Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Morag chuckles and turns to us. “We best get up there, then.”

  The stair/photograph tour comes to an abrupt end as Morag leads us through a flock wallpaper decorated hallway, up a couple more steps and into cream painted door with a sign that says ‘MEDIA ROOM. PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING’.

  Morag knocks three times. Beside me Dionne giggles quietly. I nudge her and frown, though I must admit that it is a little funny.

  “You may enter!”

  Morag pushes open the door with a flourish. And oh my! It is actually a media room.

  Next to me I hear Dionne gasp.

  Morag smiles proudly.

  “It’s rather snazzy isn’t it, ducks?”

  “We’re going to record as live. Which means that the listeners will think it’s live. But it won’t be. It will be as live. It will actually go on air in the morning. It gives us chance to edit things a little.”

  I’m sat on one of those leather twisty chairs at Barney’s control desk, still in shock at the fact that this room exists in this traditional cottage. There are three - three! - flat screen computer monitors lined up on a long pale curved desk, wires and headphones everywhere, and even a light on the wall flashing orange. Apparently when we’re recording, it will flash red. The walls are hung with pictures of Barney, obviously once quite a successful journalist. There’s a picture of him with Shirley Bassey. And, bloomin’ heck, one of him with Phil Collins and Cliff Richard!

  Wow.

  Morag is busy typing away at one end of the desk, ready to transcribe my interview on the radio for her Little Trooley blog site and Dionne is sat on a brown leather sofa on the other side of the room, texting on her phone.

  “So… obviously I’ll be asking you some questions,” Barney is saying, fiddling with dials on the computer. It’s odd. He looks different in here. Like… a mogul! It’s comforting that he obviously knows what he’s doing.

  “Please don’t ask me anything… private,” I say, fingering a stray piece of wool on my cardigan. I have to make sure that this interview isn’t just another opportunity to embarrass myself, to get myself into more trouble.

  “He won’t, love,” Morag says kindly.

  “Of course I won’t,” Barney shakes his head. “I’ll just ask you questions about what has happened to you. And why you want to find Brian. Don’t worry, lass. It's all under control.”

  “Okay.”

  “And we’ll be filming the interview for YouTube, too!”

  He gestures to a top of the range camcorder propped up on a tripod and pointing directly at me.

  “Oh! Won’t that be a bit boring?” I ask, curious. “The same thing on the radio, website and on YouTube?”

  “Of course not! The medium is the message Natalie.” Barney rolls his eyes.

  “Oh yes. The medium is the message, Natalie,” Morag agrees, nodding fervently.

  “The medium is defo the message,” Dionne pipes up looking knowledgeable for a brief moment.

  I have absolutely no clue what that means but it's obvious that they all think I should know that the medium is the message... so I nod along like I get it and pat my hair in an attempt to get rid of any remaining snowflakes. I am going to be on the internet after all.

  “Oh dear!” Morag says suddenly. “You’ll need make-up for onscreen. We don’t want you looking ghostly!”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I say quickly, absently touching my ginormous lips and thinking about the last makeover I had.

  “No. No. We must. Just a bit of powder to stop the shine, my love. And perhaps a little rouge.”

  A bit of powder? Rouge? I can live with that.

  I nod my agreement and Morag hurries out of the media room to get her make-up bag.

  While she’s gone Dionne puts her phone back inside her bag and says:

  “So when is it all going to be on, then?”

  I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but I’m sure Barney looks irritated for a second. He has already told us it will all go out tomorrow morning after editing. I tell Dionne this and she shrugs, taking her phone back out of her bag and texting again.

  I do an apologetic face at Barney, but he’s too busy fiddling with the computer again to notice.

  “Here we are!” Morag scuttles back in.

  I sit patiently while she dabs a musty smelling powder over my forehead and nose. She takes out a peach coloured pan-stick and rubs it into the apples of my cheeks.

  When she’s done Barney hands me a pair of massive earphones. They feel heavy on my head. He nudges one of the microphones on the desk over to me, flicks a switch on the camcorder and then something on the computer screen. He wheels around on his chair, facing me now with a wide, eager smile.

  “Let us proceed.”

  I’m aiming for somewhere between Terry Wogan and his silky smooth radio voice and Sarah Cox with the whole carefree, cheeky northerner thing. But I’m so nervous that I start doing this curious posh accent. And my voice is dead high. I’m pretty much landing somewhere between Joanna Lumley and a whistle.

  It’s a good job this is all going to be edited. Barney asks me far more questions than I expected, and much more probing ones too. The interview starts off simply enough, but goes downhill when Barney asks me to tell the audience EXACTLY what had happened with Olly. Dionne sits there agog as I blurt out everything in my new plummy accent. I waffle on about his stamina, about his music, about his annoying obsession with his car, about him thinking I’m depressed. Everything.

  As if that isn’t enough, Barney asks me what I like best about Little Trooley, which you’d think would be a pretty straightforward question. Only it isn’t.

  “I like the people,” I squeak. “In particular Riley from the Old Whimsy. He’s very handsome. I’d like to have sex with him.”

  Dionne laughs her head off at this, but I’m mortified. I know it will be edited out but I can’t believe I said it out loud. In front of Morag!

  After Barney asks me what my worst habit is (picking my toenails), whether I give to charity (thirty pounds a month, but if anyone asks I tell them it’s fifty), why it’s so important for me to marry Olly (I love him and want a family of my own) I’m exhausted.

  Aware that I’m still being recorded I do a cut-throat motion with my hands. I’m ready to stop answering questions.

  Barney nods curtly and wraps up the interview by asking the audience to get in touch if they have seen or know Brian Fernando, or think they might be able to help me.

  He switches off the record buttons on the camera and computer and removes my headphones.

  “You did very well, love,” he says.

  “You will edit out the bit about, um Riley and Olly, won’t you? And when I said I don’t care about the Queen or X Factor? That has to go, else I’ll be lynched.”

  “Of course, of course,” Brian nods patting my knee. “We’ll make it very sympathetic.”

  Phew. Sympathetic is good.

  “Can we go now?” Dionne stands up and stretches. “That was so funny. You really do have to tell the truth! It’s amazing. You dirty cow, picking your toenails.”

  I ignore her and follow Morag who hands me my wellies and Dionne her Uggs and sees us out.

  “It’ll be on the air at nine AM, sweethearts, and on the website a little later. Thanks for stopping by, it’s been a pleasure to have you here. I’ll see you both in t’morning.”

  “Thanks for the pie!” I say as Morag envelops me and then Dionne into a lovely warm hug.

  “Yeah, the pie was cracking” Dionne grins.

  And we leave, making our way back across the snow covered green and back to The Old Whimsy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Email From: stone_chutneys

  To: nattyb

  Subject: (No Subject)

  Hiya kidda. I’m guessing you’re feeling like real shit right about now. Probably climbing the walls and wishing that you had never been born. Detox is a bitch like that. I wanted to let you know that I am cheering for
you and also was wondering if you knew what Marie’s favourite perfume is?

  Good luck.

  Best,

  Stone.

  The next morning there’s a real buzz in the air. Not only is it the night of Mrs Grimes’ Barn Dance Fundraiser, but before that I’m going to be on the radio!

  I’ll be honest. I’m quite excited at the prospect of hearing myself on the airwaves.

  Of course, it’s only a local station, and there’ll be hardly anyone listening, but radio! I feel like a little celebrity. Not to mention the fact that the chances of finding Brian after the Media Splash goes out are greatly increased. That’s the most exciting thing of all.

  My thrill of being on the airwaves is enhanced by the fact that Dionne and Meg, Morag Braithwaite, Mrs Grimes and Uncle Alan are all gathered around a pub table, a portable radio pride of place in the middle.

  “It’s time!” Morag chirps, switching the radio on and turning it right up. As the end of a Duran Duran song plays out Riley hurries in from the kitchen with a bowl of warm popcorn and takes a seat at the table.

  “Hurry up, Duran Duran!” Dionne tants.

  “Shhh!” Meg hisses at her. “It’s on!”

  Barney's voice blasts out through the speakers.

  “And now on Radio Trooley we have a very interesting guest… Natalie Butterworth -”

  It’s funny how everyone stares at the radio as my interview begins, like it’s a TV.

  As my voice comes through I feel a thrill. I don’t sound as squeaky as I thought I would. I sound rather nice! Nice and friendly and proper. Morag beams at me, a mobile in hand, ready to take calls from any listeners with potential leads.

  “You sound really posh!” Meg laughs.

  “Oooh, that was me coughing in the background!” Dionne cries. “I’m famous!” She does a royal wave at the rest of us.

  I start to relax as the interview continues. I’m actually coming across really well. I’m clear about my plight, I’m not stuttering. I feel a little glimmer of pride. Maybe cooking is not the only talent I have...

  But then, to my dismay, I hear Barney’s voice asking me one of the questions he agreed to edit out.

  “What’s your worst habit?”

  “I pick my toenails. I find it very therapeutic.”

  Oh brother, how embarrassing! He obviously forgot to take it out. Dionne and Meg crack up, while Mrs Grimes glances at me with ill-disguised disgust. Riley appears to be stifling a chuckle.

  But my toenail confession is nothing compared to what happens next. It gets a whole lot worse. The interview continues and I realise that NOTHING has been edited. Nothing at all. Out come the questions about Olly and with them, my answers. My own treacherous voice, discussing mine and Olly’s sex life. The sound of my incessant truth chatter echoes in my head.

  My heart starts to hop like a Mexican jumping bean.

  “And what do you like about Little Trooley?”

  Oh. My. God. Barney! Don’t ask it! I will myself not to answer but it’s pre-recorded. I already have answered. What’s gone wrong? He agreed to edit it!

  I reach out for the radio to switch it off, but Mrs Grimes snatches it up and clasps it to her chest. “It’s not finished yet!” she tuts.

  My voice no longer sounds nice and friendly on the radio. It sounds perfidious and humiliating.

  “The people. Especially Riley from The Old Whimsy. I’d like to have sex with him.”

  A small gasp goes up around the table. Mrs Grimes turns off the dial in a flash.

  “Well, that’s quite enough of that!”

  Morag is red-faced. “Dear me. There's obviously been some kind of technical difficulty! I’m going to find out what’s going on, love. I’m ever so sorry.” She scuttles off out of the pub.

  I can hear the blood rushing into my ears. Shit.

  Meg grabs my hand and squeezes. I can’t even look at Riley. He must sense my acute embarrassment because he lumbers back to the kitchen without a word.

  My God.

  “Oh Balls,” Dionne whispers.

  I look at her. She looks all pale, like she’s going to be sick. Jesus. She’s really embarrassed for me.

  “It’s all right,” I say, putting my arm around her instinctively.

  “No it’s not,” she says tears flooding her eyes. “I texted Olly last night from the Braithwaites’. Told him to tune in so he would hear that bit you said about how much you loved him.”

  “What?” Now my face drains, my hands begin to twitch.

  “I thought they’d cut the other stuff out. I thought it would help. I’m so sorry,” she pleads. “Natalie… I think Olly heard everything.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t say anything. My vocal chords have stopped working. My mouth has gone dry and my eyes start to blur.

  I grab my bag and run out of the pub.

  Please don’t let Olly have heard. Please let him have been out. Please let him not have been able to tune into the Little Trooley frequency.

  I’m standing by the pond on the green, getting some air, when my phone beeps with a text.

  TEXT FROM: OLLY CHATTERLEY

  Nice interview. Enjoy long lasting sex with the barman. I can’t do this. Wedding off. Olly.

  I stare at it. Not entirely sure that it’s real, that this is actually happening. My knees wobble precariously. I rush to a bench and sit down, unbothered by the snow that seeps in through my jeans. I’ll probably get nappy rash. I don’t care.

  I hold the phone in my shaking hands, it feels heavy and clunky, like a phone from twenty years ago.

  Should I ring him?

  No. I can’t. It will only make things worse. I can’t trust myself to speak to Olly until Brian comes back. And the chances of that happening before Christmas Eve are slim to none. What was I doing? Thinking that an interview was a good idea? That people could be trusted?

  Anger washes over me, stinging my skin and pulling and tugging at my lungs so that it gets harder to breathe.

  What the fuck was Barney doing? He promised me he would edit it. He promised.

  I put my phone back into my bag and march furiously through the snow to the Braithwaites’ house.

  Morag opens the door, her face is all flushed.

  “Oh, love. Oh, poor love. I’m ever so sorry.”

  Barney appears from the hall. He doesn’t look in the least bit sorry. In fact, he looks positively thrilled.

  “What on earth happened?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  “Oh, lass. Don’t get so worked up,” Barney dismisses. “This is just the nature of news! You have to give the public what they want.”

  His voice has a patronising edge. He no longer looks like a cuddly old Yorkshire man. He looks like… he looks like a shark!

  “You did it on purpose?”

  “Ah, don’t be naïve! This way the story will get lots more attention. It’ll probably get picked up regionally, nationally even! Far more chance that someone will find Brian.”

  I start to sob openly. I’m pretty sure that there’s a snot bubble poking out of my left nostril.

  “I don’t need Brian anymore!” I half shout, half bawl. “Thanks to you Olly has called off the wedding! He’s called the whole thing off! It doesn’t matter what happens now!”

  A flicker of guilt flashes over Barney’s face. Morag shakes her head sadly.

  “Come in, love.” She opens the door wider. “Let’s sort this out. There’s already been some phone calls. Barney might be a git, but… he might also be right.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to sort this out. There is nothing to sort out.

  I kick at the snow roughly and turn on my heel.

  Fuck this.

  I’ve been stomping through the snow for half an hour. And now I’m lost. It wouldn’t be so bad, but everything is covered in white. There are no distinguishing features around. No buildings, no post boxes, nothing.

  I stand in the middle of nowhere and peer around at my surroundings.
I’m getting cold now.

  I shiver and look behind me. Where did I turn? Which way did I come from?

  I feel like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz as I struggle to make the decision to turn left or right. If only there was a creepy scarecrow to assist.

  I sigh and decide on left.

  After another ten minutes I realise that left was wrong. I come to an area full of gnarled looking bare trees. I stride through, fighting my way through branches and twigs. A few of them poke through my cardigan. No doubt they'll leave a scratch.

  All of a sudden I come out of a clearing and to what looks like a waterfall. Only – oh my goodness - it’s frozen.

  I amble over slowly, taking it all in. Oh my gosh. It is a frozen waterfall!

  It’s incredible. Solid and crystal clear, as if someone pressed pause on the water flow and it has been flawlessly captured in its descent.

  I have a memory of looking on the map the first time Meg and I were driving here. There was a waterfall… what was it called?

  Truth Springs. That’s it. How bloody apt.

  That seems like so long ago now.

  I stand in the bitter cold, the complete lack of noise hurting my ears, and wonder whether to make a wish.

  Can you even make wishes on a waterfall? Surely it’s just wishing wells and fountains, but right now, I could really do with a wish. And this here is a frozen waterfall. It's not every day you get to see a frozen waterfall.

  Pulling my blue Aran cardigan more tightly around my shoulders I brush some twigs off a crooked overturned log and sink onto it. Exhaling long and loud, I watch as a misty cloud forms in front of me and then dissolves as if it were never there .

  I've managed to stop crying, which is a good thing. I've never shed so many tears in one sob session before. Any more and I'm pretty sure they would have started to freeze into icicles.

  I tremble slightly and gaze at the frozen waterfall, taking in the way the formations of ice look like turrets on some kind of enchanted ice castle. Wow.