Read Online The New Mrs D by Heather Hill - Free Book Online Page A

bed.

    Something coarse and wet was rhythmically sweeping my foot.
    ‘Don’t!’ My voice echoed in the lonely room.
    Wait a minute, I’m in a lonely room! Sitting bolt upright and flinging the surprisingly heavy duvet off me, there was a loud, ‘MIAOW’ as the cat whose sleep I’d just rudely interrupted with an unscheduled flight on said duvet, landed safely on its feet and bolted out of the half-open door. But it wasn’t the sight of the low-flying kitty that made me scream like a banshee. It was the goat at the foot of my bed munching the sheets – something it forgot to stop doing as it first looked startled, then ran out of the door to get away from the mad, wailing woman, trailing the sheet behind it. Before I could run after it, I heard the squeaking of a gate outside and footsteps crunching up the gravel.
    ‘Oh shit!’
    Jumping to my feet, I peeped out of the door in time to see Chris, face aghast, staring at a different goat which was standing on the roof of his car, bleating loudly as if in protest at his audacity. What’s more, at least ten or eleven other goats, besides the one I’d just encountered – which now stood by the patio table still chewing my bed sheet – were scattered across the gardens, munching away at trees, flowers, bushes and even a curtain from my patio. Grabbing my carrier bag, I made my way over towards Chris, scattering goats in my wake.
    ‘I’m so, so sorry! I was really tired and . . .’
    I held out the bottle of wine, bought to say thanks for his letting me use the apartment, and finished with a feeble (and obvious) ‘I forgot to lock the gate.’
    ‘I was only gone . . . an hour . . .?’
    Before Chris could say any more, the sound of hurried footsteps made us turn around, to see Mita and a younger woman appear, one carrying brooms, the other, a crockpot.
    ‘Oh dear, my Cristos, what has happened!’ The younger woman cried, handing him the crockpot which was wrapped in a towel. ‘Stifado for you,’ she said, pausing to swoon at him, until, tugging at her skirts, Mita brought her back to her senses. The pair were soon rushing around shooing the goats from the property, with help from me and my carrier bag. Within minutes, all the goats were bleating and scuttling down the lane followed by the two women waving brooms at their behinds.
    We perused the damage. Broken plants and flowers lay all over the garden, Chris’s car had scratches all over the roof and the privacy curtain that had been around my patio was now a marquee between two oleander bushes. Looking at his stunned face, I said, ‘The hotel might give me back my room.’
    Oh God, whatever I’ve done in the past, he must really hate me now. But to my relief, I saw him break out into a huge smile. Seconds later, he erupted into fits of raucous laughter.
    ‘Then I’d never find out what you do for an encore!’
    ‘Oh Chris, your beautiful garden,’ I said, wondering if he was delirious or something. Still chuckling, he bent down to pick up some of the wreckage, still carrying the Stifado. I put aside the bag containing the bottle of wine, and pulling the crockpot from him in a feeble attempt to help, knocked off the towel, wrapped around it to stop anyone burning themselves
with it . . . and burned myself with it. With a howl of pain, I threw the dish and its contents to the floor . . . right at his feet. My face burned almost as much as my hands. Chris, whose sailing shoes were now covered in hot, thick gravy, looked down at the mess before him and burst out laughing again. Okay, now I knew he was delirious.
    ‘I . . . well . . . your dinner . . . your car,’ was all I could say.
    He stopped laughing and his face softened, probably because I looked like I was about to burst into tears. I felt awful.
    ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s a very old car and I’m the poor English bachelor everyone wants to mother. They’re Mita’s goats. She’ll be back with a gaggle of local women in about