at the moment. But I do not need to plan my daughter’s wedding to cheer me up. Believe it or not I do have a life outside of this family. I’m a working woman with friends of my own. I don’t need your pity.” She presses her hand to her chest and grimaces. Quickly she fishes an antacid tablet from her purse and chews it angrily.

  “But…” my voice fades off. I don’t even know what to say. I feel horrible.

  Mum gathers her bag and her coat. And for the second time in one night someone I love leaves me behind.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Email From: stone_chutneys

  To: nattyb

  Subject: Just Say No

  Dear Natalie,

  I tried to call the rehab clinic to check up on how you were doing, innit. They told me no one by your name was there, but they were probably just trying to protect you. They're very protective in rehab. I know from experience, kidda.

  I just wanted to say that you can do this. You can beat the drugs. I'm rooting for you. When you make it out of the dark and into the light your job will be waiting for you.

  Best,

  Stone.

  P.S Is Marie married?

  The trouble with truth-telling against your will is that you can absolutely not trust in what you think you believe. Half of the truths that slip out of my mouth are a complete surprise to me. I think I'm in a relatively safe situation. A situation in which I've got nothing to hide - like a simple conversation with my mother. And then bam, I'm asked a question and out pops some horrible opinion of mine that is so far down in my subconscious that I didn't even know it existed!

  And for this reason, until I can locate Brian, I have had to take it upon myself to become a complete hermit. I cannot trust myself not to say something that will either embarrass me or someone else or cause someone's feelings to get utterly trampled on. I've warned everyone off with a mass email giving details of a fake and very icky bout of the lurgy and over the past few days I have been a prisoner in my own home.

  The one time I dared venture into the outside world was to get a much needed bottle of milk from the corner shop. Only the shopkeeper, Irene, asked me what I thought of the jumper she was knitting for her husband and I told her that even if I was stranded, stark bollock naked in deepest Alaska with only a perverted old Eskimo with skin disease to keep me warm through intimate cuddling, I would still refuse to wear it. To be fair it had a Siamese cat knitted into it and its whiskers were actual pieces of silver wire sewn onto the cat's cheeks to look like real whiskers. But still. It was incredibly rude and clearly hurt her feelings. So going out? Not such a grand idea.

  I’ve been a slave to my mobile phone. Waiting for someone from Operation Locate Brian to call and tell me Amazing Brian has returned and can't wait to unhypnotise me out of this mess. But the phone has been resolutely silent. Oh, except for on Wednesday afternoon when I answer my phone to a marketeer trying to sell me brand new PVC mock stained glass windows. Now I should first tell you that as much as I abhor telephone marketeers, my general thoughts on them as human beings has always been that they are unlucky to be in such an annoying job but it's not their fault. And for that reason I usually feel bad for them and end up buying whatever it is they're selling - this is the reason why I have an extortionate mobile phone contract and am the adoptive mother of an Australian goat named Cujo. So it surprises me when my conversation with the telemarketer goes a little something like this...

  “Hello, my name is Steven from Wondrous Windows. I'm calling to offer you a very special, unprecedented discount on a set of windows for your home. With every set bought you get a free carpet cleaner. Would you like me to arrange an appointment to visit you discuss your window needs further?”

  “Oh Steven. No. I do not wish to make an appointment. Why on earth would I invite you, a veritable stranger, into my home? I do not need new windows. The chances of you calling on the very day, the month even, that I naturally come to the decision to purchase new windows are ridiculously slim. Do you understand that, Steven?”

  “Certainly Miss Butterworth. Can I ask you when you are due to review your window situation?”

  “Yes. You can ask me that Steven. You just did. I think I'll next be reviewing my window situation around the time that I review the situation of my doors and the situation of my walls. Saves time assessing all the situations together, I find. By the way, I'm being sarcastic. I don't think I'll ever review the situation. I'm sorry.”

  “Um. It really is a very good offer Miss Butterworth. Are you sure I can't persuade you to give me your address? Make an appointment with me?”

  “No. I'd rather pierce my own tongue with a rusty nail. Now fuck off, Steven. Zoo Vets at Large is on and you're making me miss it.”

  Mum has barely spoken to me since our conversation on Saturday night. She just wafts around the house sniffing and sighing as if I'm getting in her way. Plus her eyes are permanently watering like she's about to start sobbing which makes me feel horribly guilty.

  I suppose the good thing is that she's not asking me any more questions.

  So yes. I've been locked in my house for an entire week, watching Jeremy Kyle, baking cakes and feeling very sorry for myself.

  On Thursday morning Dionne insists that my (fake) lurgy is no longer reason enough for me to stay locked up indoors. She bursts into my bedroom, pulls open my childhood Care Bear curtains and bounces on my bed, prodding at my shoulders annoyingly.

  “Wake up, biatch! It’s snowing!”

  “Gnahh.”

  It’s been about ten years since I was last excited by the snow. What is there to be excited about? It’s just rain that’s gone solid.

  “Come o-on.” Dionne prods me again. “I got the day off work. We have things to do.”

  Hmmm. I open one eye at this. Dionne never takes days off from her job at the travel agents on the High Street. She loves her job.

  “Olly rang me last night.”

  Okay. This wakes me up completely. In the absence of me being able to fix my troubling brain flaw he’s probably decided to go ahead and cancel the wedding. I sit up, fear booting me right in the belly.

  “I’m awake. I'm awake!”

  “Nice hair. It looks like shredded wheat.”

  I roll my eyes and pat down my erratic sleep hair.

  “What did Olly say? Is everything all right?”

  “I’m not going to tell you until you get up.”

  “Seriously? I’m up now. Look.” I make my eyes wide. “I’m wide awake. Timmy Mallet style.”

  “You have to get up and get dressed. I don’t know what’s going on with you, you blatantly don't have a cold, but you’re never going to sort things out with Olly if
you just hide away like some kind of arachnophobic.”

  “You mean agoraphobic?”

  “Whatevs.”

  She pulls at my arm, but I pull back.

  “Dionne,” I say as sternly as I can manage this early in the morning. “This isn’t a game. Olly isn’t some high school boy I kissed in the park last Friday after too much gazillion percent cider. He’s my fiancé. I need to know what he said.”

  Dionne nods sincerely.

  “Yes, I see what you mean… but… I’ll tell you when you get up. Soz!”

  She jumps off the bed and flounces out of my bedroom.

  “Wrap up warm!” she sings from the hallway.

  Arrrrrgh. Infuriating.

  I pull myself out of the toasty bed and squeal as the cold air hits me. Jeez it’s freezing!

  Following an uncomfortably chilly shower I dig in my wardrobe and select a rather fetching outfit of a vest, one woolly jumper (white) and a woolly cardigan (blue), my boyfriend jeans and my favourite pair of thick, polka dot socks.

  I attempt to dry my hair into some semblance of style, but Barbara’s brutal haircut means it just falls straight back into the pudding bowl bob. Pah.

  I slouch downstairs to where Dionne is sat at the kitchen table, hands curled around a cup of coffee, Jean-Paul Gaultier settled on her knee.

  “Did you make me one?”

  “No. Soz.”

  I nod and spoon some coffee into the cafetiere.

  While I’m waiting for the coffee to brew Dionne chatters away.

  “…and I don’t even know why you argued, and I’m not really interested. But Mum is seriously mad at you. Not what I need right now, being chief wedding planner and all. I need her help. I’ve got so much to do and the wedding is only two weeks away. Olly -”

  “What did he say?”

  “He called last night to see how you were.”

  “And?”

  “He said you were depressed.”

  I sigh. I consider telling Dionne that I’m not depressed at all. But, I realise that even if I wasn’t before, I certainly am after this past week.

  “He said something about you pretending to be hypnotised!” she squawks with laughter.