Repentant Bettie cries, “Oh, Ambassador!” as she whips out
the posh chocolates to celebrate her new love affair with all things Manx
Call me old fashioned, but I never imagined I’d share anything with Salman Rushdie, but after
the Palestinian Council got wind of certain aspects of our 39-4-Ever scouting
tour, the resulting fatwā was a mere formality. Of course, Big Frank had
changed his mind about relocating way before then, as we weren’t an hour out
from the Mount of Olives Bed and Baba Ghanoush when even my penny-pinching
Hubby #3 had seen enough.
“Bettie,” he announced over the sounds of machine gun fire
at our third roadblock. “We have to get out of here.”
“No problem,” I replied from beneath my ebony shroud, and in
full view of a sizable crowd gathered for the daily stoning, I exposed myself.
Yep, diary, both elbows.
Flights from Jerusalem to the UK are not what you would call
frequent (or even necessary), but thanks to Air Hallelujah, I was back in
strapless and stilettos, puffing away on 20 Marlboros and slinging back the Floridita
daiquiris in less than an entire day. Still, it wasn’t all for nothing. Under
that coal-black burkha, I sweated off close to fourteen pounds.
After the big mess that was the Holy Land, our arrival back
at the Douglas dock front was – dare I admit it – a welcome relief. And so
started my renaissance with the much maligned Isle of Man, because, after
Palestine, this ancient seat of democracy and tailless cats seemed like The Inn
of the Sixth Happiness. To Big Frank’s rapture and delight, we found that
in our absence the government had hired a gambling ambassador to make things
lovely again for us gaming operators. Never the one to miss a chance for some
world-class schmoozing, I was soon busy planning an All-You-Can-Eat Prawn Ring
and Hankie-Pankies welcome wagon for the island’s bigwigs.
The final evening’s festivities were rewardingly
well-received, but I have to admit I hardly knew a soul.
“So, who are you?” I asked a particularly scruffy
individual.
“I’m acting PM,” the man said.
“Oh, sorry,” I replied, “I don’t do theatre,” and headed off
to hurry along the Ferrero Rocher pyramids.
On my way I passed Big Frank, and commented on how well the
party was going.
“Yeah, it’s great,” he said between mouthfuls, “but we’ll
still need to make a few more cutbacks.”
“Like what?”
“You have to fire your success coach.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s not like you’re having much success, are you?”
Sheesh kebab, diary, it was hard to argue with that…
Still, when I finally phoned and broke the bad news to
Jerinda, she seemed fairly non-plussed.
“Oh, that’s quite all right. I’m going to be far too busy…”
“Oh?”
“Why, yes. I’ve just signed up to exclusively promote Mona’s
first collection.”
“What?”
“Take a look in this month’s Harper’s Bazaar,” she suggested.
I had it right there.
Whipping through page-after-page of Beyoncé Eau de Hot Butt
double-page spreads, I saw something that froze my blood. Splashed across the
center pages was a photograph of what I first thought was a dried-up river bed,
yet turned out to be a close-up of my maid’s wrinkled face endorsing a variety
of hairy hats and handbags. And beneath was a single byline:
‘Because nothing says ‘I Love You’ like a clutch purse woven
from her own pubes.’
