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?’
‘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.