Authors: Kirsty Greenwood
Meanwhile Riley straddles an upturned crate and, watches me with a peculiar expression on his face. It occurs to me to feel awkward, but I really am too excited to care very much. I want to cook. My gosh, I want to cook. I want to take these beautiful ingredients and I want to cook them into something brilliant.
I smile to myself and gather sprigs of thyme from the terracotta pot in which they’re growing. I bury my head into a large basil plant and inhale deeply before plucking a handful of leaves.
When I’ve finished my spree, I march back into the kitchen, Riley strolling behind.
“
Right,
”
I say with a burst of confidence, the likes of which I haven’t felt in a long while.
“
Hands washed. Apron on.
”
“
Yes ma’am!
”
Riley laughs, doing a silly little salute.
We soap our hands side by side at the huge Belfast sink and Riley digs out a couple of starchy white aprons from a bottom drawer.
I practically dance my way around the kitchen, pulling out all the utensils and ingredients I need and lining them up on the oak table.
“
So, the trick with Ratatouille is this..,
”
I say, handing Riley an onion to slice.
“
You must cook each vegetable separately. People think Ratatouille is like a stew, you just bung all the ingredients in, cook it for a bit and hey presto. But that’s wrong. We’re not looking for one flavour. We’re looking for
layers
of flavour. Loads more interesting.
”
“
Layers of flavour. Got it,
”
nods Riley, sliding a huge knife through the onion.
As we stand side by side chopping up vegetables, I find my mind wandering away from the worry of Brian and Olly and the hypnotism. It’s a welcome relief.
We sauté off the aubergines and the courgettes, and I instruct Riley on how to season the food correctly, and how he should make sure that each ingredient is cooked until it becomes a golden colour before being transferred to the cooking pot. While we’re bustling about Riley chats away about the pub and his efforts to keep it open.
As he speaks about it, I begin to understand why it’s so very important to him. The Old Whimsy isn’t just a pub. It’s his heritage. The last link to his mother and really, the heart of the Little Trooley community. He tells me about the entire village getting involved in the cause. Mrs Grimes has even organised a fundraising barn dance for next weekend. A real live barn dance!
“
You should come,
”
he says casually.
“
It’s going to be fun. And I’m sure the locals would love to see you again. Last night was a hoot for them. They've not had that much excitement in years.
”
A barn dance sounds so unlike anything I’ve ever been to before, and one of those strange villagey type things that I ought to see at least once in my lifetime. But I’ve already done enough skipping off from real life.
“
That sounds lovely,
”
I say.
“
But I’ve got lots to do at home. The wedding, and fixing things with Olly… and in the absence of Brian, finding another hypnotist to sort out my muddled brain.
”
“
Fair enough,
”
Riley shrugs.
“
Thought it was worth a mention.
”
“
Well, thanks for the invite.
”
“
No problemo.
”
“
Yeah, thanks.
”
“
It's no problemo at all.
”
“
Who says problemo?
”
“
Me.
”
“
Right.
”
And with that the conversation ends. The ensuing silence is a tad awkward, so I take my mind back to the task in hand.
After about ten minutes Riley’s deep voice bursts through the soothing sound of sizzling and stirring.
“
What’s that song?
”
he asks, watching as I transfer each cooked vegetable to a large teal casserole dish.
“
What song?
”
“
That song you’re humming.
”
Huh? I’m humming. I didn’t even realise.
“
Oh…I don’t know,
”
I say absently.
“
Sounds like…
wait…
it sounded like a Phil Collins song.
”
My face goes ruby because I realise that he’s right. That’s exactly what I was humming.
“
Hmmm,
”
I mutter, focusing my gaze on the ratatouille dish.
“
Natalie,
”
Riley says with affected nonchalance.
“
Was that a Phil Collins song you were humming?
”
Stupid questions! Stupid
truth-tell
ing.
“
Fine,
”
I hiss.
“
Yes. Yes, it was. It was
Easy Lover
from the album
Serious Hits…
Live.
”
So excruciating! I pride myself on a pretty much impeccable music taste and somehow an errant cheesy song makes its way into my brain. Damn you, Phil Collins and your beguiling melodies.
Riley gives a sharp bark of laughter, it’s so sudden that it makes me jump. I scowl at him but he doesn’t even notice. His eyes are closed and he’s grabbing onto his stomach as if he’s afraid that the raucous chuckles are about to explode right on out of his belly.
Well.
It’s not that funny...
Okay, it’s a
little bit
amusing, I suppose.
I keep a determinedly serious fac
e but as I hear him heartily ho-ho
ing with laughter, a giggle escapes.
“
Shut up!
”
I say chuckling reluctantly.
“
It’s actually a really good song. You know, I think it reached number one in the UK
and
American charts.
”
“
Oh, no doubt,
”
he laughs. And out of nowhere he starts to sing in a surprisingly tuneful voice.
“
She’s an easy lovah. She’ll get a hold on you belieeeeeve it,
”
he pauses, face scrunched up.
“
That’s actually all I know.
”
“
Shame. I was so enjoying that.
”
I shake my head, dropping a few sprigs of thyme into the casserole dish and taking it over to the stove of dreams.
“
So,
anyway
, you put t
his in for about forty to forty-
five minutes. About gas mark four, I’d say.
”
I fiddle with the dials until I get the right settings, before rinsing some basil leaves at the sink.
“
You know you might want to write that down,
”
I say as I notice Riley, peering off into the distance, not really paying any attention to what I’m saying.
I tut and continue to wash and then chop the basil.
“
Natalie?
”
“
Yes?
”
“
Do you know all the words?
”
“
Excuse me?
”
“
To
Easy Lover
. Do you know the words? Can you sing them for me?
”
To my absolute horror, his questions flood into my brain and before I know it, my mouth begins to move, once more without permission, and I…
Oh shit…
I start to sing
Easy Lover
. Making sure to enunciate every lyric for clarity.
Oh no. Gad.
It wouldn’t be half as bad if I had a reasonable singing voice, but I really, truly don’t. Modesty aside, I sound like Mr Bean. Mr Bean in a world of pain.
I croon away, red faced and as quickly as possible so that I can get to the end of the song. But there are a million different verses my brain wants me to get out and I know all of them.
Riley is staring at me, mouth wide open in horror and oh, no, he’s putting his hands over his ears. He tries doing it surreptitiously by leaning his elbows on the table and casually positioning his palms at the side of his head, but I know. I know he’s trying to block out the sound of my foghorn voice.
And then, as the humiliation takes over my concentration on chopping the basil, I accidentally slice down onto the tip of my little finger.
The upside is that it shocks me out of the singing. Oh great. All I have to do to get the hypnosis to stop is injure myself?
“
Ow, piss it!
”
I yell as my finger immediately starts to bleed. I dash back over to the sink, turn on the cold tap and run it over the wound.
Riley, fast as a bullet - given his bear-like size - rifles through a drawer, retrieving a packet of plasters.
“
Are you okay?
”
he says, peering down at my bloody finger.
“
No I’m not. Holy Focaccia, it hurts. That was your fault.
”
“
Was it?
”
“
Yes. It won’t stop bleeding!
”
I pull my hand away from the tap and inspect the cut. It’s only shallow, but it stings like crazy. And it won’t stop bleeding!
Ugh. I feel all faint.
“
You need to suck it,
”
Riley says matter of factly.
“
What?
That‘s
rude.
”
“
You should suck your finger to stop it bleeding. Then I can put the plaster on.
”
“
No. Ew. I’m not… Dracula, you know.
”
“
Just…
”
Riley takes hold of my hand and eyes fastened upon mine, guides my finger into my mouth. My heart begins to gallop. This should not be sexy. It should so not be sexy.
But it
kind of is. In a weird vampir
ish kind of a way.
When the bleeding stops, he wraps the plaster around the wound, but doesn’t let go of my hand.
It’s not uncomfortable at all. It should be but it isn’t. Our eyes are locked onto each other’s. I look up at his really rather outstanding mouth, and feel a dart of lust go through my tummy.
He runs his thumb softly over the palm of my hand, studying me with a weird, greedy look in his eyes. He smiles and shrugs slowly.
I. Want. To. Kiss. Him.
Olly!
“
I must go!
”
I blurt suddenly and much too loudly, pulling my hand away and clutching it to my chest.
“
I’m so late. I’ve got to babysit a dog! I have to get married! I’ll miss America’s Next Top Model if I don’t get back at once! Thanks
for the plaster. Don’t forget, basil on the r
atatouille in forty minutes!
”
“
Natalie, I
-
”
“
Must dash. Haha, moustache! Yep. Bye now. Fabulous to meet you. All the best.
”
With the thump of my heart pounding in my ears, I leave Riley behind and dart into the pub, where Meg is laughing with a handsome, important looking man in a navy suit.
“
Meg!
”
I yell in a wacky, overly cheery, sing-song voice.
“
Time to go!
”
“
Whaaaat?
”
Meg blinks.
“
But, I’m just
-
”
“
Time to go home now. Really.
”
I grab her hand and march her towards the door.
“
Goodbye Jaaaassssper!
”
she cries out to the navy suited man at the table as I drag her out of the pub.
And just like that, we flee the village Little Trooley.
“
What the buggering bugger was that about, Natty?
”
I’d like to say we’re zooming down the motorway headed for home, but the roads are spectacularly icy so it’s more of a leisurely trundle than a zoom.