Chapter 1
Out with the old…
Let’s start with an introduction.
The name’s Munro, Natasha Munro – sorry I`ve always wanted to say that!
I’m a twenty-eight-year-old high school teacher from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in England – well, a farm just on the outskirts of town – and I’d class myself as fun with a bubbly personality, and before you ask, no – that’s not code for me being ugly, but heck, I ain’t no Cindy Crawford either! But I am fab-u-lous and totally know how to work it!
“What do you look like then?” I hear you ask.
Well, where do I begin?
I have long, dark brown hair that hangs to the middle of my back, large brown eyes and light olive skin; I’m happy with my colouring. I have a small, straight nose with average-sized lips, a beauty spot under my left eye and dimples which I find excellent at getting me out of trouble!
I am not fat by any means, but I am not skinny or slender either – I like to think I'm a whole lot of va-va-voom tied up in a Coke-shaped bottle.
I'm five foot five: you know, average. My chest is... ample and – oh hell, who am I kidding? – my hips are in that category too, but my waist is small and pinches me in in all the right places.
Like many women, my main area of trouble is my stomach – my bloody ever-so-slightly curved stomach – but I cope well enough and get a little help from my daily double-wearing of Spanx to fix this little problem – that ensures I can continue to chow down on my daily doses of French pastries and Cadbury’s chocolate without too much guilt.
I bet I know what you’re thinking – where the heck is this little tale going and why is her story different from any other? What happened in her life to make her stand out?
The truth is that what happened to me could happen to anyone. I’m telling you this story as sometimes truly extraordinary things can happen to ordinary people, and sometimes it’s good to be reminded of that. My best friend once joked that my life would make a good book and so, here it is: my life laid out for your enjoyment.
Before we start, you need to know that this story isn’t anything paranormal or so beyond the realms of reality that it’s incomprehensible. There are no wizards or sparkly vampires that will appear and sweep me off my feet. There are no hobbits or elves that will request I sacrifice my life for the sake of all mankind, and I hope I’m not one of these annoyingly weak supposed-heroines who set the feminist movement back a few decades with the ridiculous choices they make.
Instead, this is the whistle-stop memoir of how a lower-middle-class girl from the north of England one day changed the way she lived her life and set off on a bumpy path that ultimately led her to her own slice of the happily-ever-after pie.
So folks, grab yourself a bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine (I would suggest you make it a large one) and when you´re sitting comfortably, I´ll begin.
"Well, slap my arse and call me Sally!"
The scene is set: groaning, moaning, the reverse cowboy and a rip-roaring orgasmic scream – and me, turning on the light to my supposedly devoted boyfriend going rodeo with his waif of a secretary in front of my very wide and disbelieving eyes.
What a frickin' welcome home this was turning out to be!
If someone had tried to tell me what I would find on the inside of my front door that evening, I would never have believed them. However, taking in the image that has since been ingrained in my long-term memory left me in no doubt about the reality I was facing.
With a whip of his head in my direction, Nathan, my lovely but somewhat currently compromised boyfriend, turned a vibrant shade of scarlet and said in a flustered yet surprisingly laid-back manner.
"Hunny Bun, you’re back early… erm... this is awkward… it… shit… it just…well happened…we were wet… mmm… from the rain and… well… we needed to dry off and things just kind of snowballed into... into…this..." he drawled on without apology while pointing down at their conjoined bodies.
Like I hadn't already noticed that his chipolata of a penis was lodged in a vice between his secretary’s legs. My eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. Was he for real? What a total and utter wanker!
Nathan straightened, pulling his living, breathing blow-up doll with him, never severing their connection, and held out a placating hand towards my furious stare.
"Sweetie, listen, I love you, and now you’re here, well, I’ve kind of had this fantasy… so, ah, why don't you come here and, you know, join in? Triple the people, triple the fun!"
I don't know what bothered me more: the ménage a trios invitation or the fact that Little Miss Twig had continued slowly grinding on my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s dick like a Black and Decker drill bit whilst he explained to his, shall we say, less-than-impressed current girlfriend exactly why he was making the beast with two backs with his employee. God only knows how I mustered up the Thor-like strength to restrain myself from launching forward and fly-kicking him, then smacking the waif directly in the p**n -film smile that was plastered on her overly plumped-up lips!
"Gee, Hunny Bun, that sounds tremendously tempting, but I think I’ll pass. In fact, I'll tell you what,” I said in the overly-patronising voice normally saved for only the stupidest of kids that I teach, my index finger firmly in the air to exaggerate my point. “I’ll just grab my things and get out of your hair and then never see you again... as long as I live... how does that sound?"
I didn’t stay to hear the response and quickly ran into the bedroom, away from the carnal sculptures currently making arse-shaped indents on my prized Italian leather L-shaped sofa.
I bee-lined straight to the sliding wardrobe and drawers and proceeded to pack my largest suitcase as fast as humanly possible.
What a prick!
With every hammock-sized bra and frilly pair of socks I pushed into my leopard print suitcase, I became more and more infuriated. The sheer audacity of him – and her! Did she not realise the impact of her little romp? Sheesh, mental overload: my so-called knight in shining armour, the future father to my kids, was apparently a closet Hugh Hefner.
Fighting the urge to commit cold-blooded murder, I lugged my bulging suitcase in the direction of the front room, getting myself ready for my whore of a boyfriend to begin the begging and pleading for forgiveness by planning witty and dry-humoured comebacks that would make him feel as bad as I did right then.