by Marian Keyes
I resist any remarks about how it couldn’t possibly be his penis, in that case. ‘Josh, no! You’ve taken me here, this is the best gift I could ever get.’
‘It’s no big deal,’ he says.
I’m interested in what he thinks is ‘me’ and when I unwrap the paper and find underwear from Victoria’s Secret, I’m totally wrong-footed. Feck’s sake! That stuff is too young and waaay too tacky.
But all men are hopeless at buying gifts. I’d learnt that a long time ago.
‘You could put them on,’ Josh says hopefully.
‘Maybe later.’ Unless they met with an unfortunate accident – perhaps by getting too close to a naked flame and burning down half of Belgrade.
I stand at one of the windows and gaze out over night-time Belgrade. There are nothing like as many adverts or lights as I’m used to in a city. This is so very cool. All credit to me, the prospect of this scared me yet here I am.
‘Josh, should we go for something to eat?’ From our little eyrie, I see something I don’t understand – then I do! ‘Josh, come and look! There’s a river and it’s frozen!’
He leans over my shoulder and looks to where I’m pointing.
‘First time to see a frozen river!’ I say. ‘It’s mad-looking. Is it frozen all the way down?’
He’s close behind me, and as he stretches for a better view, his erection grazes my bum, I catch a whiff of his neck and, all of a sudden, I’m wild with want. I whip around, snatch his face between my hands and kiss him in a frenzy. I pull at his jeans, his top, my own clothes. I can smell him and taste him, and if I don’t have his skin against mine right now, I’ll die.
‘Help me.’ Our clothes won’t come off quickly enough – it’s infuriating. Too many fucking buttons and belts and zips – and his boots! All that fumbling and unknotting. ‘Let them stay on!’
His jeans and jocks are shoved to his knees, his torso is bare, his hard-on is huge, and I shove him on to the bed.
My skirt is off. ‘The condoms!’ Where are the fucking condoms?
‘Leave them,’ he says.
‘No!’
‘Bathroom.’
He moves and I yelp, ‘No! Stay there.’
I’m back. I’m sliding it the length of him, his groan is long and helpless. ‘Don’t come!’ I order. ‘Not yet!’
I slide down on to him and he whimpers with pleasure.
‘Take your top off,’ he says.
‘No, you’ll come too soon.’
‘Please.’
‘No!’
‘I’m begging.’
Still moving up and down on him, I leisurely unbutton my shirt. All that remains is my bra. ‘Please,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘Please.’
I reach my hands behind my back, unclasp it, then wait. Slowly I slide the straps down my arms as his eyes gleam avidly and one vigorous bounce is all it takes for it to fall. He comes immediately, howling the words, ‘I love you. Amy, oh, I love you.’
Afterwards, flattened by exertion, we lie side by side. I speak into the silence: ‘Don’t say those words again.’
He tenses, but stays quiet.
92
Crooked stone steps lead down a steep, narrow alley towards the astonishing white river. Not many people are about. The snow has stopped, and old-fashioned black streetlamps cast pools of light that blaze but don’t travel. The city is in black and white.
‘It’s like The Third Man,’ Josh says.
‘Is it?’
‘You haven’t seen it?’ He stops short to display his shock. ‘Sackcloth! A classic, a noir classic – Vienna, post-war thriller. Visually very stylish. I once wrote a remake of it.’
‘You did?’
‘Calm down. Nothing came of it.’ He’s suddenly clipped.
The steep descent ends and Josh consults the map the hotel gave us. ‘So we go right, now.’
The buildings look middle-European, nineteenth-century types; handsome but crumbling. There’s graffiti on the façades, elaborate double doors and fancy-framed windows tricked out with fussy crocheted or lace curtains.
There’s no one other than us on the dark, slick street, and only an occasional car passes, the sound of its wheels almost sinister on the slushy road. It’s gone ten and we’re on our way to a restaurant on the riverfront.
‘You’d never guess that Belgrade is a late-night city.’ I’m a bit edgy.
‘Aye. Or maybe we’re too early.’
Through a high-off-the-ground window I see a young woman cooking dinner – these rundown fancy buildings must be apartments. I stare in avidly at the woman’s Serbian jeans, her Serbian hair-bobble, her Serbian lampshade, her Serbian kitchen table. In awe, I breathe, ‘What’s it like being her?’
‘Same as it is being anyone.’
‘But living somewhere so atmospheric must be …’
‘Not a great time to be a Serb – trouble getting visas to other countries, no foreign investment so not much employment …’
Okay, I was romanticizing my woman’s life but Mr Cold Hard Facts has killed my mood.
‘We go right here,’ Josh says, then stops – there’s a railway line between us and the waterfront. ‘That’s not on the bloody map.’
We look right, we look left. There are no obvious crossing points. I’ve no problem dashing across a track but a metal fence is barring our way. ‘Um, we could try walking a bit and see what happens?’
But the cold suddenly makes itself known and as we trudge along in the shadows, my spirits are on the slide.
‘They don’t make it easy,’ Josh mutters.
This isn’t like other cities where everything is signposted and the sights are spoon-fed to you, where every avenue leads to something wonderful and all wandering is swiftly rewarded.
But there’s some structure up ahead.
‘Aye, aye,’ Josh says – and I wince. ‘Aye, aye’ isn’t as bad as ‘lav’ but it’s not good either. We’re at something that looks like a tiny metal hut, a bit like the Tardis but made of steel.
‘I think it’s a lift,’ Josh says.
Ah, here. So now I’m in a science-fiction film? Or maybe an episode of Lost?
Josh presses a button, a door slides open and the light nearly blinds me. ‘You think this will take us to the waterfront?’ he asks.
But how the hell would I know?
‘We give it a go?’
He can’t be fecking serious. That feeling hits again. Who is this man? What the hell am I doing here? What if it’s not a lift? What if it’s a spaceship? Or a container to kidnap eejits? Or –
‘It’ll be okay.’ His voice is soft. ‘I understand now. This brings us down to the river.’
I don’t want to but, feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience, I get in. An eternity later, or maybe it’s five seconds, the door opens and there it is, the frozen Sava.
‘And here’s our restaurant,’ Josh says.
93
Wednesday, 28 December
The part of town where the gallery is looks nothing like last night’s thriller-noir setting. ‘It’s all a bit touristy.’ Josh looks around with distaste.
‘But we are tourists!’ I say happily.
It’s like being in a prosperous rural village: the streets are cobbled and the restaurants and shops look like fairy-tale farmhouses. Christmas lights sparkle in the crystal-cold air. A small folk orchestra, huddled around a smoking brazier, plays a jaunty enough tune, undercut by pleasingly mournful Eastern-sounding strings. Misfortunate men, decked out in embroidered frockcoats and trousers, intercept us with menus, trying to lure us into their taverns.
‘Maybe later.’ Because I’m on a mission.
‘Log fire,’ the menu-man says. ‘Pancakes with cream. Pork cooked in …’
In front of each tavern there are lots of tables and chairs, covered by pretty awnings.
‘In the summer, everyone probably sits outside,’ Josh says.
‘We’ll have to come b
ack,’ I quip, then really wish I hadn’t because he pounces on it and demands, ‘Do you mean that?’
I squeeze his hand and keep walking – and finally! My gallery! I am shaking with adrenalin.
The young man speaks good the English, but when I explain my quest, he gives an apologetic smile and says, ‘None here in this moment.’
‘No Dušanka Petrović paintings? Are you sure? Can I order one?’
‘You give your details? I will email when next one comes.’
‘When will that be?’ My words are tumbling over each other.
‘I cannot say. Artists …’ He shrugs helplessly and, to win his friendship, I smile and make special eye contact. Yes, indeed, artists! Unreliable crowd of unreliable feckers.
We think the same, you and I.
‘So she is still living,’ I ask. ‘Er, alive?’
‘Yes. Still living.’
‘Has she a website? I’ve tried so hard to find her and … No?’ No, indeed. Why would he be giving me her details so I could contact her directly and cut him entirely out of the equation?
‘How much are her paintings? Say –’ I point to one at random – ‘that size?’
My new friend quotes me a figure so low I want to vomit. Oh, why couldn’t there have been one here for me to buy?
I extract a promise that he’ll email me the very second a new painting arrives, then Josh and I return to the cold and, all of a sudden, I’m starving. A combination of acute disappointment and it actually being early afternoon – we’d stayed in bed all morning.
‘Sorry, Amy.’ Josh gathers me in his arms.
‘Let’s go back to the frockcoat man for pancakes.’
‘Here? Are you sure? I’d rather see some of the real Belgrade.’
‘The real Belgrade got into the back seat of our car yesterday to help with directions and we both nearly had a freaker,’ I say. ‘But if you’re really desperate for authentic, we can go for another few laps of the one-way system?’
He’s awestruck. ‘You’re amazing.’
Am I? Astonishing how a bout of hunger-rage can come across.
Soon we’re inside, sitting next to a crackling open fire, and I order a shot of plum brandy. ‘Staying local.’ But I’m just looking for a quick fix for my disappointment.
I order the pancakes and Josh orders the pork thing the menu-man had been going on about.
‘Sorry about your painting, Amy,’ Josh says, again.
‘No.’ I’m fierce. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. You’re not to apologize. And just to see her work for reals yesterday was amazing. And, you never know, the man might get a delivery. It’s all good.’
‘You sure?’
‘Totally. Absolutely.’ Christ, I want to have sex with him again. This is out-of-control.
‘Are you thinking what I’m –’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ He bursts out laughing.
‘No,’ I say. ‘We’re not leaving. These nice people – Look, here’s the food now. Stand down your weapon.’
My pancake looks lovely but Josh’s pork, with apples and roast potatoes, is awe-inspiring. ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s a good-looking plate of food.’
He gives me a funny look. Too late, I realize that’s a Hugh in-joke – and the expression on Josh’s face tells me he knows. ‘Wrong man?’ he asks.
‘Um, yes.’ No choice but to style this out. It would be worse to lie. ‘Sorry. Josh, I’m sorry.’
‘’S okay.’
I’m the one in the wrong here, but there’s a turn to Josh’s mouth that leaves a bad feeling.
AFTER
* * *
94
Thursday, 29 December
My luggage is lost. Of course it is, that’s the kind of day it’s been. Dublin airport is a-swarm with Christmas travellers and there are eleven people ahead of me at the lost-luggage desk.
Saying goodbye to Josh at Belgrade airport was sweetly romantic. We kept kissing until I had to say, ‘I’m going to miss my flight.’
‘Okay. Bye. See you on January the tenth.’
We kissed again. ‘Enjoy the rest of your break,’ he said. ‘Can I call you on New Year’s Eve?’
At that, I was hit by the realization I’d to face into the utter chaos of Hugh’s return.
‘What?’ He was instantly wary. Then, when I hesitated, ‘What is it?’
‘Hugh, my husband. He’s back.’
Josh twitched as if I’d slapped him. ‘Back where?’
‘Ireland. Dublin. Home.’
‘For good?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did he arrive? Christmas Day? Where’s he living?’
‘I don’t know. Well, ours, mine, but only for the – Look, I don’t know, but probably his brother’s.’
‘Are you back together?’
‘No! No, Josh, no.’ I was certain about that. ‘That’s never going to happen. He knows about you. No details, but he knows I’m away with you.’
His eyes had darkened and his hand tightened on my shoulder. In a low voice, he bit out, ‘Don’t sleep with him.’
There was no way I’d sleep with Hugh, but I said, ‘Josh, don’t tell me what to do.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t quiz you about Marcia.’
‘I don’t sleep with Marcia.’
Somehow I doubted that. And even if he did, I’d actually be glad. I don’t understand why but obviously it’s something to do with my guilt.
God, having an affair, it’s all about extremes of emotion: the giddy highs, followed by painful soul-searching. Or downright depression – being back in Dublin after the glorious escape of the past three days, everything feels flat and sad.
The lost-luggage queue shuffles forward. My bag is probably stuck in Vienna, where I’d transferred. I just want to get this paperwork done, then go home – but Hugh will be there. We’re going to have to address painful, painful stuff. It’ll be borderline unbearable.
My phone rings, jangling my nerves. It’s Josh. ‘I’m sorry,’ he blurts. ‘I panicked. I just – It was a shock, hearing your husband was back. I feel I only got you because he went away.’
‘Wait, Josh, no, I’m sorry. I should have told you. But I didn’t want to make things weird. I wanted things to be perfect.’
‘They were perfect.’
They weren’t exactly perfect but not far off.
It’s the weirdest thing, going away with one man and coming home to another. The three girls are all off on their various trips and Hugh is alone in the house. Even before my car is parked, he has the front door open.
‘Where’s your luggage?’ he asks.
‘Lost.’
‘Oh, babe …’
His size, his maleness, in the house, there’s so much of him.
‘Can I get you something?’ he asks. ‘Tea? Wine?’
I don’t want anything because I don’t want us acting like normality has been restored.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ he asks.
‘Hugh, we have to talk …’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Serbia.’
‘Oh? … Why?’
‘There’s an artist I love and she’s Serbian. I’ve joked about going on a road trip to find her?’
‘Oh, right.’ He remembers. Vaguely, by the look of things. Then, ‘He took you? This new man? Wow. That’s classy.’ He doesn’t sound sarcastic, more in awe. ‘So, Amy, I’ve been talking to Carl and I can start back to work first thing in January. You can have the rest of Dad’s money for whatever project you want. We can get our finances back on an even keel. Get everything back to normal.’
‘Hugh?’ He can’t possibly be serious about this. ‘No, really, we’ve gone way beyond that.’
‘I don’t understand.’
But I do: he’s in denial. He’d thought he was coming back to the family he’d left behind. He’s not ready to face what I’ve already accepted – that our family has gone for ever and we’re facing into a tot
ally different future, where we’ll be living separately.
I go gently because I care about him. ‘Hugh, you and I, everything has changed. You and I won’t be living together.’
He persists in being confused and I don’t know if it’s real or not. ‘It’s that serious with this other man?’
‘It’s nothing to do with him. It’s about you and me, Hugh. And we’re …’ I swallow ‘… done.’
‘But I love you, Amy. Don’t you love me any more?’
I hesitate and he looks stricken. Hurting him gives me no pleasure. It’s just another sheet of pain to pile on to all of the others that have been building up since this started.
‘Not the way I did, Hugh. I’ll always love you. We’ll always be connected, especially because of the girls. But it’ll be a different sort of connection.’
His brow is furrowed. ‘I was only gone three and a half months. How can that be long enough to change everything?’
‘Seeing those photos –’
‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘– had a weird effect on me. I nearly blew up with jealousy, and then it was like a blade came down.’
He’s distraught. ‘And did what?’
‘It severed the love that linked me to you.’
‘But love doesn’t die that quickly.’
Unexpected rage erupts from my gut and emerges from my mouth in a toxic stream. ‘Fuck you! Don’t you fucking tell me how I should feel when I see my fucking husband in fucking Thailand with another fucking woman!’ I’m yelling. ‘I can feel whatever way I fucking well want!!’ I’m on my feet and I hit his shoulder a clout with my elbow, then do it again. ‘You try it for fucking size!’
He whispers, ‘I am so desperately sorry.’
‘This is how I am, Hugh.’ I’m still yelling. ‘This is how I fucking well roll. I keep myself safe. That’s what I do, Hugh. I’m keeping myself safe. I should never have trusted you. We were fine on our own, me and Neeve. “I’m loyal as a dog,” you said. Well, you’re fucking not, you know!’
‘I am! And how could you stop loving me so quickly? You must never have loved me.’
‘I did love you! You leaving me was the most painful thing that’s ever happened.’