The New Mrs D (5 page)

And that was it. He’d been the first person to ask me out since my split from Michael.

It was just four weeks and six further dates before I told him.

‘I love you, David.’

‘You do?’ he’d said, looking astonished. ‘Well, that
is
nice.’

I had waited for him to tell me he loved me too, but he just smiled, squeezed my shoulders and turned back to the television. Then, he jumped off the sofa and shouted:

‘Yahhh beauty!!!’

It was three nil to Chelsea.

Turning from the mirror, my face clashed with something jangly.

‘What the . . . ?’

A mobile made from miniature Ouzo bottles was swinging from the ceiling. Great. There was nothing to beat crashing face first into some dingly-dangly reminders of why I looked like death. Rubbing my forehead, I blinked again at the Binnie in the mirror who gazed back with bitterness, anxiety and regret etched on her face.
When did I get so old?
The Binnie in front of the mirror oozed boozy fumes. Still feeling awful, I stretched out my chin, trying to smooth away the extra one underneath and finding . . . Oh dear God . . . more fluff.
Tut!
I leant in closer for the beard check.
THOU SHALT NOT CHECK FOR EVIDENCE OF BEARD!

‘That isn’t me,’ I told myself aloud.

‘Are you sure?’

Chris’s voice made me jump. I laughed a small, nervous laugh. Being caught talking to yourself was always embarrassing. Being caught stroking your sideburns at the same time was just too awful for words.

‘So sorry, I was just admiring . . . things. What a great apartment,’ I said, hiding acute mortification – I thought − pretty well.

‘Yes it is. Just needs some work before I can advertise for holiday lets and start making some cash from it.’ He smiled at me and I felt myself blushing again. For a few seconds there was that awkward silence thing – the kind I always had to fill with just about the first thing that popped into my head. I stroked the mattress. ‘Lovely, inviting bed, though.’

Nooo! Way, way too sleazy.

‘Er . . . not that I’ve tried it or anything . . .’ I continued. ‘Or that I’m inviting you . . . er . . . to.’
Oh, stop talking, Binnie!

I felt in my handbag for my SPF 15 sun cream before holding it out to him. ‘Here. You’re going to need this to protect yourself from my face.’

He laughed. ‘Invitation? Perish the thought.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ I said.

‘The one I have upstairs is much more comfortable,’ he continued, winking at me and just about sending my facial temperature to the moon. At least we were falling back into our old, familiar, mickey-taking ways. At least a part of me was beginning to feel normal.

‘Aha, I see,’ I said, guffawing like a moron.

Looking around the quaint, white-washed room again, I had an idea − one that meant never having to face hoards of loving couples or any of the similarly dressed honeymoon hotel staff again. One that meant not having to be with strangers for the whole of my holiday. One that meant I didn’t have to be alone. However, it was also one that meant I might need to tell Chris my marriage to David really was over and at least some version of why. I guessed I was going to have to face this situation with everyone sometime soon, especially myself.

‘Look, in all seriousness, this place looks just ideal for me. Are you sure it’s not ready to let?’

‘For you?’ he said, looking surprised. ‘Aren’t you booked into a hotel?’

I nodded unenthusiastically. ‘Yes, but it’s a little . . . shall we say awkward? Some space just to be alone would be wonderful,’ I said. ‘I just need to breathe again.’ The last part was more to myself than Chris.

He scratched his chin. ‘Well Bernice, I don’t know, I . . . er . . .’

Knowing he wasn’t keen to have me hurt a little. So, he was unhappy with me. I really needed a friend right now, but Chris’s friendship clearly belonged to David.

‘I won’t be in the way, I promise. It’s this or another hotel. Probably on another island as there are so few here,’ I reasoned. ‘Please?’

‘Well, okay, why not?’ he said, still not looking convinced. ‘I guess I can have Mita clean and clear it out for you this afternoon. If you’re sure this is what you want?’

The question, I knew, was about more than just about taking the apartment. Turning back to Boozy Binnie in the mirror, I sighed. ‘Yes Chris, I’m sure. This is just the away-from-it-all haven of peace I need right now.’

He rested a hand on my shoulder and sighed. He didn’t want me here, I knew it. Maybe he thought if I stayed at the hotel David could find me and we could patch things up.

‘Right then, I’ll consider it let.’ he said at last. Then, a wry, mischievous grin, the Chris I remembered.
Cha-ching!
‘Two weeks rent up front okay?’

Chapter Six

Had a whole day of expert painting tutelage and got full marks for artist impression . . . after accidentally sitting on the palette and ruining three good chairs.

P
osting today’s status told my Facebook world – including Smother − all was well and going to plan on the Dando honeymoon. Taking one last look round the hotel suite, I patted the honeymoon bed – thinking it must be the easiest five days it had ever had – tipped my sunglasses from the top of my head onto my nose, and headed out, with a nod to Suck-Face couple’s door, dragging my case behind me.

‘See ya later . . . not!’

No sooner had I passed it, than the door opened and a guy came flying out, landing on his backside – followed by what looked like a pair of red knickers – which smacked him clean in the puss. He lay stunned, giving me time to race into the waiting lift without having to face him – to join an old couple who’d just got in. As the door began to roll shut, a woman’s voice bellowed out, ‘
Accidentally
kept your trollop’s knickers in your case? Huh!’

Finally ensconced in the lift, I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘First floor?’ the gentleman asked.

‘Could be,’ I said. ‘Or maybe she’s thrown him down before.’

The hotel concierge helped me strap my suitcase to the back of the moped, but not before expressing concern that the whole thing might tip up, and offering to get me a taxi instead. But nope, the newly independent me was going to do it by myself. Happily, my little scooter proved it could cope with the extra weight of my case and was soon carrying us uphill towards Chris’s villa, a carrier bag containing a bottle of sparkling wine swinging from the handlebars.

Woman and cargo made it almost three quarters of the way before finally remembering to drive on the right side of the road. How lucky for me that they were quiet and that my phrasebook-assisted grasp of the Greek language didn’t include profanities.

‘You drive on the right hand side of the road, I get it. How hard can it be?’

Pulling up for the second time that day at Chris’s gate and seeing the door to Villa Miranda closed, I rummaged in my pockets to find the combination number for the lock and the apartment key he had given me earlier. He’d be out for his daily kayak session no doubt, whatever one of those was. Although it was early evening, the sun still burned hot on my back, making the effort of pulling my luggage and carrier bag from the moped up the path of jaggy, loose gravel – which kept jamming the wheels of the case – all the more difficult. Hot, bothered and tired, no sooner was my key in the lock of the door than I’d thrown aside my bag, parked my case, pulled back the bed covers and flung myself onto the bed.

Something coarse and wet was rhythmically sweeping my foot.

‘Don’t!’ My voice echoed in the lonely room.

Wait a minute, I’m in a
lonely
room! Sitting bolt upright and flinging the surprisingly heavy duvet off me, there was a loud, ‘MIAOW’ as the cat whose sleep I’d just rudely interrupted with an unscheduled flight on said duvet, landed safely on its feet and bolted out of the half-open door. But it wasn’t the sight of the low-flying kitty that made me scream like a banshee. It was the goat at the foot of my bed munching the sheets – something it forgot to stop doing as it first looked startled, then ran out of the door to get away from the mad, wailing woman, trailing the sheet behind it. Before I could run after it, I heard the squeaking of a gate outside and footsteps crunching up the gravel.

‘Oh shit!’

Jumping to my feet, I peeped out of the door in time to see Chris, face aghast, staring at a different goat which was standing on the roof of his car, bleating loudly as if in protest at his audacity. What’s more, at least ten or eleven other goats, besides the one I’d just encountered – which now stood by the patio table still chewing my bed sheet – were scattered across the gardens, munching away at trees, flowers, bushes and even a curtain from my patio. Grabbing my carrier bag, I made my way over towards Chris, scattering goats in my wake.

‘I’m so, so sorry! I was really tired and . . .’

I held out the bottle of wine, bought to say thanks for his letting me use the apartment, and finished with a feeble (and obvious) ‘I forgot to lock the gate.’

‘I was only gone . . . an hour . . .?’

Before Chris could say any more, the sound of hurried footsteps made us turn around, to see Mita and a younger woman appear, one carrying brooms, the other, a crockpot.

‘Oh dear, my Cristos, what has happened!’ The younger woman cried, handing him the crockpot which was wrapped in a towel. ‘Stifado for you,’ she said, pausing to swoon at him, until, tugging at her skirts, Mita brought her back to her senses. The pair were soon rushing around shooing the goats from the property, with help from me and my carrier bag. Within minutes, all the goats were bleating and scuttling down the lane followed by the two women waving brooms at their behinds.

We perused the damage. Broken plants and flowers lay all over the garden, Chris’s car had scratches all over the roof and the privacy curtain that had been around my patio was now a marquee between two oleander bushes. Looking at his stunned face, I said, ‘The hotel might give me back my room.’

Oh God, whatever I’ve done in the past, he must really hate me now.
But to my relief, I saw him break out into a huge smile. Seconds later, he erupted into fits of raucous laughter.

‘Then I’d never find out what you do for an encore!’

‘Oh Chris, your beautiful garden,’ I said, wondering if he was delirious or something. Still chuckling, he bent down to pick up some of the wreckage, still carrying the Stifado. I put aside the bag containing the bottle of wine, and pulling the crockpot from him in a feeble attempt to help, knocked off the towel, wrapped around it to stop anyone burning themselves
with it . . . and burned myself with it. With a howl of pain, I threw the dish and its contents to the floor . . . right at his feet. My face burned almost as much as my hands. Chris, whose sailing shoes were now covered in hot, thick gravy, looked down at the mess before him and burst out laughing again. Okay, now I
knew
he was delirious.

‘I . . . well . . . your dinner . . . your car,’ was all I could say.

He stopped laughing and his face softened, probably because I looked like I was about to burst into tears. I felt awful.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s a very old car and I’m the poor English bachelor everyone wants to mother. They’re Mita’s goats. She’ll be back with a gaggle of local women in about half an hour and they’ll no doubt clear everything up. There isn’t much damage done really. Relax!’

I thought of the adoring looks Mita and her friend had given to Chris earlier. ‘They’d like to do more than mother you.’

Chris grinned. ‘Who wouldn’t?’ he said. ‘I’m surrounded by unmarried Greek ladies who’d all like to be the lady of my manor.’ Putting a friendly arm around me, he led me back up to the villa. Despite my mortification at the chaos I’d caused, I fought a peculiar urge to sink into his friendly embrace. It was wonderful to be with someone who knew how bad things were for me right now, but crying on Chris’s shoulder might not be the right thing for me to do. He was David’s best friend – not mine.

‘I’m quite the catch you know – check my swanky new gravy shoes,’ he continued, squeezing my shoulders some more. ‘Come on, let’s open this bottle and eat together. I’ve already got a dinner big enough for two stewing in the slow cooker anyway.’

As the sun began to set that evening, we enjoyed a fantastic meal (which I ate hungrily while he shared some wonderful stories of life on the island with me) without drinking any of my sparkling wine – which had rounded the afternoon off perfectly by exploding like a cannon all over the table. Sparkling wine, it transpired, tended to be eager to get out after a bumpy moped ride and some vigorous goat-shooing work. I wondered at Chris’s calm nature; taking mishap after mishap in his stride. Greece had certainly relaxed him. I wanted so much to ask him why we’d stopped talking to each other, but it was such an awkward thing to bring up at a time like this. In any event, it was lovely to have an evening unspoiled by thoughts of a bitter past life.

‘Laughter,’ he said, pouring us our umpteenth glass of wine, ‘is not only the best medicine but the best way to keep a healthy perspective in life. Everyone should have the ability to laugh at themselves.’

‘Everyone seems to have the ability to laugh at me,’ I said. ‘Do you know, my father used to call me Calamity Jane.’

‘Ah well,’ he joked. ‘He had a point there.’

We clinked glasses in a toast to my incessant clumsiness and watched the sun sink down to the cricking of an island-wide cricket’s chorus. I was so chilled out I even sank back in the chair instead of perching on the edge, sucking my stomach in. Then, just as I found myself
really
beginning to relax in Chris’s company, the spell was broken.

‘Look, Bernice, I really don’t want to pry,’ he said. ‘But are you going to tell me anything about what happened with you and David? Because, I have to admit – and I apologise, but he is my friend after all – I tried to call him this afternoon.’

‘You did?’

He looked at me seriously. ‘Not to tell him you’re here. I don’t want to interfere of course, so I wasn’t going to say anything. You are, and will always be my friend too, providing you didn’t do anything . . . and, well, I don’t believe you would . . .’

‘No, I didn’t. It wasn’t that.’ I cut in.

‘That’s fine; you don’t need to tell me everything. I just wanted to check he was alright.’

I had to ask.

‘And was he?’

‘I should imagine that he isn’t right now, but he didn’t answer. Is there at least a
part
of this you can tell me to help me understand?’

As I struggled for the right words, the goat bell sounded out, saving me. Chris put down his wine glass and leaned over the balcony to see who was there.

‘Oh, it looks like Ginger. I’d . . . er . . . forgotten she was coming,’ he said.

‘You have visitors? At this hour?’ The clock on the wall showed it was coming up for ten o’clock. ‘Maybe I’ll just get off and . . .’

‘No, no. It’s Mrs Persson. You remember, from the painting class? Edvard and Ginger? I better go see what she wants. Wait there.’

Recalling the Nordic-looking couple from the class, I said, ‘Her name is Ginger
Persson
?’ But Chris had already taken off down the steps without hearing me. Five minutes later they were climbing the steps together.

‘You remember my friend Bernice?’ Chris said, leading her onto the balcony.

‘Yes, sure. Hi.’ She was smiling, but there was something behind the smile that made me sense she wasn’t altogether pleased to find me there. Chris disappeared into his kitchen, inviting her to sit beside me, which she almost did, choosing to balance on the arm of the chair instead. There were a few moments of awkward silence, so I took the conversational plunge.

‘So, where are you from if you don’t mind my asking?’

Her annoyed look revealed that she did. ‘I’m Swedish.’

My reply revealed I’d drunk rather a lot of wine.

‘Ah, I’m partial to a bit of that myself. Great in vegetable soup.’

I was joking of course, but the ensuing silence helped me wake up to one, tiny, minor detail. I was talking absolute bollocks.
That’s it, funny farm time.
I half-laughed and leant forward to top up my wine glass, deciding awkward moments like this required nothing more than immediate, additional drunkenness. Ginger stared over towards the kitchen without saying another word, looking keen for Chris to come back and save her from the stupid woman. Which he did.

‘Here it is,’ he said, walking towards us with a piece of card in his outstretched hand. ‘This is my painting of the harbour where you came in. I knew there was a spare print somewhere.’

Ginger faltered for a second, seeming confused.

‘Ah, erm . . .yes, that’s the one,’ she said, taking it from him and tucking it into her bag. ‘Well, I er, won’t keep you any longer.’ She threw me a stiff, sideways glance and I thought perhaps her vegetables weren’t so nice after all.

Chris, on the other hand, was his usual, good-natured self. ‘Good, well please take it with my compliments.’

It seemed he was almost
dismissing
her. Feeling awkward, I asked ‘So, where is
Mr
Persson this evening?’

Visibly flustered, she got up from her seat, saying, ‘Oh, he wanted to have an early night. I shall see you again soon, Binnie.’ Chris took her arm and they walked down the stairway towards the path. I couldn’t resist a little peek over the balcony, and saw they were deep in conversation at the gate. Ginger touched Chris’s arm before turning to look back up towards the balcony – sending me diving down to my knees out of sight – then I heard the gate close behind her, the sound of a car pulling away and the crunch of Chris’s footsteps on gravel, as he made his way back up to me.