Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I take a breath. There is no point trying to avoid it anymore.

  “Well… I was hypnotised”

  “Really?” Dionne looks up from her coffee. “When did that happen? Was it to stop you from eating so much? Was it expensive?”

  “It happened last week. No - it was to make me tell the truth whenever I’m asked a question. It was free.”

  She doesn’t even notice the strange way I blurt out all the answers to her. But that’s Dionne for you. In her own sparkly Dionne world.

  “Oh, that’s rubbish. They should have done it so, I don’t know, you’d be better at drawing or something. That would have been well more fun than telling the truth.” She shrugs. “Anyway, Olly said I was to cheer you up.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  Dionne notices my sad face and pats me lightly on the shoulder. “He wants you to cheer up! He obviously still cares.”

  I smile grimly. That’s true, I suppose. If he truly hated me he wouldn't give a crap if I was miserable.

  “Also, he knows we’re still planning the wedding. He hasn’t, like, told us to stop.”

  My heart leaps at the thought of this. Olly is many things but wasteful he is not. He couldn’t bear the thought of money being spent on a wedding that wasn’t going to happen.

  Dionne grins, slurping down the last of her coffee. “We’re going out.”

  “I can’t go out.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because of the truth-telling thing. It’s embarrassing. I’ll embarrass you. I know it.”

  “Are you on glue?” she frowns.

  “No.”

  “Dionne Butterworth does not get easily embarrassed. Now stop being such a drip and get your coat on.”

  I obey. I’m sick of staying in. Dionne’s right. There are only two weeks until the wedding. I have so much to do. Plus, she did take the day off.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, pulling on an unflattering but super cosy puffa jacket while Dionne lifts Jean-Paul Gaultier into her handbag.

  “We’re going to get you a pre-wedding makeover.”

  That sounds easy enough. I smile and put on my hat. “Brilliant. Let's go!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After a pit stop at the Trafford Centre so Dionne can get some ‘fucking amazing’ earrings she’d seen in Topshop, and a brand new pair of furry knee high boots, we arrive at the beauty salon, which is situated on an industrial park in deepest Salford. I balk slightly when I see the sign. ‘Serious Beauty’ is flashing in pink neon lights.

  “This is the best place in town,” Dionne says, noticing my expression. “Trust me.”

  She pushes open the door and we enter one of the weirdest places I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Seriously. It’s like a spaceship. In the middle of the vast, factory like room is a huge steel desk manned by a perfectly quaffed, platinum blonde lady in a red air hostess-y uniform. The edges of the room are taken up by rows of large pods that look a bit like oversized portaloos. In the distance I hear the sound of a woman screaming.

  “Bikini wax,” Dionne nods knowledgeably.

  “What the hell is this place?” I hiss, as we walk to the front desk.

  “It’s a cutting edge European concept. Serious beauty.”

  “I’m frightened.”

  Dionne laughs.

  “Sonja!” She greets the blonde woman at the desk with a kiss. “Here she is. My sister, Natalie!”

  Dionne gestures towards me as if I’m a prize cow for sale. “What can you do to help?”

  “Dionne, darlink!” Sonja drawls before looking me up and down. “Ah, I see vat you mean,” she says with a foreign accent and a look of deep sympathy. I bristle at her scrutiny and wonder what Dionne’s been telling this woman about me.

  “I think she is rrripe for the From Drab to Desirable program.”

  “That’s, like exactly what I was thinking!” Dionne nods earnestly.

  Drab to Desirable? What am I? A chuffing living room?

  Sonja reaches from underneath the desk and hands me a starchy white gown. It looks like a hospital nightie, a fact that doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.

  I’m not really an expert on beauty salons, having only been to one about three times in the past ten years, but I’m pretty sure there is supposed to be champagne. And why is there no radio playing in the background? Where’s the friendly lady who will chat to me about her children while doing my nails in pretty pearly pink?

  “I don’t know if I can afford all this,” I whisper to Dionne, as Sonja types my details into an expensive looking computer.

  “Oh, no worries. Bull knows someone. It’s on the house.”

  “Oh.”

  A gangster salon!

  “We are ready!” Sonja says brightly, clapping her hands. “Natalie, If you could leave your belongings right here, I vill put them in the safe.”

  I hand over my coat and handbag.

  “Now if you’d like to come vis me. I vill lead you to Pod Thirteen.”

  “Dionne…” I yelp nervously.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be amazing!” she beams. “See you in about, oooh, four hours.”

  Excusez-moi?

  “Four hours!” I bark, flinching as Sonja takes my hand and leads me, rather forcefully, across the huge room. I turn back as we march on, and see Dionne waving me off excitedly like a mother waving off her child on the first day of school.

  “There is such a lot to do,” Sonja says. “It vill be over sooner than you think. Come on now. Don’t be a big vat baby.”

  I don’t know if it’s her Bond villain accent or her tight grip on my arm that unsettles me most.

  I collect myself. Stop being such big vat baby, Natalie.

  Okay. It’s only a makeover. Just a friendly, four hour makeover.

  What could go wrong?

  You think makeover, and what springs to mind is a facial, a bit of slap and maybe a massage if you’re lucky.

  It turns out that Serious Beauty is far more hardcore than that. Over the past few hours five very serious, white coated beauty technicians have tended to me silently and with incredible concentration. I’ve been massaged to within an inch of my life, wrapped up in sloppy bandages (apparently this tones up my flab), waxed more than the car in The Karate Kid, festooned with big spidery fake eyelashes, sprayed nut brown and adorned with more make-up than an entire branch of Boots The Chemist.

  I am, surprisingly, very happy with the progress. Looking in the pod’s mirror I notice that my skin looks fresher, tighter, brighter. My eyes look wider. I am actually looking better than I have in years. I look… groomed.

  “Finally, we will do your lips,” says the last remaining technician, a large, pretty woman with petrol blue spectacles balanced upon her nose.

  I nod dreamily. A bit of expensive lip gloss to finish things off. Perfect. This is all so much better than I thought it would be. Wait until Olly sees me!

  I lean back in the chair, and part my mouth, ready to be attended to.

  “Fuck.”

  I jump up as a sharp object is stabbed into my gob.

  “What the hell?” I cry, clutching my hand to my mouth.

  That is one seriously sharp lip pencil.

  The technician startles at my shouting, and it’s only when I go to apologise for swearing that I notice she is brandishing a needle. A huge, gigantic, industrial sized needle.

  “What. Is. That?” I say pointing at the offending object.

  “It is a Restylane gel filler. I know it hurts a bit -”

  “A lot. It hurts a lot. Why in the name of all that is holy are you putting a gel filler in my mouth?”

  The technician looks confused. “It is a part of the program… from Drab to Desirable…”

  “No no no,” I say, sitting up, my lips all tingly. “I did not sign up for this!”

  “But I just said, Miss. I said ‘finally I will do your lips’.�
�

  “I thought you meant lip gloss!”

  “No… Oh no.”

  She looks mortified, her chin wobbling with upset.

  “It’s okay,” I say in a kinder voice. “You only did a little bit. We’ll just leave it there. I’ll be going now.”

  The woman looks uncomfortable.

  “But I only did one side. It will be uneven.”

  She passes me a compact mirror so that I can take a closer look. And sure enough, the left side of my top lip is all pillowy while the right side looks sorrily thin in comparison.

  “Shit. Fine. Do the other side.”

  “And I will have to do the bottom lip too now.”

  I nod warily. What else can I do? Surely better to have colossal lips than uneven ones.

  I sit back and brace myself for the needle. It stings but hurts slightly less now that I know about the impending stab.

  When bespectacled lady is done she hands me the mirror once more.

  My mouth is huge. The very definition of a trout pout.

  “Okay, Miss. Your lips will probably be swollen for about a week.”

  “Wait… they will look like this for a week?” I say, dismayed.

  “That is just a little swelling. It will soon go down.”

  “And how long after that will I have oversized chops for?”

  “It lasts for six months. You will love it! The boys… they love it.” She smiles and I notice that her lips are massive too. But on her they don’t look so bad. She has the Slavic bone structure to carry them off. I can only produce cheekbones on my extra round face if I’m sucking on a straw. And it’s not like I can walk around with a straw in my mouth for the next half a year.

  Or can I? It could be like one of those cool quirks, like carrying a parasol in the sunshine, or wearing kooky hats. I’d be… straw girl.

  What am I thinking? Straw girl sounds like a loser.

  “If you would like to follow me then. I will take you back to your sister. She will be happy, I think.”

  I get up and take one last glance in the mirror. Apart from the gob, I look rather good. Pretty, even.

  I smile at myself but it hurts, so I shrug and follow the lady back out into the main room.

  Dionne is at the front desk chatting away to Sonja. Shit, has she been there the whole time? I shouldn’t even be surprised. Dionne stood gabbing for four hours isn’t really a huge leap of the imagination.

  But as I get closer, I realise that Dionne has had something done too. She definitely looks more tanned.

  She notices me and smiles. Or it looks like a smile. It could in fact be a grimace.

  Oh, I see. She’s been Botoxed.

  “You look fab, Nat!” she says when I reach her. “Loving the lips. Look at my head!”

  She points to her forehead

  “It doesn’t move at all – how cool is that?”

  “Dionne, you’re twenty-five. You have no wrinkles.”

  “Ah, it was included as part of the program.”

  “From Sexy Lady to Seriously Sexy Lady,” Sonja pipes up, proudly.

  “It was free, too. Bull knows someone.”

  She looks weird. Like Dannii Minogue, or a wax model.

  Well I can hardly disapprove. I do have lips like a life jacket.

  “And look at Jean-Paul Gaultier! He’s had a bow put in.”

  She lifts Jean-Paul Gaultier out of her handbag. He does not look impressed with having a green tartan bow in his hair.

  “Here is your bag and big vat coat,” Sonja says handing over my puffa jacket and purse.

  “I am glad you have enjoyed zis experience.”

  She looks so pleased, I can’t tell her that enjoyed isn’t the exact emotion I would choose to describe the whole thing.

  We leave the salon, and make our way to Dionne’s car, which is now covered in a thin dusting of snow.

  I yawn as we climb inside, Dionne switching on the windscreen wipers to get rid of the snow.

  Wow, I’m beat. All that primping has really taken it out of me. It’s tiring being seriously beautiful.

  “Shall we get some lunch? I’m starving.” I say to Dionne as she puts on her seatbelt.

  “I’m not hungry. And anyway you should be dieting before the wedding.”

  My phone beeps loudly with a text. I dig it out of my bag absentmindedly and take a look.

  It’s a number I don’t recognise.

  TEXT FROM: NUMBER NOT AVAILABLE

  BRIAN IS BACK IN LITTLE TROOLEY. HE IS IN THE OLD WHIMSY. HURRY.

  Oh my God! I check the number again. It’s no one from Operation Locate Brian. I’d know because I stored all their numbers in my phone last week.

  I indicate for Dionne to turn off the engine. She tuts but complies. Meanwhile I dial the number from the message,

  The person you are calling is not available. Please hang up. Please hang up.

  I hang up.

  Shit. A rush of excitement courses through me. Brian is back! I’m finally going to be fixed. My life will not be ruined.

  “Dionne, I need you to take me to North Yorkshire. Now!”

  The urgency in my voice seems to fly right over her head.

  “Hmmm. Why?”

  “Because the man who hypnotised me is there and I need him to fix me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you still going on about that? Like, how long will it take?” She could be sulking, but I can’t tell, with all her face frozen. It sounds like she’s sulking.

  “Of course I’m still going on about it,” I answer dutifully. “It’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me!”

  “Drama queen.”

  “And it’ll take about two hours.”

  “Um. Nah. I’m not in the mood. My Botox hurts. And Jean-Paul Gaultier is getting bored.”

  I look towards the backseat where Jean-Paul Gaultier is snug and sleepy inside Dionne’s handbag.

  “He doesn’t look bored,” I try. “Please?”

  She huffs and glances at her Swarovski bejewelled watch.

  “Jeez. No need to go on about it. Fine. But you owe me big time.”

  “Thank you thank you thank you!” I lean over to give her a kiss.

  “Oooh, your gob feels dead weird,” she shrieks.

  “Does it?” I ask, putting my fingers to my mouth and pressing. My finger practically bounces back off the surface of my lips.

  “Yeah. All mooshy.”

  “Great.”

  “Oh no. It’s a compliment. They’re like blow job lips. They’re the best kind. For men I mean. Olly will be made up.”

  I almost ask her to explain the concept of blow job lips, but worry that her explanation will be far more detailed than I can stomach. Instead, I smile with my new mahoosive gob and say,

  “Step on it, Sis!”

  And she does.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  NATALIE TEXT TO: OLLY

  Thanks for asking Dionne to cheer me up. I love you. Please 4give me. I promise I will sort this out!

  Dionne’s Mazda (pearl pink and with zebra print interior) along with her complete disregard for speed limits means that despite the steadily increasing snow fall, we reach Little Trooley in about two and half hours.

  As we park up in the village green, I’m taken aback to find that I’ve missed this place. I’ve only been back in Manchester for a week, but seeing the beautiful honey coloured stone houses, and the tall trees again brings a wonderful sense of calm over me.

  Dionne is not quite as impressed.

  “Oh my days. This place is, like, the middle of nowhere. I didn’t even know places like this existed.”

  I get out of the car and race out towards The Old Whimsy.

  “Do you not think it’s beautiful?” I ask, breathing in the fresh air and waving my arms around. “And the smell. It’s so clean.” And then I then realise that I’m talking to myself because Dionne isn’t even there. I look back. She’s still in the car. Arms folded and staring in front of her.

>   I scuffle back over. “Are you coming or what?”

  “Nah. I’ll wait here. I need to let Jean-Paul Gaultier out for a wee anyway.”

  “I’ll wait while he goes. Come on. It’s cold out here. You may as well come in.”

  Dionne climbs out of the car, sets Jean-Paul Gaultier on his lead and watches while he does his business on a patch of grass.

  “I suppose I can have a swift half while I’m waiting. You’re buying.”

  So Dionne, Jean-Paul Gaultier and I walk/trot back towards the pub. As we reach the door I feel a sudden flutter of butterflies in my tummy. And I hear music from inside. Wait… It sounds like …

  “She’s an easy lover, she’ll get a hold on you believe it…”

  And there, as I open the door, are Riley, Baby-faced Robbie and two men I don’t know are doing a pretty good impression of a band. A band rocking out to Phil Collins.

  I don’t get time to register what I think about Riley strumming a guitar with his eyes closed. Or the fact that they’re singing the song that I was singing the day Riley and I almost… you know. Because there, popping out from behind Robbie, laughing and overzealously bashing on a tambourine, is Meg!

  What the heck! Without thinking about it I shout out “Meg!”

  It’s more of a cry actually.

  Meg startles as she looks over and notices us standing there. Astonishment crosses her pretty features.

  “Natty? Dionne?” she signals for the band to stop playing, which they do immediately.

  Well, she’s obviously been making herself very comfortable here.

  She hurries over.

  “Oh noes! Have you been punched? Did Marie hunt you down?” she asks, gawking at my lips in horror.

  “No and no,” I answer immediately. “I had them filled. I - I don’t want to talk about it.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “What are you doing here?” I ask more grumpily than I should. It’s a free country. Why can’t she be here without me?

  “Sit down,” she says, leading me over to a table.

  “I want a drink and crisps.” Dionne yawns, holding her hand out for money. I hand over a note from my purse and she heads to the bar. Riley hurries over to serve her. I notice him glancing at me, a funny look on his face. A kind of smile, I think. He looks lovely in a pair of combat trousers and a white t-shirt. All fresh and tall and outdoorsy. I blush and turn to Meg.