The New Mrs D (23 page)

Dear Facebook friends and family. I’d like it to be known that I am no longer Mrs David Dando. I am no longer Mrs anything. I am Bernice Annabel Anderson. Free-spirited and horsing around daily in the Aegean with meraki – which means putting a bit of myself into it. *SPLASH*

Epilogue

Got a nude life in Greece, making lots of nude friends. I feel like a nude woman! It’s Blondieoke this evening. Come on down!

‘I
keep having these recurring dreams. A sea of two hundred, beautiful, smiling faces watch me take to the stage. But wait! I’m not wearing any clothes!’

The sea of two hundred beautiful, smiling faces erupted into a crashing wave of laughter. Of course I wasn’t wearing any clothes. Neither were they. Who needs pants on a twinkling, balmy evening on the Aegean coast?

‘It’s true, you lovely, absurdly generous people, we are living a common dream tonight. Only this time, it’s for a fantastic cause.’

I pointed to my team welcome of disciples; Greta, Hughie, Linda, Michaela and Chris, walking amongst the crowd shaking collecting tins, every one of them as naked as the day they were born except for a pink ribbon on their wrists, ankles – or, in Hughie’s case – tied around the family jewels.

‘I’ve come bearing gifts, Bernice,’ he’d chortled with his now familiar wink, on arrival at the beach bar earlier that evening. Greta and Hughie were here for the concert and another adventure holiday. Linda had come out to join me six months earlier, moving into Michaela’s home, before initiating a welcome move into Michaela’s life. I hadn’t seen that one coming.

Every islander, just-returned members of Gelle, breast cancer survivors, their friends and family members present were waving euros, all ready to pour in cash for the cause. In the centre of the crowd, I saw Linda greet Eydis and her new girlfriend with a hug. Everyone was so happy. Even Ginger, who was running about carrying cocktails to and from the bar with Edvard; except, she’d insisted on them both wearing aprons.

‘Empty your pockets!’’ I shouted to the cheering crowd. And then, ‘Oops, you haven’t got any pockets!’

‘Ye’ll be telling us to shake wur tits next!’ Greta shouted, to more raucous laughter from the crowds.

‘Amazing,’ Adonis said into my ear. ‘We should do this every year, pretty laydee.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ I replied.

He nodded to the band, who started up with a familiar, Blondie riff. Looking back with pride, I smiled at my beautiful, multi-talented, butt-naked guitarist, Sal, before stepping up to the mike again.

‘Uh huh, make me toniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. Toniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight! Make it right!’

It was one year since my move to Greece. One year since The New Mrs Dando turned into the Not Mrs Anything. Life couldn’t have felt better if I’d fallen in love with somebody new. But then, I had. I’d fallen in love with me.

To all the lovely ladies and the equally lovely men,

Put on that favourite album from your youth, march to the kitchen henceforth, open the drawer – you know the one – with the wooden spoon inside it! Pull out that spoon-cum-microphone, turn up the music and sing your heart out. Use nothing less than the power of the top of your voice.

Now, be thankful.

You’re a legend in your own lifetime.

And there will never be another you.

About The Author

Heather Hill - comedy writer and mum of five (not the band) lives in Scotland and is one of a rare kind: the rare kind being one of the 0.5% of females that is ever-so-slightly colour blind. She is known to have been prevented from leaving the house with blue eyebrows on at least one occasion.

You can visit Heather’s blog and send her a message at www.hell4heather.com – she loves to hear from readers, especially if you put ‘cake’ in the subject line. Or catch her on Twitter, where she is still found sharing photos of her breakfast.
Follow Heather − and her breakfast − @hell4heather

Acknowledgements

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Paul Johnson, the first person to kick me over the starting post by dotting my t’s and correcting my ‘eyes’. Also to him, I am grateful for a short, true story about how funny Greek bread can be. Thank you, my friend.

To Professor Lionel Wilson, Emeritus Professor of Earth & Planetary Sciences at Lancaster Environment Centre, Professor Willy Aspinall, School of Earth Sciences, Bristol University and Dr Wendy Stovall, U.S. Geological Survey, California, thank you for your collective thoughts, expertise and hilarious anecdotes on the subject of volcanoes.

To Nick Elliott, thank you for offering to tell me how to blow up a small country, a village, a house or an oven . . . and how to escape on a moped afterwards.

To literary agent, Hannah Ferguson, who first believed in me and Mrs D. Thank you for your unfailing optimism, advice and encouragement.

To Flora Napier of Blueprint Editing, Edinburgh. You gave me confidence and a much needed kick up the bum. I couldn’t have done it without you.

To Glasgow artist, Dennis Bannister, who let me sit in on his painting class in the name of research, all for the price of a bottle of gin.

To the first person to read the original, scrappy draft – my lovely niece Laura Fenwick. Even after three reads, she still came back for more.

To my brother, Barry Smith, thank you for so many things; but most of all, for your chequebook.

To my extraordinarily supportive author pals, Fleur Ferris, Amanda Prowse and Mark Leggatt – I don’t know where I’d be without any of you. You made me laugh, cry and get off the floor when I thought I was sinking. Because YOU know what it’s like.

To my brilliant husband, Stephen, who has worked extra shifts for two years, starved, saved, laughed and cried with me in order to see my writing dream come true. You are my life and my rock; thank God for you. And thank you for my new whisky addiction.

And to five young people who drove me to do it, my children Becki, Ryan, Liam, Kyle and Luci, who make me proud every day. I hope I manage to do the same for you.

Love you all X

The New Mrs D

Heather Hill

© Heather Hill 2014

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Heather Hill.

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