She sighs. ‘People are still allowed to treat other people, right? Will you tell the girls?’
‘Are you out of your effing mind? No! I’ll tell them I’m going on a mini-break with someone I work with. But if they ask if it’s a man, I will lie. Derry, what if he eats with his mouth open?’
‘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?’