The Break

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Oh, ah, Vietnam, Laos, Thailand and Burma.’

  ‘Were they beautiful?’ Before he can answer, I say, ‘Look, Hugh, this is all messed up. I’d got used to thinking you were never coming back.’

  He’s perplexed. ‘But I said I would.’

  ‘I thought after … that girl that you wouldn’t bother. That you’d go to Scotland to live with her.’

  ‘I only knew her for ten days. It wasn’t ever anything.’

  ‘It looked like something.’

  ‘I didn’t think this through.’ It’s as if he’s talking to himself. ‘I got carried away. I’ve no right to show up here and expect things to be normal. I’ll go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Carl’s?’

  ‘You can’t leave on Christmas Day. I can’t send you out into the cold.’ My heart feels like it’s dying, like everything has turned to ashes. ‘But it’s fucked, Hugh. It’s all fucked.’

  ‘Don’t cry, Amy, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry, Amy, oh, please don’t cry.’

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ I say. ‘Have a shower, then go to bed.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Our bed.’ I mean, where else? ‘I’m going out. To Mum and Pop’s.’

  ‘I could come.’

  ‘No!’ Then, more calmly, ‘No, Hugh. That would be too weird for everybody.’ Especially me. ‘Get some sleep, I’ll see you later.’

  At Mum and Pop’s all the talk is of Hugh’s surprise return. The girls whine about him not having joined us for Christmas dinner but I mutter stuff about his jetlag, while wondering how they’ll take it when I break it to them that his current presence under our roof is only temporary.

  I get through the meal, but before the dessert, I have to go home. I need to check if this has actually happened.

  Still feeling I’m dreaming, I climb the stairs and push open my bedroom door – and Hugh really is here. The weight of him in the bed, the heat coming from his body, this juxtaposing of extreme familiarity and shocking wrongness, it’s beyond odd.

  I tiptoe closer and realize he’s still asleep. But he must have heard me because he wakes and sits up.

  ‘Oh!’ He reaches out and grasps me. ‘Amy! I thought I’d dreamt it. I’m home!’ He grabs me and plants kisses all over my face. Then the delight in his eyes disappears. ‘Sorry, Amy.’ He relinquishes his hold of me. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Furrowing his forehead, he asks, ‘What would you like me to do?’

  ‘I’m going away the day after tomorrow. For a few days.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On a sort of holiday.’

  ‘With the man?’

  I nod. ‘Can we talk when I get back?’

  He swallows hard. ‘Yes. Yeah.’ He swallows again. He looks wretchedly miserable. ‘No more than I deserve, right?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ It’s not about punishing him. ‘Stay here while I’m gone, and when I get back, we’ll talk properly.’

  90

  Tuesday, 27 December

  As we come in to land, I wake up. I’ve slept almost continuously since Dublin. Belgrade airport looks like something you’d see in a post-war spy thriller: a grim grey block of a building, Cyrillic lettering and snow swirling in the air.

  I’m fizzing with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

  Hugh’s shock return went off like a bomb. I’m reeling. But I had a sharp word with myself: this trip is something I’ve wanted for a long time and I should try to enjoy it. Yes, the timing is terrible, but it is what it is.

  A question that’s bothered me for the past two days is, should Josh know that Hugh is back? Probably not. Strictly speaking, for the three days I’m with Josh, I need to not know that Hugh is back.

  What’s been really melting my head is where to put Hugh: he shouldn’t sleep in our bed but the girls are so ecstatic he’s home that despatching him to Carl’s would cause untold distress. So for the last two nights Hugh has slept on our bedroom floor.

  Like, it’s crazy.

  At three thirty this morning, leaving for the airport, I said to him, ‘Get into the bed now.’ But he just shook his head. ‘I’m grand here.’

  It’s clearly some sort of self-flagellation.

  ‘You look beautiful.’ His voice was so sad.

  That made me uncomfortable: the thing is, I’ve really gone to town on my look. It’s the first time Josh and I will wake up together, and I refuse to be that woman who sleeps in her make-up. However, to take the edge off things, I’ve had eyelash extensions and pale fake tan done, and I shook Neeve down for a pearlescent day cream.

  Yes, Josh has seen me naked and at my most vulnerable, but come on!

  Time to get off the plane. I gather up my stuff. Neeve – though she doesn’t know it – has loaned me her hat, gloves and scarf set, the ones with the flower embellishments. Derry’s contribution to the cause is her Mr and Mrs Italy parka. It’s navy but around the hood there is a ring of blue fur. Real fur. Look, I know. But I need to be warm, and I want to look good, and if I have to grapple with one more moral consideration right now, my head will explode.

  My suitcase is mostly lingerie sets. In a reversal of most relationships, I’m only bringing out the big guns now. Asos were doing these fabulous fifties-style knickers, a homage to the Dolce & Gabbana delights, all high-waisted lace-and-silk with built-in suspender belts and matching bras, the type you put on just so they’ll be removed and quickly.

  I make my way through Passport Control – and there he is, his gaze narrowed, intently following the progress of everyone emerging. He sees me. He doesn’t smile but trains the laser beam of his stare on me as I walk towards him.

  Then I’m before him and I tilt my face to his.

  He grabs my arm, hard enough to hurt. ‘Sackcloth.’ His voice is low and full of sauce.

  ‘Hey.’

  His hand slides to cradle the back of my head and he places a quick, tentative kiss on my mouth. Then, ‘Fuck it.’ And kisses me again, long, hard and passionate.

  Now the movie I’m in is a Second World War classic, and I’m welcoming my sweetheart home from the front.

  We break apart and stare into each other’s faces. My heart is thudding and my fingertips are tingling.

  ‘We should go,’ he says. Then, practically growling, ‘While I still can.’

  He grabs my case of knickers, his own luggage is a black nylon holdall slung over his shoulder, and we step out into the swirling snow. And, oh, the astonishing cold, the clean pain of my breath. I adore it.

  ‘Car’s not far.’ He’s got no hat or gloves and his coat isn’t a padded, insulated thing but simply a black wool Crombie.

  ‘So it’s true about Geordies, that you don’t feel the cold,’ I say.

  ‘But I’m wearing a scarf, like. Been down south too long, gone soft. Here’s the car.’

  We’re guided out of the airport by his phone’s Google Maps and, in a head-spinningly short time, we’re on the road south.

  ‘According to this, we’ll be in Jagodina at two thirty-three,’ he says. Then, ‘You okay?’

  ‘Mmm. Just, this is weird, right?’

  ‘It’s coming in waves.’

  Okay. That meant there would be spells of normality.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘On the plane.’

  ‘There’s a bag of stuff, crisps and things. And garages on the way. If you want to stop, just say.’

  I smile. He’s been warned about my faulty bladder.

  He’s made a mix tape of Serbian music, and as we drive, I stare out of the window. This is proper winter and proper countryside: silent fields under blankets of white; far-off farmhouses, their roofs covered with snow; almost no advertising and what there is is in Cyrillic.

  I’m in yet another movie, this time an experimental European one, perhaps about the disintegration of Yugoslavia.

  From the outside the museum looks like a ‘real’ museum but shrunken. It’s small, pretty, pale yellow, and reminds me of a beautiful cake. A
s Josh parks the car I’m frozen with how momentous this is. ‘I can’t believe I’m here. Josh, I’ve looked at the photo of this building for years and yearned to visit and now I’m actually here.’

  ‘But you’ve got to get out,’ he chides gently. ‘Won’t do much good if you’re just sat looking at it.’

  Josh’s Serbian-speaking colleague had rung ahead so Marja, a woman who speaks some English, is expecting us. I don’t know exactly what Josh’s colleague said to her but it must have been something good because a viewing room has been set aside for me. And, oh, the beauty of the paintings in real life!

  ‘I wish I could climb inside and live in one.’

  ‘What is it about them you love so much?’ Josh asks.

  ‘Partly the colour.’ They’re nearly all variations on blue. ‘Posh Petra says that’s déclassé but the heart wants what the heart wants, right?’

  ‘Right.’ His look is meaningful.

  ‘I love the subject matter.’ They’re rural scenes, often with blue trees and blue flowers – there’s a mild hallucinogenic feel to most of them. ‘I dunno, Josh, it’s about the way they make me feel.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Happy and safe.’ God, to own one … But maybe I can buy a print in the gift shop.

  However, all the gift shop contains is a desultory collection of cards, none by my lady.

  I don’t know if this is an insulting question but I’ve come all this way and it would be lunacy not to enquire. ‘Marja, is it possible … to buy one of Dušanka’s paintings from the museum?’

  A regretful shake of the head. ‘Property of nation.’

  Of course. Shite.

  ‘But gallery in Belgrade have.’

  Oh, sweet Jesus! The adrenalin rush! It’s like being told that Selfridges is giving away all their Tom Ford products. ‘Address? Do you have?’ (To my shame, when I’m around people who not speak so good the English, I accidentally copy their syntax.) ‘And the cost? Do you know?’

  ‘Address, I know. The cost?’ A sorrowful shrug. ‘I do not know.’

  But all the same! I turn to Josh, bursting with excitement. ‘If they’re for sale in a Belgrade gallery, maybe ordinary people can afford them. Not like the Van Goghs that cost more than a country and live in an underground vault in Japan.’

  He laughs softly. ‘Aye.’ Then to Marja, ‘Can you give us the address of the gallery?’

  If I literally buy nothing else for all of next year and get three more clients on retainer … I’m already doing calculations, wondering how much I can let myself spend.

  Gratefully I press a giant box of Butler’s chocolates on Marja, then Josh and I leave for Belgrade.

  91

  It’s only half four in the afternoon but the light is almost gone and it’s different driving in the dark. There are no lights on the road north and I don’t like the speed Josh is going at but I can’t yelp, ‘Slow down!’ the way I would with Hugh. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him.

  ‘Josh, maybe a bit slower?’

  He hits the brakes dramatically. But, within moments, the speed creeps up again and this time I say nothing.

  And then we crest a hill and get our first sight of Belgrade, which strikes drear into my heart: grey, decrepit apartment blocks.

  Josh reads my thoughts. ‘They say the middle of town is attractive.’

  As we approach the centre, the traffic becomes heavy and slow, not helped by rows of cars parked on both sides of the street. Trams run alongside the cars, spooking me.

  Josh’s phone is talking us towards the hotel, but something goes wrong and we’re suddenly caught in a one-way system that the satnav lady knows nothing about.

  ‘How do we get out of this?’ Josh mutters, trying to look at his phone, as well as the road, which makes me really nervous.

  ‘Maybe if you …’ I’m downloading Google Maps, but it’s only for form’s sake – I’m useless with directions. ‘Could you go right earlier?’

  We go around again, which takes ages, about fifteen minutes and, despite taking a different turn, we end up being funnelled right back into the same one-way thing.

  ‘The hell am I meant to do?’ Josh asks.

  I really don’t know and we aren’t helped by being unable to read the Cyrillic street signs.

  ‘Why can’t I take this turn?’ Josh demands – and promptly takes it.

  I’m not expected to know the answer, but realize I do. ‘It’s just for taxis and trams.’

  He mutters, ‘Oh, for fuck’s …’

  My stomach starts to hurt. This really does remind me of childhood journeys with Pop. Are we breaking the law? What if the police stop us? We’re in an unfamiliar country, we can’t speak the language, we know no one …

  This is actual hell, isn’t it? We’re going to be stuck here, condemned to drive in the streets of Belgrade, for all eternity.

  I look at Josh. Who is this man? What am I doing here, in this alien place, with an angry stranger? Momentarily I’m cold with fear. ‘We could ask someone,’ is my tentative suggestion.

  ‘We can’t speak Serbian!’

  ‘Maybe they speak English.’

  ‘Oh, go on, then!’ Josh screeches to a halt, setting off a cacophony of beeping behind us. ‘Ask him.’

  Out of the window, I call to a young studenty-looking bloke and – thank you, God! – he speaks English. He knows the hotel and launches into detailed instructions. Then, because the beeping is still carrying on, he says, ‘Is easier if I show,’ and promptly gets into the back seat of the car.

  Josh and I exchange a look. What have we unleashed?

  But the man is perfectly lovely and gets us to the hotel in literally three minutes –

  I’m astonished when he says, ‘Is here. Hotel car park.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yes. Near. I hope you have excellent time in Belgrade.’

  ‘Thank you, but how will you get back to where you were?’

  ‘Is near,’ he says. ‘More near walking than by driving.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, mate,’ Josh says.

  We park the car, get our bags from the boot and make our way to Reception. We’re doing ‘Wow, we’re here’ noises, but we’re not making eye contact.

  It’ll be a while before the tension disperses.

  Hotel Zaga is a pretty five-storey delight, with curlicued balconettes and embellished windows. Stepping over the threshold into the lobby is like stepping into a beautifully illustrated storybook. A bit happy-spendy, I’d booked a small suite, which had seemed sensible: not only has it a small sitting room but two bathrooms.

  We’re high up in the eaves, and when the hotel lady opens our door, the blue, violet, white and black colours of the sitting room explode out at us. Everything, the rugs, the paintings, the fabrics, the accessories, has been assembled with verve and care.

  It’s not girly and it’s not twee. In my opinion, it’s a work of art.

  The lady leaves and I look at Josh. ‘You hate it?’ I’m so giddy with love I couldn’t care what he thinks.

  ‘No.’ He seems bemused. ‘It’s, ah, authentic.’ Then, from the bedroom, ‘Hey. Nice bed.’

  It is a nice bed – a striking headboard and a multitude of gloriously patterned throws and cushions. However, this isn’t a comment on the décor.

  ‘It’d be a lot nicer with a naked Amy in it.’ He sweeps his arm around my waist, pulls me to him and tilts my head back into his other arm. His face is almost touching mine. ‘I’ve had a hard-on since the airport,’ he confides. ‘Any idea how difficult it is to drive a car with a raging boner?’

  But it’s too soon, the rancour from the journey hasn’t quite gone away.

  He pulls my body closer, all the better to feel this raging boner, then with lightning speed, begins unpeeling my parka.

  ‘Wait.’ I step back.

  ‘What?’ He’s surprised. And pissed off?

  ‘Can we just … let things
– us – settle? Take a moment?’

  ‘Really?’ He’s definitely pissed off. ‘We haven’t seen each other for –’ He stops abruptly. ‘Hey, sorry, yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Of course.’ Then, ‘Amy, I am sorry. Moving too fast. Just, I’ve really missed you. You want to get a drink? Or a cup of tea? You think they do tea here?’

  ‘You know, wine would be good. What would you like? I’ll call the nice lady.’

  But he’s already lifted the phone. ‘Red or white?’

  Something isn’t right …

  Aaaah. Wrong man. It’s Hugh who’s terrified of ringing room service. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him.

  While we wait for the wine to arrive and smooth over the friction, we unpack, taking care not to collide with each other. The second bathroom is merely a ‘lav’ and hand-basin. ‘This is yours,’ I tell him. ‘You can have your bath or shower in mine.’

  He nods. There’s a small smirk that he tries to hide.

  ‘Yeah, well!’ I say.

  Here’s the drink, thank Christ. A bottle of red wine and two crystal goblets appear on a small engraved silver tray and soon the alcohol starts to work its magic.

  ‘What is it with cushions on beds?’ Josh asks, in good-natured irritation. ‘There’s barely room for me to sit on it.’ Then, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Looks like I’m still waiting to meet the man who’ll love me for my bed cushions.

  Josh starts flinging cushions on to the floor. ‘I’m the Bishop of Southwark. It’s what I do.’

  Which is so unexpected and so funny that I’m afraid I might actually vomit from laughing.

  When I’ve recovered, I say shyly, ‘I got you a present. For Christmas, like.’ It’s a hefty hardback, which was described in the Guardian as the definitive guide to 1970s cinema.

  Josh seems genuinely touched. ‘You put so much thought into it and brought it all the way here. If I told you what my family gave me –’

  ‘Don’t!’ Then, more gently, ‘Let’s just, you know, keep the real world at bay here.’

  ‘I’ve something for you. Something small.’