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.
It occurred to me that there were only two ways to get my machine back from Evie: tell her parents – drawing attention to the fact that their little girl was singing into a pelvic toner – or play along. I went for option number two.
‘How about we sing one together, over here by the beach?’ I called out to her. ‘Then you can give it back to me.’
She nodded enthusiastically and I led her over to the wall to sit down, wondering why on earth her parents weren’t watching her wandering away with a stranger.
‘Now, what shall we sing? And don’t say Justin Bieber because that’s just not music.’
She grinned, a sweet, innocent-looking smile. This girl had a great face for undetected mischief.
‘Do you know LMFAO?’ she asked.
‘Excuse me?’
Putting the bulb up to her mouth once more, she wailed, ‘When I walk in the spot, YEAH this is what I see OK! Everybody stops and they starin’ at me!’
Jesus.
‘Your bill, madam?’
The waiter had been watching as we belted out our duet, sharing the vaginal cone ‘microphone’ with my joining in at, ‘I’M SEXY AND I KNOW IT!’ – the only bit that was familiar to me and something that singing into a pelvic toner didn’t epitomise. I wasn’t sure if he could tell what the machine really was, but I wasn’t offering up the question for a round of Jeopardy.
‘Something women use after child birth to stop them weeing their pants while doing star jumps.’
‘What is a pelvic toner?’
After paying my bill and leaving Evie to go back to annoying her parents, I walked down the steps to the beach, where I was met by a smiling Argos.
‘That was so good,’ he said, beaming a beautiful, white-toothed smile at me.
Once again, I flushed crimson. He’d been watching me!
‘Hello there,’ I said, pushing the machine back into my handbag and closing the zip. ‘I thought you’d be having an early night after today’s events.’
He smiled and peered down at my handbag which I was furtively pushing behind my back. ‘What is that thing?’ he asked.
‘Oh that? Just a little mini karaoke machine – a child’s toy really. I like to practise my . . . erm . . . breathing techniques.’
‘Ah. Well, it was lovely. How are you, lovely Binnie?’
At last, he had learned my name. Which to him wasn’t ‘Mrs David Dando’, it was ‘Lovely Binnie.’ Nice. I liked ‘Lovely Binnie.’
‘Oh, fine,’ I said. ‘I had a lovely dinner and I think I’m just going to head back now.’
He frowned. ‘That is a shame, because a few of the local people go to a cove for swimming at night. I thought you might like to come too?’
‘Oh, I’d love to, but I didn’t bring my costume and as I said, I have to make a phone call.’
And I’m not swimming in my poo-brown Spanx.
‘That’s alright. You don’t need a costume and it’s just for a leetle while. Come on.’
He took my arm and, ignoring my protests, walked me uphill towards his moped which was parked at the quayside.
Chapter Thirteen
A romantic meal for two under the stars. And oooh, Italy just scored!
I stood in the small clearing and updated my Facebook status while Argos went over to chat to some friends as they were leaving. There were sounds of music, whooping and laughter from somewhere below us. Finally, he waved the group off and beckoned me to follow him.
I grabbed my bag from the moped’s basket and ran behind him as he led me to a rocky ledge. There we found a single rope to climb down to the tiny, hidden cove below.
As we scrambled down to the dimly lit beach, I could make out glistening, wet, naked bodies everywhere, diving in and out of the water. My stomach turned over. Despite the fact that in a few days’ time I was due to meet my toughest challenge yet – a nudist beach – I couldn’t rip off my dress in front of Argos! Before I was able to think about it a moment longer, he was running past me in all his naked glory and diving headlong into the moonlit sea, only to be surrounded by a group of giggling girls. Ignoring all of them, he beckoned to me, ‘Are you going to come in?’
I could feel my support underwear almost creaking from the strain of redistributing my belly fat to my back and boobs and waved him away with a ‘Hah, what me? Nooo!’ and planted my backside firmly in the sand to watch him. Behind us, a guitarist sat beside a small bonfire, fingerpicking the most alluring music. Despite all the splashing and flashing of young bodies under the light of a new moon, it was quite romantic. I wasn’t going to spoil the atmosphere by producing my own, extremely full moon, spilling out of a way-too-tight pair of beige support knickers. One thing was certain, if I took the thing off my body would show every stitch and seam like I was still wearing it.
As I watched all the splashing and commotion, without being able to make out anybody’s faces, I heard a familiar voice shout out.
‘Hughie, are ye coming in tae swim or are you just going to stand there ogling everything?’
I didn’t turn around. Naked Hughie was not something I needed to see.
‘Binnie! Please come for a swim!’ Argos was standing waist-deep in the sea now and walking back in to the shore towards me.
‘I’m okay,’ I told him quietly, with a shake of my head. I wasn’t sure how close I was to Hughie but I didn’t want to attract his attention.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘You are so lovely for me.’
Bless him. He’s lost his contacts in the water.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Binnie,’ he continued. ‘If you won’t come in the water then let me sing to you.’
‘Sing?’ I said. ‘What on earth would make you want to do that?’
‘Because I want to,’ he said, gesturing towards the nearby guitarist, who was just starting to play a new song. ‘Do you know this tune?’
I listened to the gentle plinkety-plink of the first few finger-picked bars. ‘I don’t, no,’ I confessed.
‘We were born before the wind,’ Argos sang, whereby I recognised a much loved Van Morrison tune. ‘Also younger than the sun. And the bonnie boat was won, as we sailed into the mystic!�
��
Bless him. I was born before the wind. He probably turned up around about when Bryan Adams was at No. 1 for a hundred weeks with ‘Everything I Do.’ Turning to look back at the musician, I spotted Greta and Hughie’s bare backsides walking away in the other direction. So they hadn’t seen me. We bring you another exciting episode of Naked Old People You Know in 3D next month.
‘Come on, Binnie,’ Argos called. ‘Come in the water!’
I hunched up, bowing my head towards my lap, trying to make myself smaller; invisible.
‘What’s wrong with me? Why aren’t you turned on?’
David rolled back onto his side of the bed and sighed. ‘It’s not you, Binnie,’ he said. ‘It’s me.’
‘Well, just tell me what to do to help and I’ll do it. What turns you on?’
He paused, before turning his face to the bedside table.
‘You know what turns me on,’ he said. ‘It never fails.’
His words stung and my heart ached, but I knew what he wanted. And, I knew he was right.
‘We don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ he added quickly. ‘It’s horrible. I won’t say it again.’
‘No,’ I said, sitting up to face him. ‘If it’s what you need, let’s do it. I don’t mind.’
I lay back down on my back, waiting as he picked up his mobile phone.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said. ‘Just got to find the right thing. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
I shook my head, swallowed hard and stared up at the ceiling. And there I remained, with my eyes closed tightly shut, as he finally found what he wanted, placed the phone on the pillow above my head and climbed on top of me. I heard a dog barking outside; a distant ice-cream van playing the theme from The Archers. I heard the squeals and moans of lithe, young women, the bed rocking and his breath now coming thick and fast. And when finally he collapsed on to my body, whispering his thanks into my ear, I was glad to be invisible.
The New Mrs D Page 11