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 ta
ken 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!’
Whipping the bottle free, she pointed behind me, to reveal a long line of burning booze leading from my heels to a stunned-looking Greek man in the centre of the dance floor, lighter in hand. There was screaming, clapping and drunken cheering. The screaming was me.
‘WHAT ON EARTH . . . ?’
Argos raced towards me, stamping out the line of fire between the man and me as he ran. The crowd roared over my screams and at once, the man with the lighter snatched the bottle from Michaela and proceeded to spill more of the liquid over the floor before lighting it again, forming a perfect circle of flames before the cheering crowd.
Seeing my nonplussed face, Argos shouted into my ear, ‘It’s brandy.’
‘But I didn’t ask for brandy,’ I said.
‘It’s the ‘ring of fire’ dance, see? I wanted for you to see it. I didn’t want for you to be in it though. I’m sorry, lovely lady,’ he said, as another of the dancers tugged his shoulder. ‘I must go back and finish.’
Nobody had moved yet – not even Greta who was still holding the tablecloth in terror, still flashing her knickers. The only one too inebriated to notice my near ritual burning was Linda, who cackled with delight as a waiter delivered three more bottles of wine to the table, trying hard not to look in Greta’s direction.
‘Woohoo!’ She sang out. ‘Now it’s a party!’
Chapter Nine
The Greek dancing was fun. I was on fire!
On day three of The New Bernice Plan, I posted a photo of myself and Linda to Facebook, arm in arm, performing the ‘ring of fire’ Zorba dance. Within minutes of my posting, the well-wishing messages began to ping through in a series of mobile notifications.
Hope you are having a wonderful time, Mum!
Miss you!
Many congratulations to you both! Love Caroline & Michael XXX (Yawn)
Greece looks fabulous!
The last message was from David’s secretary, Iris. So, he wasn’t back at work. Having now set my phone not to accept his calls, my voicemail box was full of pleading messages that I couldn’t bear to hear, at least, for the time being. However, the text messages just kept on coming:
Missing you! Please answer or call me back. It’s not supposed to be like this, we should be together. I love you so much Mrs Dando.
Reading the last line again, tears welled up in my eyes as his words poured into my conscience uninvited. I love you so much Mrs Dando.
‘I love you Mum.’
My mother looked up from her newspaper and grinned. ‘And so you should,’ she said. ‘Now shut up, I’m reading.’
Looking back down at my drawing of Adam Ant, I bit my lip and sighed. I loved Adam Ant too. I bet he wouldn’t tell me to shut up about it though. He
would kiss me on the top of my head and tell me how lovely it was to have the loyal, unconditional love of a nine year old.
With a thumb rested over the reply button, I faltered in my resolve not to think about any of the disappointments of my life. David loved me, but he didn’t want me; all those nights when he’d left me in bed for a television rendezvous with some bum-waggling porn star had taught me that. My mother too had always seemed to do that showy love thing that is required of a parent, but it felt hollow somehow. The words ‘I love you too,’ would wrap around me like a very thin cloak; placating me, yet offering no real warmth. Even my father, right up until the day he died, had just seemed let down by everything I did. He must have told me he loved me at some point, but I couldn’t remember when.
Recalling the familiar yearning for sex that Argos had stirred in me as I’d watched him dance last night had brought it all home. My relationship with David marked the beginning of a sexuality death: mine. It was a wonder it wasn’t me switching over from squeezing my way to more painful thighs on the shopping channel to watching a guy writhing about in nothing but a tool belt. Then again, I could just see myself calling him:
‘Hello caller, what’s your name, honey?’
‘No, it’s Bernice.’
‘Hi sexy! What can I do for you?’
‘Erm . . . I don’t know . . . Are you any good with flat-pack furniture?’
I deleted the long line of texts on my phone. I mustn’t dwell on things. This could all wait until I go home.
A fishing boat was to take us out to a tiny, neighbouring island for the volcano climb today and Chris had agreed to drop me off at the harbour. As I walked towards his car, I saw that he was chatting to someone on his mobile.
‘Yes, er . . . okay, that will be good. Make it five if you like?’
With his free hand, he gestured at me to get in the car, before ending the conversation abruptly.
The New Mrs D Page 8