The New Mrs D (9 page)

Hercules did as he was told, taking the video camera out of his holdall and pointing it at Roman.

‘Ready!’.

Maybe it was one
Tsipouro
too many, or maybe I was just willing to exchange death for a great Facebook status photo. But, whatever it was that made me jostle Roman out of the way and get onto the board to let Linda take my photo, before pushing my feet into the bindings, it was a mean and impish arsehole.

‘
Everybody’s gone surfin’!
’ I sang out, see-sawing on the board like a lunatic.

The gang howled with laughter. Then, Greta said, ‘Ooh Binnie, there’s a wee gecko thingy on yer bunnet.’

‘Surfin’ US . . . AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Before anyone could say, ‘
And there’s a hungry long-legged buzzard swooping down to eat it,
’ there was a hungry long-legged buzzard swooping down to eat it. The unfortunate gecko was a goner. I think. It was hard to look back while travelling at high speed down the side of a volcano on a snowboard, with my feet caught and tangled in the bindings.

‘BINNIE!’

There was yelling and the pounding of feet behind me, but no time for a peek over my shoulder. A desire for self-preservation – which would have been handier ten seconds ago
before
I’d climbed on to the damn snowboard – took care of that.

CRASHHHHHHHH!

I couldn’t imagine a more perfect time for the thunder and lightning to
really
get going. As the ground underneath me started falling away in all directions, unearthing a cluster of rocks, I let out a scream.

‘AAAAAAHHHHH!’

There was no time to progress to the letter B. Rock, board and I all began tumbling down the volcano side, throwing up debris as I disturbed more ground in my wake.

‘It’s all over!’ I cried in my own head, hurtling down and down like a rocket . . . on a snowboard.

Chapter Eleven

Dear God, if you can hear me now, I’m guessing it’s because I’ve just been killed in a snowboarding accident. How unoriginal. Trust me to die in a death hoax report kind of way.

A
s suddenly as it had started, the earth stopped moving as I hit a clump of earth and the board came to a grinding halt, throwing me backwards so that my feet broke out of the loose bindings. I lay on top of the board, staring up at the sky, catching my breath and taking in the shock of what had just happened. Then I heard Roman’s anxious voice not far behind me, yelling, ‘STOP!’

Before I had a chance to try and sit up, the earth started moving again and the board carried me rolling on downhill, flat on my back, in what must have looked like some horrible, upside down body-boarding attempt. Thankfully, Roman had gained on me, and was now running alongside, still yelling. He dived across my path, throwing his whole body in front of the board. I was saved – but not before the snowboard had skidded over his leg, throwing me into a backwards body-roll. I heard an almighty clatter as it carried on un-womanned, before crashing into a huge, jaggy boulder that had been waiting to act as my brakes before Roman had dived in the way. There was dust everywhere.

‘My foot! My foot!’

The other dancers came rushing across to help, picking me up off him.

‘Oh, are you okay?’

‘Where does it hurt?’

‘Can you move your ankle?’

Even as I lay dazed, looking up at the heavens, I knew nobody was speaking to me. A noise somewhere above made me strain my neck to look up and there, out of the huge plume of debris in my wake, came Linda, Eydis and an out-of-breath Hughie, closely followed by a slowly lumbering Greta.

‘Are you okay, Binnie?’ Linda asked, reaching me first.

Somewhere in the distance there was a sound of people shouting and . . . it sounded like . . . screaming.

‘Shhh! Do you hear that?’ I said, still lying on my back.

No-one could see anything through the debris my volcano snowboarding antics had just stirred up around us.

‘Oh, my goodness, it sounds like chaos down there,’ I said. ‘Maybe one of the volcanoes has erupted!’ Forgetting my bruised and aching backside, I jumped to my feet, panic rising in my chest. It was time to run.
I knew I shouldn’t have come to this cursed island!

‘Dear God,’ said Eydis. ‘Come on! We’d better hurry back down to the boat! It sounds like pandemonium down there.’

‘I can’t walk!’ Roman cried out.

‘Boys, carry him!’ Eydis commanded. ‘We need to get down fast.’

‘I can’t run!’ said Greta, sounding panicked.

The rain was abating a little now, but thunder rumbled across the valley. We could see nothing but debris and dust behind us so no-one could work out where the eruption might be. All we knew was that we had to move fast or risk becoming part of the landscape.

Hercules and Jasper took Roman by the arms and legs to carry him, while the remaining three dancers lifted Greta, one grabbing her arms and the other two taking a leg each, and carried her spread-eagled – bloomers on show for the second time that week – down the mountainside. With elbows stinging and pride hurt, I followed.

It wasn’t long before we came across the military Jeep, its officials nowhere to be seen. As the dust began to clear, I could make out streams of people, all tearing down the hillside in front of us.

It had to be another eruption. I saw that the driver’s side door of the Jeep was ajar and the motor still running, I looked all around again to see if I could see the volcanologists, but couldn’t see them anywhere. Thinking only of Roman’s injured foot now, I shouted over to the guys.

‘Quick, over here!’

Roman was soon piled onto the back seat, joined by Jasper and three other squealing guys who crammed in, backsides pressed to the windows as Hughie dived into the passenger seat with Greta jumping on his lap.

‘I . . . I can’t drive!’ I squealed, realising I’d jumped into the driver’s side, forgetting the right hand drive thing again.

‘Just put yer foot doon on that wee pedal on the right and let’s go!’ Hughie yelled.

Of course I could do it, I’d had some lessons. With no time to think any further, I took to the wheel to make a getaway.
Brave, heroic Binnie to the rescue! I am Wonder Woman!

I wound down the window and called to Eydis and Linda, ‘Will you be okay?’

There were shouts from the team of scientists and at last, I could see them running towards us.

‘Fine!’ Eydis called. ‘You go ahead, I’ll explain to these guys. We’ll see you at the boat. It’s not far now!’

Releasing the hand brake, throwing the clutch into gear and hurtling off down the road to the waiting boats, accelerator pedal to the floor, I heard a running commentary in my head which sounded just like my father:

‘I knew you could do it, Bernice. Go like the wind!’

‘We interrupt this episode of
Come Dine with Me
to bring you a newsflash. British tourist, Bernice Dando, has just saved a man’s foot from certain amputation in the wake of a devastating volcanic eruption on a remote island in Greece, by selflessly forgetting she can’t drive.’

Within minutes – which may have seemed like hours to my wailing passengers, as the car swerved and bumped down the dusty hillside, taking every bend on two wheels – we were back at the beach, in complete chaos.

Tourists, locals, goats, locals pushing goats – everyone was thrashing through the sea to pile on to the four fishing boats that were berthed at the harbour. There was panicked shouting and screams of desperation all around us.

‘Volcan!’

‘Get us off this island!’

‘HELP US!’

‘My cigarettes! I left my damn cigarettes up there!’

I caught sight of Argos lifting people aboard our boat to safety and pulled over beside him, checked my reflection in the mirror (is my mascara running while Greece is burning?), threw open the door of the jeep and jumped out.

‘Argos! Please! Help me get Roman on the boat. His foot is broken!’

All at once, the dancers fell out of the back door of the jeep with an almighty singular shriek and crashed onto the sand.

‘Where did you go, lady?’ Argos asked, panic etched on his normally calm, composed features.

Turning to point at the caldera we had just hurtled down from, my eyes met the sight of Linda, Eydis and Bertrando, who had stripped off his flip-flops and was tearing down the mountain barefoot, waving them frantically in his hands. Directly above them I could see the huge plume of debris I had stirred up around the caldera we’d raced away from. Thunder and lightning boomed and crashed all around it. It looked like a scene from a disaster movie.

‘Wow, you’d think that one was erupting too.’ I thought.

Turning my attention to the entire landscape, I searched for the real volcanic activity – a fiery, red, nose-bleedy line, smoke spewing out of a volcano top, anything – and saw
nothing
. All was calm, except for the area I had snowboarded down, crazy stunt-woman style. As panicked people continued to scream and run in all directions around us, realisation dawned . . .

A military helicopter swooped in and landed a few feet away. I watched as its occupants were pulled out hastily by screaming tourists, who then bundled into it. Behind me, Argos and the rest of the group had forgotten me, as everyone began clambering onto the boat, carrying a yelping Roman along with them. I looked back up at the ‘erupting’ volcano we had just raced from and spied four very angry scientists heading my way.

‘Erm . . . everyone?’ I said to myself, as no-one could hear above all the chaos and noise. ‘I don’t think there is going to be any need for us to rush.’

We are sorry to interrupt Sid going through Gemma’s knickers drawer in this gripping episode of Come Bitch at Me again, but we have to bring you an update on our earlier newsflash. Bernice Dando is officially a numpty.

Chapter Twelve

I’m a changed man; I mean it! I’m not doing anything with my phone.

T
he message had come from a new, unrecognised number. So, David now knew I was blocking his old one. As Chris turned the car into Villa Miranda’s driveway, a tear fell down my cheek and I brushed it away.

‘Did you hear that on the radio?’ Chris interrupted my thoughts as he pulled the car up to the gate.

‘What?’

He turned the radio up, but all I heard was the DJ babbling away in Greek.

‘Was there an eruption scare on that island you were on today?’

‘Er . . .’ I gulped, finding time in my moment of internal misery to feel embarrassed. ‘Yes, there was.’ As I turned off my phone and tried unsuccessfully to push it into the small, tight pocket of my shorts, I felt my cheeks flush red. ‘It was just loads of people panicking and rushing for boats to get off the island.’

‘I thought that’s what it was saying,’ Chris said, looking aghast − at my calm attitude no doubt. ‘My understanding of Greek isn’t perfect,’ he went on. ‘Why on earth didn’t you mention it? Are you okay?’

‘Fine,’ I said, opening the door to go and open the gate. ‘It turned out to be just a scare . . . a rock slide or something.’

‘It was a big enough event to be on the local news.’

‘Well, there were scientists in the area because of the recent mini eruption on the same island,’ I admitted. ‘So there was quite a turnout, what with the helicopters and people in army uniform. It looked like a scene from a disaster movie, but it was nothing in the end.’

I got out, unlocked the gate and watched the car crunch up onto the gravel driveway.

‘And that’s it?’ Chris called back to me as he stepped out of the car.

‘That’s it,’ I answered. I hadn’t just escaped death by the skin of my bruised and battered butt cheeks. I had just escaped prison for stealing a jeep in a panic, though.

‘Anyway, do you know what?’ I said, more brightly. ‘Today, for the first time in years, I drove a car. Isn’t that marvellous? I don’t suppose you fancy having dinner with me tonight to celebrate?’

I had changed the subject with the dexterous speed of a swooping falcon type thingy.

‘You did?’

‘I did. So, what do you think? Dinner? My treat?’

‘Well, I’d love to but I’m actually meeting a friend tonight.’ He checked his watch. ‘In about half an hour, as it happens. Better get my skates on.’

‘Ah, okay. Well, have fun with your friend,’ I said, heart sinking. ‘Maybe another time.’

‘Sure,’ he said with a smile. ‘Another time.’

I watched him race up the steps and wondered what excuse Ginger was giving to Edvard to get away right now. My own reasons for asking Chris to go out with me tonight hadn’t been entirely about sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong, though. I hated eating alone.

I walked into the apartment and pulled out my phone once more, to leave the perfunctory ‘Mr and Mrs Dando having a great time’ Facebook status:

What a day on the Dando honeymoon! The earth moved!

Knowing full well Beth and Sal would balk at the sexual innuendo in my post, I sent it anyway, with a link to a news story about the nearby Santorini mini eruption before switching on the shower. Before I could go anywhere, I had to wash away the volcano dust. And I had to − needed to − call my sister.

I slipped into a long, silky-blue maxi dress and eyed my reflection in the mirror. The material felt so fine against my skin and the pretty sea-blue flared skirt skimmed over my hips and thighs perfectly. It was almost as if I had no tummy. Thank you, Spanx.

‘Hello, lovely lady,’ I said aloud, doing my best Argos impression and throwing the tiny knickers I’d been intending to wear back into my open case. Despite the most horrendous day, a day in which he was probably aware I had played an, albeit unwitting, part in the furore, it was becoming evident that for some reason Argos found me – yes me − attractive. I felt a pang of guilt. I was, after all, married to David. But then, he didn’t desire me. Why shouldn’t I enjoy being admired by a younger guy? My feminine mystique had returned because he hadn’t seen me naked. Oh hell, here I am again, imagining that awful moment when a new dalliance is on the cards and you’ve been with the same, comfortable man who knows every curve of your body for so long. I looked down at my breasts and sighed. How would it feel getting these old puppies out to someone new? Oh, who cares! I drove a jeep today!

I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. I clicked on the radio and reached into my open handbag on the floor for some lip salve. The news was playing:

‘AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!’

There was panic and pandemonium today on the Greek island of . . .

I flicked it off again and, as I did so, picked up my electronic pelvic toner lying next to it.
Dammit! I forgot to do my ten minutes today.

‘Never (cough), neglect your (cough) pelvic floor (splutter) darling.’ After wiping her mouth with one hand and passing me a magazine article with the other, Smother tapped the accompanying diagram of a man and woman smiling at each other in bed, presumably after having had the most gripping sex ever, thanks to the woman in the photograph discovering this thing.

‘It’s amazing. You can watch TV, check your emails or read a book while it tightens your . . .’ she pointed to
the place on her own body I was never going to look, ‘you
know . . . intimate muscles. The ones that have gone now you’ve had your children. It’s called a vaginal cone.’

‘God, Mother,’ I joked. ‘Worst. Ice cream flavour. Ever.’

Of course, I knew all about pelvic toners and just wished − whilst putting a sofa cushion in the washing machine after she had left, still coughing − that Smother had, thirty years and four hundred and thirty thousand cigarettes ago. I posted my order form the same evening.

As I swung the bulb by its wire in front of my face, I wondered about the ingenious ways this electro-pulser of internal womanly things might improve my non-existent sex life. As my mind carried me, not altogether kicking and screaming, back to Argos’s rippling chest, the ‘time to zap your vagina now’ alarm went off on my mobile phone, making me jump and drop the device.
How did it know?
I reached over to turn it off, reasoning with it at the same time.

‘I swear, I’ll do two lots tomorrow.’

I picked my handbag up off the floor, closed it and headed out for a meal alone. There would be time to call Suzy later after a few drinks, which should help me spill all the beans.

Finding a pretty tavern with a table facing out to sea, I sat down to watch the evening sunset, my mind drifting for a few moments, until a handsome young Greek waiter brought me a menu.

‘Are we waiting for someone tonight?’ he asked.

‘No, it’s just me.’

He smiled. ‘Okay, well, can I get you something to drink? Perhaps a little wine?’

‘That would be lovely. House white, please.’

He handed me the menu, brushing my hand in the process, and gave a little wink before heading off for the wine. My face flushed, but the prickle of pleasure I got from being flirted with by such a handsome young man was a nice addition to what could have been an awkward evening otherwise. I’d forgotten what it was like to receive so much male attention and couldn’t really understand it. I recalled a line from the film
Cocktail
: ‘Excuse me? Do I have “fuck me” written on my forehead?’

Maybe as a single, forty-something woman, it was time to consider a tattoo . . .

I watched his tight, sexy bottom disappear off behind the kitchen counter and my eyes wandered across to meet another, more familiar view.

‘Edvard! Hi.’

He was standing over a cabinet display of fish at the counter with another waiter, watching me admiring the rear view of mine.
Awkward.

‘Hello,’ he replied, pointing to something in the cabinet for the waiter before walking back towards his table, which happened to be opposite mine and occupied by a group of four others. There was no sign of Ginger. ‘How are you this evening? That was a scary day, huh?’

‘Not with Ginger this evening?’

‘No, she has a yoga class every evening for an hour and tonight she is going to dinner with them while I watch the game.’ He pointed to a large screen TV on the wall, so far silenced, which showed a couple of sports commentators having a pre-football match chat. Of course – tonight was the Euro cup semi-final. ‘You are welcome to join our table?’ he offered.

‘No, that’s okay. This is a lovely spot for drinking in the sunset and I’m not much of a football fan.’

Edvard nodded towards his table where two older couples I hadn’t seen before were sitting. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes, quite sure, thank you.’ As my waiter came back out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a half carafe of wine in one hand, he flicked a remote at the TV with the other so that everyone could hear the game. Placing my drink on the table, he winked again and proceeded to take my order.

I sipped my wine and stared out to sea and thought about Ginger. So, she has a regular yoga class? And tonight, she is at dinner with ‘them’ whoever ‘they’ may be. It was all looking too convenient. I really didn’t know Chris at all.

‘Why are you alone?’

The question came from a little girl sitting at the next table with her parents – who were both engrossed in the game. She had long dark hair, green eyes and peered at me over small, round glasses. I pretended not to notice she was speaking to me, and waved to get the waiter’s attention.

‘Could I have some water please?’ I said, pointing to my glass and giving him a wink, in case it was international waiter/customer language or something. After dinner and a half carafe of wine, I was beginning to think I might need scissors to get the crushing Spanx pants off later. And wasn’t I supposed to be cleansing myself of all this boozy living?

‘Well, why are you?’ the little girl continued to question me.

I looked at her and forced a smile. ‘Because that’s the way I like it,’ I said.

‘By yourself?’

She continued to stare without blinking, making me shift in my seat like a Mastermind contestant on their fourth pass.

‘What happens just before a man . . .’

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

‘I’ve started so I’ll finish . . . ejaculates?’

‘Ooh . . . er . . . I used to know this one. Oh, it’s been a long time . . . Erm . . . Oh, pass!’

‘Evie!’ The brusque voice of the little girl’s mother brought me back to reality. ‘Don’t be so rude! I’m so sorry.’ The woman smiled at me before turning Evie back round to face her. ‘Leave the poor lady alone.’

The words, ‘poor lady’ stung a little. It was how I must have looked − a poor, lonely lady.

Sighing, I picked up my handbag and headed for the toilets. As I checked my reflection, I reached into my handbag for some lipstick, but instead found some kind of wire coiled inside. I tugged on it and out popped a bulbous object I recognised.
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
I’d dropped the damn pelvic toner in my bag! I pulled the machine out and stared at the cone, wondering if this was a sign telling me I was to be condemned to Slack Vaginasville for forgetting today’s session. Maybe I could just nip back to the apartment after my meal and have an early one? I could phone Suzy while I was squeezing.
Urgh, noooo
. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Anyway, could I hold a vaginal cone in for twelve minutes without a toilet break after a half carafe of wine? Deciding against it, I shoved it back into my bag, checked my hair in the mirror and hurried back outside.

As I strolled back to my table, there was a tug at my shoulder.

‘What’s that thing?’ It was Evie, and the cheeky little minx was tugging on my handbag!

Turning to see what she was referring to, I froze on the spot. To my horror, I realised she was pulling on the wire from the pelvic toner, which was hanging out of my half-closed bag.

‘Get off that!’ I hissed. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to . . . ?’

‘Wow! What
is
that?’

She had managed to wrestle the toner free and stood gazing at the cylindrical bulb in wonderment. It was time to think up some very clever explanation and fast. However, I was pants at that.

‘It’s a . . . it’s a . . .’

Looking around the taverna it was clear everyone was – thankfully – focussed on the football, which had now kicked off.

‘It’s a mini karaoke machine,’ I lied. ‘But it’s broken, so give it back to me please.’

‘A karaoke? Oh, I love singing! Can I have a go?’

‘Well, you could, but as I said, it’s broken so . . .’

She rolled the vaginal cone around in her hands, fiddled with the buttons on the monitor and stared back up at me. ‘How is it broken?’

‘See, there’s no music. Now if you’ll just give it to m . . .’

‘Mummy, look at me! This lady gave me a microphone! She wants to hear me sing! Can I?’

Her mother was still engrossed in the TV and without turning, waved a hand at her. ‘Okay, that’s lovely Evie, now shhh!’

‘Water for you?’

My waiter had appeared which gave Evie the chance to break away. She skipped round the back of the tables holding the vaginal bulb to her mouth as a makeshift microphone.

‘BAYBEE, BAYBEE, BAYBEE OHHHH!’

I looked at the waiter who was now watching her with a bemused look on his face.

‘Please,’ I said, grasping his arm. ‘I’m actually feeling a little sick. Do you mind if I cancel the rest of this order and just pay my bill?’

‘Oh no, it was not the food I hope?’ His nonplussed expression turned to one of concern and he shouted towards the kitchen, ‘Vasos!’

Two faces peered out at him. I grimaced, ‘No, no, please. I don’t want a fuss. It’s not the food, it was beautiful. Just perfect! I think I just had a little too much wine.’

Out of the corner of my eye I spied Evie still skipping around. I flushed crimson.

‘Please,’ I pleaded now. ‘Just the bill?’

Waving the watching staff away, he nodded and disappeared back to the kitchen, but there was no wink this time. Maybe women about to vomit in embarrassment weren’t his thing.