Dedication
To Jack—
to make up for being the most annoying sister
in the northern hemisphere
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Laura Salters
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
July 10, Serbia
BELGRADE IS A beautiful city in which to have a panic attack.
Specifically Belgrade Cooperative Building, which is all Art Nouveau architecture and decorative facades and intricately painted glass. In a grand atrium, our group of journalists look down on a mammoth model of how the Serbian capital will look following a Dubai-style redevelopment—lush parks, luxury apartments, sleek shopping malls and the tallest skyscraper in the Balkans.
And I’m about to pass out right on top of it.
“You look hideous,” Erin whispers, nudging my shoulder. “Anxiety flaring up?”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, sweating with the effort of trying to keep it under control.
“Yeah. And I’m the president of the United States. Let’s go outside for a moment.”
“Honestly, Erin,” I whisper, trying desperately not to draw attention to us. Tim, our press trip organizer, is shooting us dirty looks, which of course makes me three hundred percent sure everyone hates me and thus prompts another bout of palpitations. “I’m okay.”
She smirks. “Well, that’s good to know, but I’m dying for a smoke. Come with me?”
She’s always done this. Ever since we first started interning together in the fashion cupboard of a glossy lifestyle magazine, she’s met my episodes with cool, calm poise. Erin Baxter is better than any medication when you’re starting to spiral.
Duncan, a gruff Scottish journalist with a knack for asking uncomfortable questions, is in the middle of challenging our tour guide on the supposedly corrupt Arab funding behind the Belgrade waterfront scheme. Nobody notices when we slip out, past marble columns and vaults, grand staircases and terrazzo tiles, flashing our press badges at the bored-looking security guards.
The street is relatively quiet. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and most locals are at work, with the exception of a few motorbikes zipping around the roundabout outside the Cooperative Building. Opposite is an old ironworks, which has been transformed into a hive of activity—street food, craft markets and a hip bar, all decked out with fairy lights and art prints. I can smell the homemade lemonade from here.
“What’s up?” Erin asks calmly, sparking up a cigarette between her crimson-painted lips. Her hair is dirty blond and Kate Moss–messy, and she has the height and build of a supermodel to match. More tattoos and piercings than your average clotheshorse, though.
“Honestly? I don’t know,” I say. “Mentally, I’m fine. My body has other ideas.” I can feel the excess adrenaline coursing through me, manifesting into stomach cramps, heart palpitations and shaky hands.
“Deep breaths. Cold water. Beta-blocker. You’ll be fine.”
I groan. “I know. I’m sorry. Last thing I want to do is taint this trip with my insanity.”
“Oh, pipe down. I love you for your insanity, not despite it.” She grins, hair flapping in the river breeze. Tucks a stray lock behind her triple-studded ear. “Smoke?” I shake my head.
We’re on a press trip, funded by the Serbian tourism board. Journalists from across the UK are here to cover a world-renowned music festival from a whole host of angles—me from an economical vantage point, Erin from a fashion reporter’s perspective. It’s held in a hilltop fortress in the nearby city of Novi Sad, and we’re set to travel there this afternoon.
If my tenuous grasp on sanity holds out that long.
I’m about to ask Erin for a swig from her hip flask when her phone starts to ring. She pulls a face.
“Lowe.”
Our snooty editor. The one who scoffed when we pitched the Serbia trip—she understands champagne and caviar in Milan, not camping in a field in the Balkans. I remember her sneering over her designer glasses and saying, “But . . . Serbia? Aren’t they always at war or flooded or something? You know, if you want a free holiday, I’ve got a city break to Paris sitting in my in-box. Over Fashion Week. Every fashion intern on the planet would kill to be there. Why on earth would you choose Serbia?”
Erin didn’t waver.
“Because no one else is doing it! Think about it. All the top fashion magazines are at the big festivals. They’re snapping the celebs and the DJs in their poncho-and-welly combos. They’re covering this summer’s hottest festival trends. They’re sending fashion reporters to Coachella and Tomorrowland. But nobody is at JUMP. And it’s quickly becoming the biggest festival in the world. You should see this year’s headliners.”
Lowe is always giving us a hard time, even when we’re out of the country. We’re lowly interns, scum on the bottom of her shoe, incapable of everything, including but not limited to: breathing, talking, wiping our own butts. But even she has a soft spot for Erin. It’s hard not to.
A horn blasts on the street, a man yells something angrily from a car window and something curdles in my stomach as Erin accepts the call.
“Hey, Lowe,” Erin says easily. She’s way cooler under pressure than me. Well, way cooler in general. But still.
“Baxter,” Lowe barks. Erin has put her on speakerphone, and her piercing tone cuts right through the bustle on the street. “How’s Croatia?”
“Serbia.”
“Whatever. Did you get my email?”
Erin drags on her cigarette. “Sorry. I haven’t been able to find Wi-Fi. What’s up?”
“Your feature on the coat designer from Transylvania, that’s what.”
“Pennsylvania.”
“Whatever. It’s shit, Baxter. Utter manure. Farmers could spread this on their fields to ensure a fruitful fucking harvest.”
Erin laughs. The sound is easy and relaxed. How is she not crapping herself right now? I guess it’s no secret that Lowe terrifies me. She’s glamorous and cool and intelligent and intimidating. She’s Erin in thirty years’ time. “You didn’t like it?”
Lowe snorts down the receiver. “The angle was too obvious, the quotes were badly laid out and the image selection . . . don’t get me started.”
“Sorry. Fire over your notes and I’ll rewrite.” Erin flicks the trail of ash from the end of her cigarette. She has that perfect blend of professionalism and playfulness down to a tee. It makes you feel like arguing with her would be both mean and irrational. I think it’s why people, me included, often struggle to say no to her.
Me, on the other hand . . . my JUMP pitch went something like this:
“I—I’m really interested in . . . well, how cou
ntries that are known for conflict, how they . . . shake their reputations as dangerous places and rebuild their tourism industries. After the bloody Yugoslav Wars in the nineties, it’s fascinating how Serbia is . . . I mean, C-Croatia is now starting to be seen as a hot tourist destination, right? And it’ll be interesting to see whether Serbia can . . .”
I wince, a pang of shame at the memory. I pulled it together. Almost.
“But . . . but I think this feature could be really great. I could interview local business owners, get their take on the festival. Try and figure out whether the festival is really doing as much good as they have us believe. Speak to some of the headliners, ask what made them want to get involved in a project like this.”
Lowe had made some simpering remark about how Northern Heart isn’t the New York Times, condescension dripping from her words like syrup, but she agreed eventually. That’s all that matters. This piece could be my ticket out of the magazine’s stuffy fashion cupboard, full of expensive clothes I have no interest in whatsoever.
I’m so busy trying to fan my burning cheeks with a tour leaflet that I don’t notice Erin is off the phone. She actually looks a little shaken.
“You all right?” I ask, nudging her shoulder with mine. Smoke curls around her lips.
She stares at the pavement. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Really? You look . . . hell, you look like you feel like me. And that’s never good.” I try for a smile, but it falls flat. “Erin?”
“You ever wonder if you’re making a mistake?” she asks, voice thick with . . . something.
I chuckle. “Constantly. Thirty-eight times a second. Hence the anxiety.”
A sad smile.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
Then, as quickly as the strange mood descended, she snaps out of it, stamping the cigarette out beneath her espadrilles. “Nothing. Booze. Let’s find a bar?”
So I let it go.
Chapter Two
July 12, Serbia
IF IT WEREN’T for the sheep skulls dangling from trees, donkeys wearing bandanas and the half-naked man singing the Serbian national anthem, it would have been like any other riverfront farm.
When Tim, the organizer of the press trip, had said he was taking us to see some friends of his, we hadn’t exactly envisaged hopping into three boats—more like canoes with engines—traveling four miles down the Danube and dismounting next to a field of fly-infested pigs. But by now we’ve learned not to question anything on this trip. I think Clara, the tabloid journalist, regrets her stilettos by the time we’ve clambered up the muddy bank and been greeted by a toothless Serbian woman with a sleeping baby strapped to her chest.
There are five people living in this peculiar little settlement, all of whom cheer loudly when they see Tim leap out of his boat. He roars excitedly and embraces one of the aged, bandana-clad donkeys. Two men usher him up the bank, slapping him elatedly on the back, while a little boy—who looks exactly like Mowgli from The Jungle Book—is standing at the top, digging a long stick into the sunbaked ground.
We all gather in a wide fenced enclosure, shaded by a canopy of tall trees. There’s no stone-built farmhouse, only a rusting caravan with floral curtains, and the hard, dusty ground looks like it’s recently been swept—there’s a pile of dry leaves at the foot of a thick tree trunk. A couple of mongrel dogs with matted coats chase each other around the caravan, and the boy giggles as he watches them. The toothless woman is now slicing raw meat, her back hunched over a battered wooden table. They all look excited to have visitors. I overhear one of the men telling Clara that they give the donkeys bandanas to keep them cool in the high summer, but Clara’s nose is wrinkled in disgust.
It’s so far removed from our normal lives that I can’t stop thinking about how weird it is that we’re here. I think that thought on loop until it’s impossible to even be in the moment because I’m obsessing over how weird it is that the moment is even happening to begin with.
The river gushes behind us, the air smells like dried earth and the sun is hot on my bare shoulders. Erin and I take a wander around the settlement, largely at a loss for words. Tim is over by the caravan, still chatting animatedly to the older of the two men, whose skin is so tanned and rough it looks like leather. When we’re summoned, the rest of us take seats around a long picnic bench. The woman presents us with the platter of what looks like raw bacon. I look around for a fire or any other evidence that it’ll be cooked. Nothing. Nada.
Clara winces. “There’s literally a dead animal in front of me.”
“As opposed to all the other meat you eat, which is only metaphorically dead,” Erin snorts. She’s got a sailor’s laugh. She glances at her phone. “Of course there’s no bloody reception here. Of course there isn’t.” She looks worried again. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, but she’s missed a few wisps, which flutter against her tanned face in the light breeze. She’s taken her nose ring out for the first time in months.
I nudge her tattooed shoulder. Her bare skin is hot against mine. “What’s up?”
“Lowe’s gonna kill me if I’m not there to answer her every beck and call,” Erin mumbles. She chews her bottom lip. I notice an old bruise lurking beneath her half-sleeve tattoo—patches of yellow and brown underneath the intricate black ink.
“Erin. It’s Sunday. She can’t possibly expect you to . . .” I trail off when I realize she isn’t listening; she’s just pressing the on/off button anxiously. I give her hand a squeeze. Her chunky rings dig into my palm. “Hey. Smile. Enjoy your day. You’ll never, ever be here again.” I wave my hand at the thatched roof above the dining area, the abandoned wooden boats bobbing on the water and the shots of rakia now being poured for a breakfast toast.
She grimaces and tucks her phone away.
Tim clears his throat at the end of the table. He’s got mini-Mowgli balancing on his hip, pressing his face into Tim’s flannel shirt. His eyes are crinkling against the sun. “I’d like to make a toast,” Tim says, accepting one of the glasses of rakia the toothless woman is now handing around. “To Agata—” the woman bows her head “—Djuro and Marin, for welcoming us into their home. To you lot—” we all smile at the recognition “—who make my job thirty times more fun than it would otherwise be, and to the donkeys, who . . . well, who smell like shit quite frankly. To friends, old and new!”
“To friends, old and new!” we chorus. The fruity brandy burns my throat, and I shudder as it hits my empty stomach. The canopy rustles above us and the child chuckles as Tim bounces him up and down. I smile.
My normal life seems a thousand miles away. I wish I could keep it that way.
WE LEAVE THE farm after a couple of hours of eating, drinking and disjointed storytelling in fractured English and Tim’s shoddy Serbian. It’s after midday now, and the sun is high in the sky as we get back into the boats, salute our drivers—or captains, as they ask to be addressed—and set off even farther down the river.
Sailing into the wind, I feel a little woozy after the fruit brandy and breakfast of raw tomatoes and freshly baked bread. The river is wide and brownish-blue, and either side is thick with acres of dark green trees, wooden jetties and cream-colored houses set back off the banks. We’re told it’s where wealthy Serbs come to live during the summer months, but we’re yet to see another living soul.
Propping my elbows back on the bench, I throw my head back and close my eyes. The sun is baking hot on my face, and the rocking of the boat as it propels forward against the current makes me feel like I could sleep for a thousand years. Partying every night until sunrise for four days is starting to get to me, but I never want the trip to end.
Music reporter Jin Ra’s lean thigh is pressed against mine, and I can smell his sun cream. His sharp cheekbones are accentuated by his oversized glasses, and his South Korean skin tone has been freckled by the sun.
I catch myself smiling as his arm brushes against mine.
We eventually pull up on a wide stretch of sand in the middle of the Danube. It spreads like a beachy pier from the west bank across two-thirds of the river. The water level is low enough that most of it is exposed, the white sand dry and powdery. A few giant branches of driftwood stick out of the sand, and there are some smooth pebbles scattered around. The only sounds are the scraping of the boats as they’re pulled onto the beach, and Erin splashing Duncan with flailing arms windmilling through the cold water.
When my feet touch the sand after jumping out of the boat, I have to throw my arms out to steady myself—I’m as disorientated as I used to get after spinning around and around in circles as a kid. Jin Ra grabs my forearm to keep me upright. My eyes meet his and he gives me a shy smile.
For a while we paddle in the shallow water, take countless Instagram snaps and try to ignore the slate-gray clouds drifting above us, but as they darken, multiply and eclipse the sun, the temperature drops sharply.
Tim smacks his lips, opens his arms and optimistically says, “It’ll clear soon. Trust me. I have an instinct for these things.”
Almost instantaneously, there’s a crack of thunder and the rain starts to fall. I hear it patter over the surface of the river before I feel it, damp and sticky, on my skin. I’m wearing a polka dot sundress with spaghetti straps, and the drops are so fat and heavy they soak me in seconds. We all look at each other, our comrades only just visible through the downpour, and dash back across to the boats.
I try not to panic as a bolt of lightning illuminates the charcoal sky. Is there a worse place to be in a thunderstorm than in a rickety boat on a swelling river? Jin Ra’s already in the boat, and his hands wrap around my waist as they hoist me over the side. The rain is warm, but I shiver involuntarily.
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