Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  I keep quiet, not trusting myself to speak coherently, but I know exactly what he means.

  He kisses the tip of my ear before untangling himself from the blankets and standing up.

  “I’m just going to…”

  He trails off. It’s obvious that he’s going to the bathroom, but it doesn’t seem right to say it out loud. Such a plebeian notion after something so amazing. “I’ll be back in a second,” he grins.

  I smile and wave him away, wrapping the duvet snugly around me while he pulls on his boxers and leaves the room.

  It only takes a few seconds of being on my own before the endorphins start to ebb and the guilt begins to flow.

  What have I just done?

  I have just had sex with someone I barely know. Amazing, exciting, lusty, best ever sex. And I’ve not even been split up with Olly for a day.

  I attempt to justify it by telling myself that I’m incredibly confused right now, that I’ve been through a lot and am not entirely responsible for my actions, I’m not fully sober.

  But I know that’s a lie. I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t stop it but I knew exactly what I was doing. Funny how I can’t lie to anyone else, but I can lie to myself so easily.

  It’s only rebound sex, anyways. Everyone is allowed rebound sex...

  Riley comes back into the room carrying a long navy, combed fleece dressing gown, which he hands to me. I take it gratefully and put it on.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, opening the fridge door.

  “Ravenous.”

  “What do you fancy?”

  You.

  I think about it. What would I like most in the world right now?

  “Mashed potatoes.”

  He laughs. “That’s specific.”

  I shrug, embarrassed. “That’s kind of what I came in here for. I was dreaming about mashed potato.”

  Shouldn’t we be feeling guiltier than this?

  Riley pulls on the rest of his clothes and looks out of the window at the snow.

  “I’ll just nip to the greenhouse for spuds,” he says.

  “Okay. Um, I’ll boil some water.”

  “Great.”

  Okay this is awkward again now. We’ve just been doing very rude stuff together and now we’re talking about potatoes. SO weird.

  Once Riley leaves I tighten the belt on the dressing gown and get up to find a pan. I find a fab orange Le Crueset in one of the cupboards, and put some water on to boil.

  When he returns we peel and chop potatoes in silence, then put them on to cook.

  After too long of not speaking, I bite the bullet and ask.

  “Honey -”

  “It’s over,” he says at once, like he knew I was going to ask. “It’s been on the cards for a while. I told her at the barn dance.”

  So he's only just split up with her. In fact it's probably just a fight. They could easily get back together.

  I tell him that once the snow clears I’ll be leaving. He is undeterred.

  “I’ve never felt anything like that,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I have to go. We don’t really know each other. My life…”

  I trail off.

  He looks me in the eye and my tummy flips again at how easy it is to drink him in. The way his face is put together, the exact positioning of his features is so very attractive to me.

  “I can’t force you to do anything,” he says. “But surely it’s impossible to experience what we just did when you’re supposed to be in love with someone else.”

  I think about Olly and how much I love him. Regardless of how amazing Riley is.

  “I think you’re wrong,” I say firmly. “It’s just sex.”

  But even as I say it, I know that it’s not true. This is something more than sex. But it’s new and confusing and really badly timed. It shouldn’t have happened at all, but it did.

  Riley comes closer, an indiscernible flicker in his eyes.

  “Was that just sex?” He asks the question brazenly, cocky.

  “No,” I answer at once, the treacherous truth-telling doing its work. “No. It wasn’t.”

  He nods, satisfied.

  “Would you like to do it again, Miss Butterworth?” he asks, this time a mischievous grin lighting up his face.

  Oh my God. The fizz is strong and I answer clearly.

  “Yes please.”

  He dives on me again, lifting me up onto the kitchen table as if I weighed nothing, undoing the dressing gown, biting my bottom lip.

  My body responds like I’m under a spell, the protests from my brain fading with every kiss.

  I’m an actual hussy.

  Behind us the potatoes bubble over and start to burn. Neither of us cares.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  TEXT FROM MUM:

  Have you or Olly cancelled arrangements yet? I refuse to do it. It's time you grew up, love.

  I’ve had sex with someone else. I’ve had sex with someone who isn’t Olly. I’ve had sex with a stranger. These are my first thoughts when I wake up. And while my head is clear in terms of hangover, it’s not so clear in term of, you know, life.

  After Riley and I did IT again last night, we made some more food and agreed it would be best to go back to our own beds. Despite the fact that what we have done is clearly wrong I can’t help but feel excited. I feel a bit like a child who’s just discovered popping candy for the first time - it’s incomprehensible, and pretty brilliant, but if you eat it before your dinner it’ll make you feel sick.

  I check outside the window to see if the snow has eased off any. It’s still falling but a lot lighter than yesterday, and the sky doesn’t look quite as leaden. In fact the sun might even come out to say hello. And then the snow will melt. And then I’ll be able to go home.

  Home to Manchester.

  Jumping into a hot shower I push away that thought. I wash my hair and concentrate on pushing all thoughts of Olly out of my head. But it’s impossible. In the sober light of day I no longer feel the sense of abandon I had last night. As I pour out the conditioner, I get loads of flashbacks to memories of me and Olly.

  The day we met in Chutney’s. How gorgeous I thought he was.

  The time he asked me to be his official girlfriend after he’d taken me to my first ever boxercise class.

  Proposing to me at the vegan restaurant, his eyes shining with excitement and love.

  Remembering this particular memory hurts the most and I sink down onto the floor of the shower cubicle, rest my head against the tiles and have myself a little cry.

  When the soap suds on my head are beginning to itch I stop crying and rinse them out. I must pull myself together.

  I clip my hair away from my face because I’ll be cooking today. Before I left for my own room, Riley pointed out that I’d be backing out of my promise if I didn’t help him with the menu. And so I said I’d help him - and if there’s one thing that will make me feel better - it’s cooking.

  In the pub I discover Meg and Dionne already having breakfast. They’re scoffing omelettes and chatting away as if they don’t hate each other. It’s very disconcerting.

  When they see me walking over they startle a little. I reach the table they start talking about nail polish - to be specific, their favourite colours of nail polish. If I didn’t know any better I’d say they had been talking about me.

  “Hiya,” I say looking curiously at each of them and taking a seat.

  “Hi!” they both say extra brightly.

  “I was just saying to Meg, how awesome it looks when you paint your nails white. Like Tipp-ex but not skanky, because it’s really nail polish!”

  “It’s very interesting,” Meg says with barely contained enthusiasm.

  This is weird. Are they getting on?

  “What’s happening?” I ask, pouring myself a cup of tea from the pot.

  “Nothing!” They say, looking most suspicious. “Nothing at all!”

  “Um... did you sleep well?” Meg as
ks in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

  “Nah. I barely slept at all. I had sex with Riley.”

  Jesus. I'd almost forgotten about my treacherous truth-telling gob! And now, in less than five minutes, I'm asked a question that leads me to blurt out something I’d have much, much rather kept private.

  The pair of them stare at me shocked. Dionne gasps, her hand shooting up to her mouth in dismay.

  “But… Honey!”

  I put my head in my hands. “I know.”

  “You’re a bitch!” she says, anger crossing her features. “He’s a rat. You’re a pair of… bitch rats.”

  I’m stupidly surprised that Dionne’s so mad at me. But then I remember that back when she was twenty-one, one of her friends slept with her then boyfriend. She was heartbroken for weeks.

  “Please don’t tell her,” I plead. “It was just a one-off. They've broken up and we were drunk!”

  “It’s no excuse,” Dionne cries. “And Olly! He’s not even cold.”

  “He’s not dead!”

  “You know what I mean,” she hisses.

  “Please don’t tell her.”

  Dionne fumes at her cup of tea, while Meg remains mute. Shocked silent? Angry silent? I’m not sure.

  Dionne pulls out her phone and fiddles with it absently.

  “I don’t even know where she is anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I went to Honey’s house this morning to see if she was okay after last night -”

  Oh nice! No bothering about whether I’m okay after pervert Jasper lunged at me. I dismiss my irritation. I have absolutely no right to be feeling irritated right now.

  “- And she wasn’t there. And she won’t answer her phone,” Dionne finishes.

  Oh God. I hope she’s all right. What if she’s been kidnapped? Or is dead? And I was there shagging her one and only true love?

  I shudder at the very thought and tell myself I’m being stupid. Honey will be fine.

  “Please don’t tell her when you see her.”

  Dionne slams her hand down on the table.

  “I’m going to take Jean-Paul Gaultier for a walk.”

  She gets up and after casting me the worst stink eye she may have ever cast at anyone, she stalks out of the pub to fetch Jean-Paul Gaultier from her room.

  “Jesus, Natalie,” Meg whispers as soon as Dionne’s gone.

  “I know,” I say, embarrassed.

  “Was it good?”

  Typical!

  “Yes,” I say, unable to help the grin that creeps stealthily across my face. “Incredible.”

  “Well as I always say, the best way to get over someone is to get under somebody else.”

  “Meg!” I admonish.

  “What! It’s not like Honey is anything other than a complete bitch. I wouldn’t feel bad.”

  I shrug. I do feel bad though.

  “Anyway, speaking of getting under people, I’m off to record!”

  I chew on some toast and look at her.

  “With Jasper? After what he did last night?”

  Meg looks nonchalant.

  “It’s not a big deal. You were both crazy drunk and we've all kissed someone we didn’t mean to before.”

  “But -”

  “Oi, you! Don’t be taking the moralistic high ground!” she frowns slightly.

  I back down because she’s right. She's allowed to spend time with Jasper. Just because I don’t like him it doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.

  “I’ll probably be back late. I’m going to jam with Robbie later.”

  She looks embarrassed as she says it. I laugh out loud.

  “Wit woo?”

  “He's a good singer. And he plays guitar well. He’s going to help me to write a song.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, wondering why she would ever fancy Jasper when Robbie is clearly her perfect match.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I sigh. “I’ve got to look into cancelling the wedding arrangements. Mum and Olly are refusing to do it, which is fair enough…”

  “Oh, Nat. That’s shitty.” She puts her hand over mine.

  “S’all right,” I say, in a voice that belies how rubbish I feel about it. “Anyway, I can’t do it until later; I promised Riley I’d teach him another dish today.”

  Meg shakes her head. “You’re a naughty girl, Nat. You’ve turned into a very naughty girl.”

  “I know.”

  The kitchen is gorgeously warm and bright, the sun glinting in through the windows despite the white of the snow trying it’s very best to dampen the glow. Riley is sat at the table with a pot of coffee and is reading the newspaper. He’s dressed in a pair of baggy, black combat trousers and a snugly fitting charcoal cashmere sweater. My knees wibble slightly.

  I really didn’t think this through. It’s been years since I’ve been in a morning after situation. What’s the etiquette? Do I acknowledge it? Say something jokey like “nice shag last night”? Or do I excuse it by diving in there with red-faced mutterings about how I was so totally horribly drunk last night?

  In light of the wholly inappropriate situation, Dionne's horror at my behaviour, and the fact that I’ll be leaving here very soon, I decide to affect an air of complete professionalism and act as if nothing has happened. If he wants to bring it up then fine. But I won’t.

  “Hi there.” I am brisk. I am professional. I am cool. The coolest.

  Riley looks me up and down and beams.

  “Hello,” he says in a low voice. A voice that makes me feel sensations far too rude for this early in the morning. Is it hot in here? Is the range on too high?

  The coolest? Wow, I’m delusional. I’ve got no chance.

  “Here I am!” I almost shout, willing my voice not to betray me by shaking or squeaking or saying I like you far more than is necessary. I can’t believe we had sex last night. Let’s do it again.

  “Yes… here you are.”

  Riley doesn’t mention what went on in this very room last night, but the tension is so tangible that I can hear it crackling like a bowl of blummin’ Rice Krispies. I take a seat, plonk down the notebooks and pens I’ve bought from the post office and pour myself a coffee. It’s hard to concentrate though; my hands are actually trembling as I recall what went on just over there on the floor. And over there up against that cupboard. And here on this very table…

  “Natalie?”

  Riley is looking at me, puzzled.

  Oops. Got a bit carried away with the flashbacks there. I shake my head in an attempt to clear it, pick up a pen and tap it manically against the table.

  Grinning, Riley takes the pen off me and places it back on the table.

  How can he be so calm and normal? How can he be so calm and normal when my brain is taken up by images and whispers and filthy flashbacks from last night?

  Does he not feel the tension? Oh shitbags. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe I’m imagining it. It’s all one sided and last night for him, was just, let’s face it, an easy lay and he only said that stuff about us fitting so he could get into my pants again. And it worked, because he did get into my pants again. Fabulous. It’s all in my head. Like the time I was a bridesmaid for Auntie Jan when I was fifteen years old and I thought everyone was looking at me because I was wearing a peach satin dress and looked really pretty, when actually they were all looking at me because I had a porridge stain right in the middle of my boob area.

  Fine. Fine. Why am I even worrying about it? It’s not like I want anything more with him anyways. I’m soooo not ready for anything more. I still love another man for Pete’s sake!

  I sip at my coffee, willing myself to get focused and stop being such a flake. I’m an adult. A grown up adult woman. I had ill-informed sex with a man. It happens. It’s normal. It’s fine. Doesn’t mean I have to freak out and start analysing.

  I clear my throat. “Okay.” I pull the lid off the pen, open a notebook and write ‘Menu’ in big capitals at the top of the page, u
nderlining it four times. “Okay. Right. So, the food people know and love but at it’s very best.”

  “Yup. The very best they’ve ever had,” Riley cuts in.

  I stop short. I don’t think that was a double meaning, but the way he said it. His voice low and growly. I glance over at him but his eyes are focused on the notebook in front of us, his face the very picture of innocence.

  “Um, yes,” I carry on. “So I was thinking we could both offer our suggestions for starters, main courses and desserts, decide on a shortlist and try cooking some of them. Then maybe tomorrow, we can do a tasting session for locals in the pub. See what they think?”

  See, that wasn’t so hard. I’m as professional as a... professor.

  “Sounds grand.”

  “Right. Well let’s get to it. Chop chop! The sooner we get your menu decided the sooner I can create some initial recipes and the sooner you can start serving to the public.”

  And so we get to it. To a Spotify playlist of mid-nineties R&B we drink coffee and scribble down ideas in the notebook. Riley suggests favourite dishes, I suggest how we could make them more exciting, the logistics of serving them every night, sourcing ingredients, how easy or difficult they are to perfect. Talking about food is one of my favourite things to do and Riley is obviously passionate about the pub so there is no awkwardness, in fact the conversation flows and trips over itself in the loveliest of ways. But still neither of us mentions last night.

  We’ve managed to shortlist the menu choices to ten classic pub dishes for each course. Based on what we’ve managed to forage from the larder and the greenhouse I’ve decided to show Riley the recipe for Granny’s soup, my nan‘s actual recipe, and concoct new, more exciting ways of doing steak and chips and an egg custard dessert. The exciting thing is that though each dish sounds the same as any other pub fare, we’re going to put little twists into each one so that each dish is tastier and more interesting than initially expected.

  We’ve donned our aprons and are preparing our vegetables for the Granny’s soup. As we chop the holy trinity of carrots, celery and onion, with the music blasting out into the room and the sun sparkling through the huge snow dusted windows, it’s difficult not to be overcome with a feeling of utter wellbeing. Something about this situation, where I am at this very moment - feels good. And it’s for that reason that when Riley starts showing me the official dance to I Wanna Sex You Up by Colour Me Badd, I join in, asking him to teach it to me.