Yours Truly Read Online Free Page A

my health. Obviously. He doesn’t want me conking out on him when we’re married, and that’s totally understandable. He’s really caring like that.
    Olly's gorgeous. I don’t even say that because I’m about to marry him, but he really is. His tanned, angular, his face makes Jude Law look like Donald Trump gone to seed, and he has the most gorgeous coffee coloured hair. He’s a little shorter than average, but just about taller than me, and it’s not like we spend all our time standing up next to each other, so it doesn’t really matter that much. And his body is just gorgeous. All toned and muscled and tanned and trim and firm and honed from the gym. And another good thing. Olly is really neat. Not like neat in the sixties groovy way, though obviously he is that too. But neat in the really tidy way. I’ve never seen him in anything that is creased or worn and his house is cleaner than a hospital operating theatre, which makes sense because both of his parents are surgeons. And anyway, it’s a great antidote to my natural state of messy and cluttered, something I’m working on improving for when we move in together.
    At the next ad break on the sports programme (which I’ve since figured out is a documentary about the exciting lives of pro wrestlers) Olly jumps energetically off the sofa and bounds around into the open plan kitchen of the apartment. He lifts the lid off one of the pans that has been simmering away on the cooker and inhales deeply.
    “ Voila! ” he declares. “ Ready in few minutes, sweetness. ”
    See? How great is this? Whenever I stay at his he cooks me dinner. None of those archaic gender stereotypes going on in this relationship. No-siree. I mean, I love cooking. Really love it. For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be a chef. Making people happy with delicious food must surely be one of the most wonderful experiences there is. It’s too late in the year to take up my catering course again, but I did Google ‘Manchester + Evening Cooking Courses’ and there are few night classes which look interesting. I'm digressing now. The point I'm trying to make is that as much as I adore cooking, it’s kind of nice to know that I don’t have to cook should I not want to.
    I scoot around the black marbled kitchen counter and take a seat over at the little two person table in Olly’s kitchen. As he dishes up he sings quietly to himself. It sounds like an old Kylie song, but I’m not sure. Bless him. As usual he’s set the table up with a pristine white tablecloth, a couple of tea-light candles in navy blue glass holders and a well chilled bottle o f non-alcoholic Bonne Nouvelle C hardonnay has been placed at the centre of the table. I pour us both a glass and take a sip. It tastes a little like apple juice that’s past its sell by date, but it’s worth it because it has only a third of the calories tasty real wine has. Plus no hangover tomorrow!
    “ Dinner is served, my love. ”
    Olly zips my wine glass onto a coaster, places my napkin over my lap and sets down the plate in front of me.
    “ Oooh, yum! It looks great! ” I say.
    This isn’t strictly true. It’s a steamed fish stew and boiled brown rice. It’s beige.
    Olly sits across from me, lifts his plate up to his nose and takes a big old whiff. He says “ Aaaaaah ” before setting his plate down. This is a ritual he has. It’s kind of cute, really.
    He nods towards my plate. Oh yes. That’s another part of the ritual. I have to sniff too. Apparently it's possible to get full just from sniffing your food before eating it.
    So I lift up the plate and inhale.
    I can’t really smell anything.
    This is often the case. The first time it happened I snuck into the kitchen after Olly had gone to bed and took some pickled garlic out of the cupboard to see if my sense of smell still worked. The pungent, acidic scent of it made my eyes water, which was excellent because I was beginning to worry about the sudden disappearance of my