The New Mrs D Read online

  ‘Well, hello young lady,’ he said, his twinkling, mischievous eyes giving me an appreciative once-over. ‘Nice to see mair o’ the talent’s arrived!’

  My immediate reaction to comments like this from strangers was often one of outrage. But something behind Hughie’s cheeky smile made me feel at ease, like a kindly, familiar old uncle had just told me how cute I was.

  ‘Och, awa, Hughie, ye wee flirty Wullie, ye,’ Greta scolded with a somewhat sharper nudge this time, before turning

  back to me. ‘Ma husband’s a wee bit lippy, hen. Yeh’ll get used tae it.’

  I did the polite laugh again, though I’d hardly grasped a single, solitary word.

  ‘Hello, Willie,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have much talent where painting is concerned. I don’t know anything about art.’

  ‘Well, ma name’s Hughie,’ he hooted, ‘but if ye really want to meet the wee guy . . .’

  ‘Ahem. Do you know Van Gogh, Bernice?’ Chris cut in.

  ‘Not personally . . .’

  ‘Well, may I introduce you, as I do to all my new students,’ he said, pointing to a slate plaque hanging off a nail on one of the pergola beams. Chalked upon it were the words:

  If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint’

  then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced.

  I smiled at him and we gazed at each other for a moment. His eyes held a deep thoughtfulness – no doubt he was worried for David − and I was filled with a terrible remorse, like it was my actual fault. In a flash Hughie broke into the moment, slapping the ‘BINNIE’ badge straight onto my chest, giving it a good rub for super adherence.

  ‘Aye, weel,’ he said. ‘Van Gogh heard a wee voice say “cut aff yer ear,” an’ then the whole lot o’ they wee voices were silenced.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Across the table from Greta and Hughie were a couple of attractive, Nordic blondes who looked so alike they could have been brother and sister. Chris introduced them as Edvard and Ginger and they both nodded a hello but neither spoke, going back to a copy of the brochure they had spread out in front of them – presumably checking the day’s itinerary. I, on the other hand, had completely forgotten what we would be doing. ‘Painting stuff’ just about covered it for me.

  The last in the group – an older, cheerful-looking woman with dark plum-coloured hair beckoned me to sit beside her. She wore a bright blue, flowery scarf with an orange vest top and offered a hand in greeting.

  ‘Hey there,’ she said in an American accent. ‘I’m Linda. How d’ya do, Binnie?’

  I shook her hand just as a dark-haired, voluptuous beauty brought a tray of glasses and placed one in front of me.

  ‘And this is my right-hand woman, Mita,’ Chris said.

  Mita smiled, regarding me with deep, mahogany eyes before lifting a jug from the table and pouring ice and water into my glass.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘Hello,’ she answered with a nod.

  ‘Can ah get some mair o’ that watter too?’ said Hughie, as he held his glass, grinning like a loved-up teenager. I guessed he would be very thirsty today. Just like me, Mita seemed unperturbed by his attentions. Hughie, I decided, was very much a harmless geezer. A little bold, a little comical and more than a bit brazen, but harmless.

  ‘Okay class,’ Chris began, smiling at me. ‘We’ll start with a little easy sketching and I’ll explain a bit about perspective.’ The smile was a small gesture but made me feel at ease. Maybe our friendship could continue where it left off in spite of everything. As Mita passed out artists’ pads and pencils, Chris held up a picture that reminded me of a psychiatrist’s ink-spot test. ‘What do you see?’ he asked.

  Oh hell! This was where I’d reveal that everything reminds me of a page from the Kama Sutra and get hauled off to a clinic for sex addicts. ‘Is this painting by positions, as opposed to numbers, sir?’

  ‘I think me an’ Greta did that one back in 1973!’ Hughie piped up. So, warped minds across the generations think alike. Last month I became Smother, now I was Hughie.

  The morning was spent sketching the ink spot and a series of inanimate objects, while at the same time, everyone chatted and got to know each other, with some prompting from Chris. He nodded to me first,‘Why don’t you tell the class a bit about yourself, Bernice?’

  ‘Well, I’m a little hung over after throwing my new husband out of our honeymoon suite last night and downing two bottles of wine . . .’

  ‘Actually, there isn’t a lot to tell,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if Linda goes first?’

  Linda, it transpired, was already a practised artist as she had taken up painting two years ago after retiring from her job as a school principle.

  ‘I turned sixty, had the chance of early retirement so decided to go find myself,’ she explained.

  ‘I’d love to do that,’ I said with a sigh. ‘I hate my job.’

  ‘Well darlin’, take it from an old pro. Don’t wait ‘til you’re my age to start doing what you love instead of working any old raggedy job you hate. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time.’

  ‘Oh, it pays the bills,’ I sighed, ‘but a part of me wishes I had so much money I could just quit. That’s wrong though, isn’t it? There’s so much need in the world.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong in wishing you were rich,’ said Chris. ‘Don’t beat yourself up on that one. I always think of all the good I could do for others if I had loads of cash.’

  I paused to consider his words; it was the first time I’d looked at it like that. Whenever I allowed myself to wish for a better life, it felt selfish. People in the world were starving; it wasn’t fair to consider myself anything other than one of the lucky ones. But I knew he was right, I would love to have enough to share − to make other lives easier, not just my own. I considered my childlike scribbles of the morning for a second, and announced, ‘Well, if I’m going to dare to make my fortune it won’t be my art that does it.’

  Linda laughed. ‘It’s not bad. This sort of stuff can go for millions of pounds to some art collectors.’ I liked her very much.

  Edvard spoke for himself and Ginger. ‘I am an architect and my wife is an accountant.’

  ‘Ah, figures,’ said Linda. The joke was lost on everyone except me. I threw her a wry smile.

  ‘What about you, Greta? And Hughie?’ asked Chris. The couple answered at the same time.

  ‘Retired,’ said Greta.

  ‘Playboy,’ said Hughie.

  ‘He’s retired an’ he reads Playboy,’ Greta added.

  As we all laughed, Chris knelt down and studied my drawing. Taking my pencil from me, he began sketching some more lines over mine. His face was so close to mine it felt a little awkward, like those moments when the optician is peering into your eye with an ophthalmoscope and you’re scared to breathe in case you blow in his ear.

  ‘I know, it’s rubbish,’ I began.

  ‘It came from your mind to the paper,’ he said, still concentrating on the drawing. ‘That creative process is beauty in itself. It’s all about personal interpretation.’

  ‘Meraki,’ said Mita, who now sat watching us from a nearby sunbed.

  ‘Yes indeed, meraki,’ Chris replied.

  ‘I love making art,’ said Linda. ‘Having the freedom of creativity to express yourself is really somethin’ else. But you gotta help me get these lines right, Chris.’

  And with that he had gone from me to her.

  In half an hour, we were all through with sketching and had moved to watercolour painting on easels in the lower gardens. Linda chose an intricate spray of oleanders to paint, while I picked an olive branch.

  ‘Funny that I should paint something my husband would love to have from me right now,’ I mused to myself. No-one, except Linda, heard, and she stopped painting to look at me. I explained, ‘Since we’re going to see more of each other, you may as well know, I came here with a husband.’ I felt a familiar sting behi
nd my eyes. Don’t, don’t, DON’T!

  She put down her brush and came over to stand beside me. ‘And he’s gone home?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I held in my tears and wondered why on earth I’d spilled the beans so early. I didn’t even know Linda.

  ‘Oh my darlin’, that’s terrible! He cheat on ya with some bimbo?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. The thing is, he is Chris’s best friend. Best not to say too much at the moment.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re a brave lady, staying on by yourself. You can’t let ‘em stall your whole damn life. There just ain’t enough time for that.’

  She gave me a sympathetic hug. Hughie, who was working a few yards in front, chose this touching moment to announce out loud that he’d ‘like to get that Binnie down on some canvas’ and proceeded to paint me – boobs first, judging by the huge, almost symmetrical circles already staring out from the centre of the page. ‘Och, yer an awfy flirt,’ Greta told him. I think. Despite my private misery, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  By the time Chris announced a break for lunch, I was beginning to feel sick under the midday sun and my stomach was badly in need of the kind of sustenance only half a loaf of bread and a humungous plate of chips could bring. I was so hungry! However, when Mita appeared with two huge Greek salads, floating in olive oil, my gut lurched again. If vomiting was an Olympic event, I was about to go for gold.

  ‘Chris? Do you have a toilet I can use?’

  He pointed to the empty apartment below his villa. ‘Use the one in there,’ he said. ‘It’s closer.’ I was already off like a rocket – running straight out of the clogs which stayed behind at my easel.

  ‘And for the rest of today, Binnie will be working while invisible,’ Chris said.

  Emerging exhausted and dazed from the bathroom following an unproductive bout of heaving, I looked around the tiny, unlived-in apartment. Dusty and strewn with discarded canvases, it was a quaint single room with a kitchenette partitioned off. The open door revealed a sunny haven I had missed in my rush to get to the toilet. White curtains around a small patio provided welcome shade from the searing heat, as well as a screen between the apartment and Chris’s villa. A garden table and chairs faced over a glorious array of flowers to the horizon beyond. I batted a sudden sting on my arm and realised the air was alive with biting insects, yet I imagined anyone would feel quite happy sitting here on a balmy evening with a bottle of wine and a mosquito swatter.

  Toying with the trinkets and vases scattered on shelves, I saw a woman’s face in the mirror on the wall. A woman I barely recognised: tired, sad and resigned, with heavily lined eyes. Good God, where had my spark gone? Once again I mourned the carefree, happier me who had flopped in a disorganised heap beside some guy who’d also arrived alone at the christening of a mutual friend’s daughter.

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  It was a cheesy line to match his cheesy grin but, for a second at least, I was sceptical. He’s a bit full on. Do I come often to a chapel? What if he does? What if he just wants me to as well? What if . . . oh, wait. Glancing up at astonishingly deep brown, teasing eyes, I met the face of my future. Towering over me by at least a foot, David looked slightly older than me, with a lick of wavy, dark hair and an assured, over-confident air. I was enthralled, captured and pretty much thrown over his strong, slender shoulders in that instant that I looked at him. For the rest of the day, as we weaved around each other chatting to the rest of the guests, it seemed his magnetism was in the air around me everywhere I went. I knew where he was at any given time without turning my head to look. The attraction was almost superhuman. In the blink of an eye all my cynicism fell away and, deciding he probably wasn’t working in enrolment services for the Almighty, I answered his prayers. ‘A date? Sure. Next Saturday, 7pm? See you then!’

  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 n
ot?’ 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.

  Posting 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.