by Marian Keyes
‘You’ve had lunch with him, you know he doesn’t.’
‘What if the car breaks down and he can’t fix it and he loses his temper and flings his spanner on the ground and marches away in a fury?’
‘That’s most childhood car journeys with Pop you’re thinking of there.’
God, she’s right. ‘Okay. What if it turns out he’s disgusting?’
‘What way?’
‘Dunno. He’s quite macho, more macho than Hugh. I don’t want to think about it, but there’s any number of ways for a man to be disgusting.’
Derry gets it. ‘Maybe book two bathrooms?’
‘How could I even do that? Oh, Derry, what if he says “lav” instead of “bathroom”? What if he says, “I need to use the lav”?’
‘If that happens, just come straight home.’
Derry isn’t the person to have this conversation with – after all, she’s the one who ended a five-month relationship when the misfortunate bastard insisted ‘kebab’ was pronounced ‘kebob’.
‘What about me?’ I ask. ‘And my bladder? I’ve to go about every half-hour. The first thing I do in a new place is check where the facilities are. How will I survive a car journey in an underdeveloped country?’
Derry shakes her head helplessly.
‘On long car journeys in this country,’ I say, ‘I’ve let myself become dehydrated rather than risk one of those dodgy loos round the back of a petrol station.’ I shudder long and hard. ‘And they’d be worse in Serbia, wouldn’t they?’
‘Christ, Amy!’ Derry explodes. ‘Why can’t you do things like a normal person? Anyone else off on a sexy weekend, they go somewhere beautiful, like Barcelona, they stay in glitzy hotels with plentiful public bathrooms, instead of some B-and-B in the back-arse of nowhere, where you’ll probably have to share an outhouse with an entire family, including the grandfather with no teeth and his ancient lad hanging out of his yellowing long johns. And they certainly don’t embark on road trips with a man who’s practically a stranger.’
What can I say? She has a point.
‘Anyone would swear you don’t actually want to enjoy yourself!’
‘I don’t. Well, I do. But not too much.’
She shakes her head again. ‘Surely they’ll have nice hotels in Belgrade?’ She reaches for her tablet, clicks a few times and starts reading. ‘This is from Lonely Planet. “Outspoken, adventurous, proud and audacious, Belgrade is by no means a pretty capital but its gritty exuberance makes it one of the most happening cities in Europe.” ’
‘I don’t know which word scares me more,’ I say. ‘ “Gritty” or “happening”.’
Derry scrolls down. ‘ “Surrounded by forest … baroque … beautiful riverside setting and half-ruined hilltop castle.” ’
‘Belgrade?’
‘Nope. Heidelberg. This is the mini-break you could have gone on. Or listen to this, “A saffron-and-spice vision from the story-books, with one of Europe’s most arresting historic hubs with imposing palaces and razor-thin cobblestone streets.” That’s Stockholm,’ she says. ‘Just saying. But you’d prefer non-pretty grittiness.’ Then she mutters, ‘You effing oddball.’
‘I’m offbeat,’ I protest. ‘I’m quirky.’
‘Yeah,’ she laughs, ‘and riddled with guilt. So? Are you going to go?’
‘I think I am.’
‘Josh, will it be very cold in Serbia?’
Reluctantly he says, ‘It’ll probably be snowing.’
This is exactly what I was hoping to hear. I have visions of fur-lined hoods, wooden houses, embroidered tablecloths, boots with curly toes … ‘I’ll meet you there. In Belgrade airport, like.’
After a silence, he asks, ‘Why’s that?’
Because I’d have to fly to London the night before in order to catch the early flight. It’s easier for me to fly from Dublin via Vienna. But there’s another reason … ‘We’d be stuck together on a three-hour plane journey. We don’t know each other well enough for that.’
‘But this is a chance.’
‘No. It’s really not a good idea.’
Sounding a little huffy, he asks, ‘Do you trust me to book the hotels?’
‘I don’t think so, Josh.’
There’s a long, wounded silence. You know, he’s a leetle touchy …
‘Sorry, Josh. But this is all so out of my comfort zone that I need some control.’
‘Okay.’ He sighs. ‘But book a nice place in Belgrade, nothing too sackcloth. In Jagodina, only basic is available. So let’s have two nights in Belgrade and really go for it. Let me give you my credit card details.’
And that’s weird. I’ve had sex with this man. My most private parts have been in his mouth. But him giving me his credit card numbers feels shockingly intimate.
I’ve found the most fabulous hotel in Belgrade. It has every modern convenience but the rooms look as if they belong in a traditional Slavic home, like my dreams have come to life: luscious rugs patterned with peacocks or spreading oak trees; wallpaper in exquisite flock; huge lengths of window with wavy frames, heavy falls of jacquard curtains; coloured crystal lamps; leather ottoman pouffes; free-standing stove-heaters with vibrant ceramic tiles; peculiar paintings of men who look like Cossacks; gorgeous-looking beds, with hand-painted headboards, layered up with numerous throws and pillows; embroidered cushion covers and – get this – actual antimacassars!
There’s shameless clashing and crowding of patterns and colours and the whole effect is dazzlingly delightful. It’s Bohemian, it’s folksy, but it’s not twee.
‘It is twee,’ Posh Petra says. ‘I’m getting a migraine just from the photos. What’s this Josh going to think?’
‘I don’t care. This is for me. Anyway, Josh won’t mind what the room is like, so long as he gets to have lots of sex with me.’
Posh Petra’s face is a picture. ‘Amy?’ She pauses. ‘Is this, you and him, serious?’
‘No. Well, I don’t kn–, it’s intense, which isn’t the same. But there’s no future in it.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because, duh, he’s married. We live in different countries. I’ve three kids, he’s got two, we’ve no money, we know nothing about mundane day-to-day living with each other – the list is endless.’
‘People make these things work. Men leave their wives –’
I think of Hugh at the same time as she does and she exclaims, ‘Sorry! Honey, I’m sorry!’
‘It’s okay. Settle.’ The pain abates to a dull ache.
‘Marriages break up all the time – Josh and his wife might well be on the skids. And your girls are nearly grown, they’ll be leaving home soon.’
‘They fecking won’t,’ I say. ‘The housing market being what it is, they’ll be living at home for ever.’
‘But you can leave.’
‘Petra, stop. Please. Josh and me, it’s just fun. At some stage I’ll have to face my feelings about Hugh and that’s going to be a bloodbath. Right now, I need to live in the moment.’
88
Saturday, 17 December, day ninety-six
‘Mum! Muuuuum! MUM!’ Shrieks of excitement are coming from upstairs so I abandon the washing-machine, I’m in the mood for something nice.
But the girls are racing down the stairs, Neeve waving her iPad.
‘Look, Mum, look!’
It’s some website and under ‘Ones to Watch in 2017’ is ‘Neeve Aldin, Irish style vlogger. Charming, funny, tells it how it is. Watch out for occasional cameos from her granny, you will die.’
‘I’m happening,’ Neeve howls. She turns her face to the ceiling and yells, ‘I. Am. Actually. HAPPENING!!!!’
‘What’s this on?’
‘Glamour, their website. I know! It’s real! I’m almost mainstreaming!’
‘So, ah, is it cool with you girls if I go away for a few days after Christmas?’ I’m striving for casual, but they have zero interest in my stuff. Neeve is off to some fancy hotel in Tipperary with Richie and
his parents. All credit to him, he’s making great efforts to enfold her into the extended family – even if I still don’t fully trust him not to abruptly lose interest in her again in the future. Sofie and Jackson are off to a grungy-sounding house party in Connemara. And Kiara is going on a survival-style camping trip in Kerry with some other kids from her class.
Saying goodbye to Josh on 21 December is weird. ‘See you in Serbia,’ he says.
My stomach lurches. Am I making a terrible mistake?
‘No.’ He answers my unspoken question. ‘It will all be cool.’
‘But what if we don’t get on? I might be starving and happy to put up with some shithole café but you might want us to walk around for hours in the cold until we find the perfect place. Or I might snore –’
‘You do. I don’t mind. But, Sackcloth, until then I’m going to miss you so bad. I’ll be wanking for England. Can I call you? On Christmas Day?’
‘No.’
His face darkens.
‘Josh, no, seriously. It’s disrespectful to your wife,’ I say. ‘Christmas Day is for families.’
‘Which is why it’s so fucking unendurable.’
‘Stop it, Josh. Some things are sacred. Don’t ring me on that day.’
89
Sunday, 25 December, day 104
‘Mum! Get up!’ Kiara’s shaking me awake. ‘We’re opening the gifts! Happy Christmas!’
Neeve and Sofie appear at my bedroom door. ‘Come on.’
The three of them thump and giggle their way down the stairs. I put on my snowman pyjamas and reindeer slippers and follow, watching fondly as the girls fling themselves on ‘their’ heaps and begin tearing off paper.
I’ve wrapped each of them a stocking full of trinkets – leopard-print socks, stuff from Claire’s – and one ‘real’ gift.
‘Oh, Mum!’ Neeve shrieks. ‘Tom Ford sunnies!’
The frame is caramel-coloured and the glass an unusual amber shade, which works beautifully with her red-gold hair.
‘I totally, totally love them!’ She puts them on and parades around in her onesie and fluffy slippers. ‘How fabulous am I?’ she demands. ‘Totally? Or totally?’
‘Totally!’
A tin of Roses has appeared and we all dive into it, even Sofie.
‘Mum …’ Kiara has opened her ‘real’ gift, a charity donation to buy shoes for four girls in the developing world, so they can walk to school and get an education. Her eyes fill with tears.
‘Yeah, if I got that, I’d be crying too!’ Neeve calls.
‘Best gift ever!’ Kiara flings herself at me and we tumble, laughing, to the floor.
Sofie’s present is a new phone. ‘You’re great, Amy. You’re super-great!’
They’ve bought me various bits and pieces – a massage voucher, earrings, ‘And something good!’
They produce a bigger parcel from behind the couch and place it in my lap.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘A fully grown Irish Wolfhound!’ Neeve is in great form.
‘Open it and see,’ Sofie says.
And, you know, my hopes aren’t high, because even though they’re well-meaning, they don’t entirely get me. Still, they’ve gone to some sort of trouble and that’s touching in itself.
But, oh, my God, it’s beautiful. It’s a leather handbag, embroidered with a Slavic-looking peasant scene.
‘Do you like it?’ Kiara breathes.
‘I adore it.’
This triggers a flood of information from them. ‘It reminded us of those paintings you love.’
‘We saw it on Etsy.’
‘We were afraid it wouldn’t get here in time!’
‘But then it did!’
‘And when we saw it for real, we knew you’d love it!’
‘I LOVE Christmas,’ Kiara says.
‘Will we have a glass of Baileys?’ I say.
‘It’s nine thirty,’ Neeve says. ‘In the Ay Ems! Ah, go on, so!’
As I rise to go to the kitchen, there’s a noise from outside the front door. Visitors? But who? At this hour on Christmas Day?
The four of us exchange a quizzical look. Then, alarmingly, there’s the rattle of a key being inserted in the lock. Who would be letting themselves in with a key?
With another rattle, then a clatter, the front door is shoved open – and oh, my God, it’s … My eyes are seeing him, but my brain can’t process it. Thinner, tanned, with longer hair and an unfamiliar jacket, it’s Hugh.
The shock is disabling. I’m frozen in place as I watch him drag in a huge rucksack. Then the room erupts. Sofie and Kiara jump to their feet and run to him with cries of ‘Dad!’
He stretches out his arms and gathers the three of them – even Neeve lets herself be included – into him.
He locks eyes with me, gestures to his enveloping arms and mouths, ‘You?’
But I can’t move.
Sofie turns to me. ‘Did you know about this? Was it a secret surprise?’
Stiffly I move my head from side to side.
‘Come in, come in.’ They lead Hugh to the sofa. Kiara pushes me gently, so that I’m seated beside him, while they cluster on the floor.
‘Why didn’t you call?’ Kiara asks him. ‘Or text?’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘It is! Best Christmas gift ever!’
‘How long are you here for?’ Neeve asks. ‘When are you going back?’
He seems startled. ‘No, no, I’m not. I’m home.’
‘You are?’
‘Oh, wow, like I was hoping …’
‘Best gift ever!’
‘It’s Christmas Day,’ Kiara tells him.
‘I know.’ He gives me a how-cute-is-she smile. He seems happy. I’m stunned and mute, feeling as if I’m dreaming.
The girls clamber all over him, demanding presents.
‘I didn’t have time to get you proper Christmas presents,’ he says. ‘But I got trinkets.’
He pulls his rucksack into the living room and produces vivid batik scarves, pretty beaded bracelets and small lacquered boxes.
I see it happen, as if I’m watching a movie.
‘Hey!’ Kiara checks the time on her phone. ‘We’d better get going.’
We’re due at Mum and Pop’s for the exchange of presents. Only the grandchildren get gifts, but it’ll be lots of fun. Well, it would be, if I wasn’t in deep shock.
I hear my voice ask, ‘Neeve, can you drive Sofie and Kiara?’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘I need to stay and talk to Dad.’
‘But you are coming?’
‘In a while.’
They race upstairs, get dressed speedily, gather the bag of goodies, then depart, slamming the front door behind them.
Hugh and I are finally alone. I stare and stare at him. ‘Are you really here?’
‘Babe, I’m sorry.’ He reaches for my lifeless hands. ‘I should have texted or something. I thought it would be a surprise.’
‘But it’s a shock. You must have known it would be.’
He bites his lip in self-reproach. ‘I was so happy about coming home that that was all I could think about. I’m sorry.’ Gently, he says. ‘Can I talk to you? Can we talk?’
‘Mmm.’
‘I shouldn’t have gone. It was a bad, mad decision. It makes no sense to me now – I don’t know how it ever did. I must have been crazy. Like properly, mentally not-right. I can’t understand how it ever seemed justifiable.’ His anguish looks real. ‘Amy, I missed you so badly. I was lonely for almost every single second –’
No. ‘I saw the pictures of you and Raffie Geras. You didn’t look lonely then.’
He bows his head like a penitent. ‘That was … It didn’t last long. My heart was never in it. I’m so sorry about you seeing the picture.’
‘There must be other girls I don’t know about.’
He stays silent but looks sad. Then, ‘It was a mistake,’ he says. ‘All of it, a mistake. I
felt ridiculous. Always self-conscious. I’d tell myself to enjoy being in Paradise, but it was no use without you there. I’d have patches of feeling … in the flow, and I’d think, Okay, now I’m getting the hang of it. But it never lasted.
‘Eventually I got clarity. About how much I love you. You and me, Amy, we love each other. I just, I don’t know, I couldn’t feel it for a while. But I appreciate it now, how connected we are, how lucky we are.’
But we’re not lucky, not any longer.
‘For about the last three weeks, the only way I could sleep was to pretend I was in bed with you. So I decided to come home. About thirty-six hours ago, I was in Burma, in a place in the mountains, and I realized that if I left immediately I might get home for Christmas Day. I felt like I’d walk if I had to. Once I’d made the decision, a huge burden lifted off me.’
I think he’s expecting me to smile or be happy, but I can only stare.
‘And now,’ he says, ‘I’m scared I’ve fucked things up for us.’
Mutely I look at him – what can I say?
‘Have I?’ he asks urgently. ‘Fucked things up?’
I nod.
‘Please, Amy. Give it a bit of time. I’m back now. It’ll take a while for you to get used to me again and hopefully to forgive me and –’
‘Hugh, it’s not just that. I’ve … well, I think I’ve met someone else.’
He flinches. His face drains of colour. ‘Oh.’
‘You knew it might happen. You said it was okay.’
‘Yeah, but … oh, Christ, Amy. Sorry, I just need a …’ He rubs his hands over his face, then fixes his gaze on me. ‘Is it serious?’
‘I don’t know. It might be. Like, not yet, but it might get that way.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A work person.’
‘Known him long?’
Now it’s my turn to flinch. ‘A while.’
He chokes out, ‘Is it Alastair?’
‘No. Oh, no, Hugh.’
He looks relieved, but only for a moment. ‘But there’s someone else? So, would you like me to leave? This house?’
I can’t send him packing on Christmas Day, but I don’t know how to cope with being around him. ‘Where have you been?’ I ask abruptly. There’s so much I don’t know. ‘I mean, which countries?’
