The New Mrs D (7 page)

‘Would anybody like some more wine?’ Michaela called, beckoning to a young lady who was weaving her way through the tables with a bottle on a tray.

‘I could really begin to love this woman,’ Linda laughed, holding up her hand and winning a refill for both of us.

Pushing spoonfuls of freshly squeezed lemon juice, bunches of herbs and – oh why not, I wasn’t planning on eating it – a few big handfuls of the salt down through the gullet of the fish, I removed its herby eye mask. Standing it on its tail to shake everything down, I noticed the salt dissolving in places. Oh, for some good, sturdy, British salt. Maybe not cutting it open had left the innards a little moist?

When the insides looked as though they could hold no more, I lay my now bloated prize on the baking sheet and took a large gulp of wine before patting more salt all over it, which was fast dissolving on contact. Looking about me, I could see everyone pouring lashings of salt on top of their fishes. Not wanting to bother scraping some of the salt off to dry my fish properly, I poured the entire remaining contents of the pot over it.

‘Linda?’

‘Yes darlin?’ Linda answered without looking up, focussed on the task in hand.

‘Why is this Greek salt so bloody powdery?’

‘What?’ she said, still distracted.

I shrugged, knocked back the final dregs of my wine and stuffed my fish’s mouth with a huge wedge of lemon. It didn’t look at all appetising; but I’d made it with
meraki
. It was bloated and holding far too much inside.
Just like me.

‘Mum, I made rice pudding at school! Can we have it for dessert tonight?’

‘Oh, that looks quite nice, Bernice. Do you know who I think might like that?’

I shook my head, all the while thinking she, Dad, Suzy and I might like it. ‘No?’

‘Old Tom next door, he’d love it. Poor old soul, I’m sure he doesn’t eat right. I’ll take it round to him, shall I?’

In a moment she was gone with the pudding. My pudding. I hadn’t even had time to reply.

As our fish were being put in the oven there was a buzz in my pocket alerting me to a phone call. It was my sister, Suzy. Signalling to Linda that I had to take a call, I walked over to a private spot by the sea wall and answered it.

‘Suzy, you know I’m in Greece, right?’

‘Yes, sorry sis, I hate to disturb you on your honeymoon but I thought I’d better let you know, Mum’s in hospital.’

‘Again?’

I heard her sigh. When two women talk about their mother being in hospital you would expect one to sound upset and the other to ask a concerned – maybe even panicked – ‘What happened?’ But, this was Smother.

‘The usual,’ Suzy said. ‘Vague, non-specific dizzy spells. You had to go and get married and hog all the limelight, didn’t you?’

We both laughed, albeit half-heartedly.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Has the hospital diagnosed Attention Deficit Response yet?’

‘If only,’ she sighed. ‘As per usual, they’re all looking at me like I’m the daughter from hell because I don’t look distraught. They just don’t get it.’

I felt her pain, having been in the presence of medical professionals and staff at the sheltered housing complex where Smother now lived, looking at me like I was the Devil incarnate for seeming not to care about her many and varied ailments. Nobody but Suzy and I knew they were almost always invented or brought on by her ‘forgetting’ to take some important medication – attention seeking by any means necessary.

‘I know, it’s hellish. I’m sorry I’m not there to help.’

‘Don’t be silly, we both know she wouldn’t be in hospital if there hadn’t just been a major family celebration that wasn’t about her. I just thought, you know, I should let you know. I don’t want to spoil your honeymoon, but it felt wrong not to say.’

‘I understand,’ I replied, taking a deep breath as the guilt of pretence washed over me at the mention of my honeymoon. ‘Look, Suzy, I’m going to give you a call later. No
doubt sm . . .
Mother
will be home with a clean bill of health in a day or two, but there’s something else I want to discuss with you. Something . . .’ I paused. How I hated lies. ‘Something I need your advice about. Is that okay?’

‘Really?’ she said, sounding concerned for the first time. ‘Well, okay, that’s fine if you need me. Is everything alright there?’

‘Yes,’ I lied.

‘Okay, fine. We’ll talk later after I’ve done the perfunctory evening visit.’

‘I’m so sorry you have to do this on your own, Suzy. Just buy Mum some magazines, stroke her hand and tell her to cheer up.’

‘Cheer up? She was taken in at midnight in an emergency response ambulance and by two o’clock this afternoon she was laughing and chatting up a student doctor from Pakistan! If she’s sick, I’m the Queen of bloody Sheba.’

There was some commotion behind me and I turned to see a band setting up beside the taverna, getting ready to serenade us during lunch.

‘Right, I’ve got to go now. Let me know if there’s any change or it turns out she actually is ill this time and we really are terrible women. How are the girls?’

‘Oh, they’re fine, of course. They won’t call you, as it
is
your honeymoon after all. But they send their love.’

‘Well, send mine right back and tell them I’ll see them soon.’

We said our goodbyes and with a heavy heart I hung up, pushed the phone back into my pocket and headed back towards the group. I needed to speak to someone and even though she had her own worries right now, all at once I knew that someone was Suzy. She knew me better than anyone did. But as for my daughters, I couldn’t tell them and equally, I couldn’t face them and lie. I was happy to have them think all was well for the time being.

‘You break the salt crust with a fork, like this,’ Michaela explained later, as the cooked fish were delivered back to our tables. She gave Greta’s fish a tap to demonstrate, as we all gathered round to watch, the crispy, salt crust fell away to release a cloud of steam and a juicy, fragrant, baked fish. I had to admit, it smelled wonderful.

‘Okay, your turn now.’

I looked down at my fish which fizzed and bubbled, seeming to have expanded to twice its original size.

Picking up my fork, I continued on to the pièce de résistance.

‘So, how does it go?’ I said to Linda, who was busy
with her own meal and didn’t reply. ‘You tap the crust with a fork . . .’ Even though there was no actual ‘crust’, I gave my heavily bloated fish a good, strong thwack . . .

BOOOOOOOOOM!

The first thing I was aware of was that the band had stopped playing, swiftly followed by the flapping of what seemed like hundreds of wings as a flock of birds took to the air. Through the smoke, that hung like a cloud before my eyes, I saw Michaela wiping bits of fish from her face. Before I could say anything, I felt a mild stinging sensation on my chest and looked down to see hot, white, foamy flecks splattered up the front of my top.

Then somebody screamed.

As I dared to look down at the dish, fork still in hand, I saw that my dinner had all but gone – to outer space. All that remained was a frazzled piece of parsley. I almost wept at the irony of this herby eye mask being the only thing left; the very thing I’d used to protect my now-in-a-thousand-pieces dinner from watching me couldn’t save it from Boomtown. Wiping foamy, lemony mess away from my hair and eyes, I heard the sound of people running and, before I knew it, a crowd of startled onlookers, including the hunky Greek god from earlier, had surrounded me.

Hughie broke the brief, shocked silence that followed.

‘So this is whit happens when you put a wee bit o’ yerself intae yer cooking.’ He picked at some lumps of fish that had landed on his head and ate them. ‘Well, it tastes grand oanyways, lass. All we need now is some breid to go wae it.’

Argos looked from Hughie to me in a state of confusion.

‘Bread!’ I repeated, before turning to the crowd and mimicking putting a piece of bread in my mouth. A sea of blank faces stared back at me.
Awkward
. I had to explain; break up that terrible, what-the-hell-are-you-doing-crazy-English-lady silence. I turned back to Michaela and the rest of the group. ‘Oh,’ I said, scratching my head. ‘What’s Greek for bread?’

‘
Psoli
,’ Hughie piped up.

‘Ah, yes, that’s it!’ I exclaimed, pointing to my mouth again. ‘I need
psoli
!’

‘You need . . .
psoli
?’ Argos asked. His face was aghast.

I mimed putting something in my mouth again, saying, ‘Yes,
psoli
.
Psoli
!’ Turning back to the crowd who all looked as confused as Argos, I pointed again to my mouth. ‘I need some
psoli
!’ Some of the onlookers began shaking their heads and turned away.

‘Oh, Binnie, no!’ Michaela cried out.

From the remaining crowd there came some low, supressed titters, until everyone was roaring with laughter. I turned back to Michaela and saw that her cheeks were bright pink and she was covering her ears.

‘All I’m saying is I want some
psoli
. What’s wrong with that?’

Behind her, Linda and Hughie were doubled up in hysterics and had been joined by some of the people from the kitchen. Everyone was laughing. Even Michaela had tears in her eyes that revealed she too was trying to stifle a snorting fit. It was only Greta who seemed as confused and oblivious as me.

‘Oh dear God, stop!’ Linda cried, grabbing my hands, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

Feeling that all too familiar, embarrassed glow in my cheeks, I waited to be let in on the joke. Her explanation sent me chasing Hughie out of the taverna, across the beach and into the sea.

‘Binnie,’ she said, ‘
Psoli
means cock!’

Chapter Eight

So, apparently ‘blow fish’ is not an instruction.

B
ack at the apartment, I posted a snap of my cookery class disaster on Facebook before refreshing the page a minute later, by which time there were three likes, including one from Caroline. I was not, however, going to let her, or the fact that I’d managed to concoct a science experiment instead of a cooked meal, spoil my day. That afternoon, having never wanted to eat fresh fish in my life, I had discovered two things:

1) Fish baked in lashings of salt actually tasted rather delicious and

2) Fish with cupfuls of baking soda and a lot of lemon juice all pushed into a cavity made airtight by various herbs and a chunk of lemon could send your lunch into orbit.

It didn’t matter that by the end of the class I was still a terrible cook. After my embarrassment from the ‘telling the whole of the island I need cock’ thing had abated, we had all laughed so hard the rest of the class had been abandoned. I couldn’t remember having so much giggly, juvenile fun in a long, long time. The only thing muddying my try-to-be-happy waters was the feeling that Chris was perhaps not the true gent I’d always thought he was. Not that it was any of my business – but Ginger had treated me all day like the ‘other woman’. Knowing she and Edvard had been on the island at least a week longer than me, I couldn’t shake the thought that something untoward was going on and that now I was staying at Villa Miranda, I was in the way.

I took a sip of from an ice-cold glass of water and sat down at the porch table before taking out my mobile phone, remembering my promise to call Suzy. As I played through the conversation to come in my head, that all-too-familiar angst grabbed me. What would I say?

‘You know my fabulous husband and my fabulous honeymoon?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, he isn’t and it kind of isn’t – or might not be – a honeymoon anymore.’

Gah! I needed a drink. I sent her a text:

Something’s come up. Will call tomorrow

Before heading out for dinner, I began the day’s essential ten minute pelvic muscle training session as per my ‘Five Daily Steps’ and pondered serious issues of life back at home – as you do whilst electronically stimulating your pelvic floor muscles. With sudden, incredible clarity, I realised that nothing I did back at home held any real challenge for me any longer. My job as a clerical assistant for a legal firm bored me to tears and there were zero promotional prospects. I stayed in most weekends, losing touch with all of my own friends, occasionally going out with David’s – all lovely, responsible, professional people; people I couldn’t imagine saying the word ‘cock’ in front of, never mind laughing about it. It was only Chris I’d ever really hit it off with as we had the same sense of humour. Only now, as I pondered my relationship with David from this distance – almost as an outsider – it was becoming clear. I’d been dumping my own identity whilst moving into someone else’s. Today, spending a few hours with new people, laughing ‘til I cried and just being
myself
had made me think about what I’d been missing.

Laughing ‘til I cried.
It could have been much, much worse were it not for my ten minutes a day of pelvic toning. Checking the timer, I realised that in all my day dreaming I’d done eleven minutes of squeezing instead of ten. Why didn’t these things ping to let you know you’re done, like a microwave or something? It had arrived with only German instructions, so I’d had to guess the correct timing and settings. Ten minutes a day for leaky-pee-free laughter following fish explosions, fifteen for the ultra-pleasing, sexual grip of a nineteen-year-old, twenty to make his face turn blue and have him screaming to be let out.
If only . . .

After several wardrobe changes, rejecting the blouse that had to have a safety pin between buttons to prevent gaping, the strapless dress that could only be worn without a bra, making me look like I had two bellies, and the top with the spaghetti straps I’d been forced to cut and tie to hold my boobs up, I dressed in super-safety black again.

I decided against my initial plan – to go upstairs and invite Chris to come out with me – and called a taxi back out to Taverna Antipodes, where the tour group had gone for a Greek night. Ginger and Edvard would be there and I didn’t know just how comfortable it would all be if I brought Chris along. Maybe I was wrong, but if something was going on I didn’t want to be a part of it by inviting him further into the circle.

‘Hello darlin’,’ Linda shouted as my eyes sought out the gang in the now bustling taverna that evening. ‘A drink for the lady who started a Greek fishing boom?’

‘Yes, hello!’ I shouted to be heard over the band, which was filling the taverna and, it seemed, the entire locality with beautiful music. The party was already in full swing and everyone, including a very rosy-cheeked Linda, appeared to have spent the first hour throwing down a lot of liquid while I’d been back at the apartment, training my pelvic floor not to.

‘It’s a help yersel’ buffet,’ said Greta, pointing to the food table as she hiccupped and swayed with a big grin on her face. From the far end of the table, Ginger afforded me a frosty glance – while Edvard looked pleased to see me.

‘Ha ha!’ he cried. ‘It’s Boom Binnie Boom!’ So, even he was drunk.

Hughie nodded whilst waving a leg of chicken about, casting me one of his classic suggestive looks – one which seemed to say, ‘I’ve detached my willy for you and dipped it in honey, yoghurt and spices, would you like some?’

I shuddered and turned back to Linda, who pointed me towards the busy buffet table.

‘Shall we go eat? I could go for a second helping,’ she said, downing a full glass of wine and taking my arm. Brushing aside my inborn wariness of new taste experiences – after all, the New Bernice Plan included doing one thing a day that scared me – and with only a transitory fear of looking for lamb and finding goat, I allowed Linda to drag me towards the buffet table. I kept my eyes glued to the floor to avoid Hughie’s suggestive chicken waving and my head collided with what
felt
like a muscular chest – but all I could see from my view of the floor was a pair of white slippers, each adorned with an enormous red and gold bobble. I muttered, ‘So sorry, madam,’ before looking up to see Argos. The same gorgeous guy who had earlier been wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, now wore slippers, a bright red and gold waistcoat, a skirt and tights.

‘Hello, lady,’ he smiled.

Caught off guard, my oft-practised blurting technique came into play.

‘Hey, nice skirt!’

He held his ‘skirt’ aloft – reminding me of a five-year-old girl showing off her favourite party dress. ‘You don’t like my
vraka
?’

‘I’m sure your
vraka
is very niceshh, thank you for drawing our attention to it,’ Linda cut in.

‘It is a uniform just for tonight,’ he explained, ‘to serve you lovely ladies.’

Tearing my eyes away from his – with some effort as there was no getting away from the fact he was just beautiful – I pulled in my tummy, which thankfully didn’t make that vehicle reversing sound, and turned back to the gang.

‘Would anyone like another drink?’ I asked.

‘ME!’ The group shouted in unison.

Hughie stopped playing with his food to lean over and tug at Argos’s
vraka
. Greta slapped his hands and uttered . . . well . . . something.

‘Where’s your sporran, laddie?’ Hughie said, confirming my theory that he really
would
pester anything in a skirt.

As the band finished a song and began calling people up to join the professional dancers, Argos said, ‘I have to work now. Of course, we can bring you wine. No charges. My uncle owns here.’

‘Well, that is so kind of you,’ I replied. ‘Can we have . . . erm . . .’ I looked over at the table and noted several almost empty bottles of wine, ‘a couple of bottles of white?’

Argos opened his mouth to speak just as Ginger dived in and dragged him to the dance floor to join the waiting crowds of dancers and assorted merry tourists, the latter faltering through the steps of the traditional
Sirtaki
dance.

‘Anyway, the
metzes
are jusht delicious,’ Linda gushed, taking my arm again. ‘Letsh go get ‘em.’

‘Linda,’ I said. ‘You do a great Shhhean Connery when you’re drunk.’

The taverna was heaving with people, making it a slow process to pick our way through the crowds to reach the buffet area where we began piling our plates. My food stayed on my plate, whereas Linda was unwittingly feeding the scrawny-looking wild cats that were all around the tables with more dropped food than I imagined they usually consumed in a fortnight.

‘I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ Linda shouted to be heard above the noise, whilst searching her plate for the chicken she’d put there a second ago, deciding she hadn’t taken any after all and adding more. ‘Tomorrow ishh the big day.’

‘Ah yes, the volcano climb.’ I said, watching four cats behind Linda fight over her dropped chicken leg. ‘It will be a toughie. But hey, extra olives and feta cheese for all the calories we will burn,’ I said, picking at a pile of green stuff on the table. ‘If that’s what this is?’

‘No, honey, I mean I’m meeting Eydis. She and the danshers have arrived tonight. They’ll be with ussh for the climb tomorrow. Some pre-dansh training.’

‘Wow, Linda, you are so drunk,’ I said, almost unable to contain my laughter. She looked hurt, so I changed tack. ‘But that’s lovely!’ I said, more seriously. ‘Aren’t you excited?’

‘Like a silly school girl,’ she replied. ‘All nervoush and thinking, what if she doeshn’t like the real me?’

‘Of course she will. Why wouldn’t she?’

‘It’s jusht that, oh the wine here really is shtrong. Forgive me for the oversharing, but, when we make love . . .’

‘Make love? I thought you said you’d never met?’

‘We haven’t, but we have – you know – shhybered a few timesh. God, I can’t shpeak, this wine ishh great! Horrible, but great. Where wassh I? Oh,’ she continued. ‘She said she had multiples.’

I didn’t want to know, really I didn’t. All at once we were embroiled in one of those inappropriate, somewhat disturbing conversations worthy of Smother. So why did I have to ask . . .?

‘Multiple whats?’

Slapping a spoonful of what looked like mayonnaise onto my plate, she answered loudly, ‘ORGASHHMS!’

It was an announcement almost like a call to the buffet, like
‘Grubs up!’
or
‘Metzes anyone?’
A grey-haired woman standing nearby held out her plate and said, ‘Ooh, I’ll have some of those!’

I pulled a chuckling Linda to one side and whispered, ‘Do you mean cyber-sex?’

‘Yeshh.’

‘You get those from that?’ I asked, unable to stop myself thinking back to David’s internet exploits. If Linda could have a whole, loving, sexual relationship online, how could he claim he wasn’t cheating?

‘That
is
interesting.’ I mused.

‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you conshidering a shexual turnabout?’

‘And you’re faithful to her?’

‘Binnie,’ Linda said, ‘I
am
taken you know. If thissh ish a come on . . .’

‘No, no! I’m just interested in the sex . . .’

A tap on the shoulder made me start and I turned around to find Ginger standing behind me – looking appalled. It was clear she had just caught the latter part of our conversation.

‘Argos . . . erm . . . asked me to come and get you,’ she said, with a distinct look of distaste on her face.

‘Ah, okay,’ I said. ‘He must be bringing the wine. Come on, we’ll follow you back.’

‘Er, no. I’m going to be going home just now, I’ve a terrible headache,’ she said.

‘You do?’ Linda and I had spoken together.

‘Yes, it’s been coming on all day really. I’m just going to have an early night.’

‘Well,’ I said, sighing – although not through pity. I didn’t believe her. ‘That’s a shame. Will Edvard be leaving with you too?’

Even though the light was dim, I could swear I saw her cheeks flush. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m just going to head off in a taxi. No need to spoil his night too.’

When Linda and I got back to our table, I could see people had gathered around the dance floor to watch some kind of display. Edvard remained seated with Michaela, Greta and Hughie, chatting away. My thoughts turned to Chris, who I felt sure was about to get a visitor. He had always seemed so honest and respectable.
Was he having an affair with Ginger?
I wanted to race home and confront him, but it wasn’t my business really, was it? Could I just I ask him out of concern, say I was worried about him and sorry for poor, unsuspecting, Edvard?

Before I could consider the matter any further, Linda was ushering me over to the dance floor.

‘What’s happening over here, then?’ She said.

There in the centre of the crowd was Argos, making his way across to me with a bottle – spilling some in all the kerfuffle. For a moment, our eyes met and his face was so soft and sexy in the evening glow, I felt my stomach sink to my shins.

‘Oh, that’s so lovely of you, thank you, Argos,’ I shouted over the music as he stood looking at me as though he was mesmerized. I turned round to beckon to the rest of the gang and shouted, ‘Look, Argos has brought us some free wine!’

I stepped forward, took the bottle from him and began to amble back towards our table, now a sea of excited faces with everyone on their feet waving at me. Greta had even grabbed the edge of the large paper tablecloth and was holding it up, catching her skirt at the same time to reveal a huge pair of floral grannie knickers.
Well, they are certainly excited.
Shielding my eyes from the sight of Greta’s frillies, I tried to be as upbeat sober as they were drunk.

‘I know! Free wine!’ I exclaimed.

My face beamed . . . and then fell, as Michaela came charging towards me, arms outstretched and grappled with the bottle in my hands, almost taking me down to the floor in the process.

Someone shouted, ‘FIRE!’