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.’
I resist any remarks about how it couldn’t possibly be his penis, in that case. ‘Josh, no! You’ve taken me here, this is the best gift I could ever get.’
‘It’s no big deal,’ he says.
I’m interested in what he thinks is ‘me’ and when I unwrap the paper and find underwear from Victoria’s Secret, I’m totally wrong-footed. Feck’s sake! That stuff is too young and waaay too tacky.
But all men are hopeless at buying gifts. I’d learnt that a long time ago.
‘You could put them on,’ Josh says hopefully.
‘Maybe later.’ Unless they met with an unfortunate accident – perhaps by getting too close to a naked flame and burning down half of Belgrade.
I stand at one of the windows and gaze out over night-time Belgrade. There are nothing like as many adverts or lights as I’m used to in a city. This is so very cool. All credit to me, the prospect of this scared me yet here I am.
‘Josh, should we go for something to eat?’ From our little eyrie, I see something I don’t understand – then I do! ‘Josh, come and look! There’s a river and it’s frozen!’
He leans over my shoulder and looks to where I’m pointing.
‘First time to see a frozen river!’ I say. ‘It’s mad-looking. Is it frozen all the way down?’
He’s close behind me, and as he stretches for a better view, his erection grazes my bum, I catch a whiff of his neck and, all of a sudden, I’m wild with want. I whip around, snatch his face between my hands and kiss him in a frenzy. I pull at his jeans, his top, my own clothes. I can smell him and taste him, and if I don’t have his skin against mine right now, I’ll die.
‘Help me.’ Our clothes won’t come off quickly enough – it’s infuriating. Too many fucking buttons and belts and zips – and his boots! All that fumbling and unknotting. ‘Let them stay on!’
His jeans and jocks are shoved to his knees, his torso is bare, his hard-on is huge, and I shove him on to the bed.
My skirt is off. ‘The condoms!’ Where are the fucking condoms?
‘Leave them,’ he says.
‘No!’
‘Bathroom.’
He moves and I yelp, ‘No! Stay there.’
I’m back. I’m sliding it the length of him, his groan is long and helpless. ‘Don’t come!’ I order. ‘Not yet!’
I slide down on to him and he whimpers with pleasure.
‘Take your top off,’ he says.
‘No, you’ll come too soon.’
‘Please.’
‘No!’
‘I’m begging.’
Still moving up and down on him, I leisurely unbutton my shirt. All that remains is my bra. ‘Please,’ he says.
‘No.’
‘Please.’
I reach my hands behind my back, unclasp it, then wait. Slowly I slide the straps down my arms as his eyes gleam avidly and one vigorous bounce is all it takes for it to fall. He comes immediately, howling the words, ‘I love you. Amy, oh, I love you.’
Afterwards, flattened by exertion, we lie side by side. I speak into the silence: ‘Don’t say those words again.’
He tenses, but stays quiet.
92
Crooked stone steps lead down a steep, narrow alley towards the astonishing white river. Not many people are about. The snow has stopped, and old-fashioned black streetlamps cast pools of light that blaze but don’t travel. The city is in black and white.
‘It’s like The Third Man,’ Josh says.
‘Is it?’
‘You haven’t seen it?’ He stops short to display his shock. ‘Sackcloth! A classic, a noir classic – Vienna, post-war thriller. Visually very stylish. I once wrote a remake of it.’
‘You did?’
‘Calm down. Nothing came of it.’ He’s suddenly clipped.
The steep descent ends and Josh consults the map the hotel gave us. ‘So we go right, now.’
The buildings look middle-European, nineteenth-century types; handsome but crumbling. There’s graffiti on the fa?ades, elaborate double doors and fancy-framed windows tricked out with fussy crocheted or lace curtains.
There’s no one other than us on the dark, slick street, and only an occasional car passes, the sound of its wheels almost sinister on the slushy road. It’s gone ten and we’re on our way to a restaurant on the riverfront.
‘You’d never guess that Belgrade is a late-night city.’ I’m a bit edgy.
‘Aye. Or maybe we’re too early.’
Through a high-off-the-ground window I see a young woman cooking dinner – these rundown fancy buildings must be apartments. I stare in avidly at the woman’s Serbian jeans, her Serbian hair-bobble, her Serbian lampshade, her Serbian kitchen table. In awe, I breathe, ‘What’s it like being her?’
‘Same as it is being anyone.’
‘But living somewhere so atmospheric must be …’
‘Not a great time to be a Serb – trouble getting visas to other countries, no foreign investment so not much employment …’
Okay, I was romanticizing my woman’s life but Mr Cold Hard Facts has killed my mood.
‘We go right here,’ Josh says, then stops – there’s a railway line between us and the waterfront. ‘That’s not on the bloody map.’
We look right, we look left. There are no obvious crossing points. I’ve no problem dashing across a track but a metal fence is barring our way. ‘Um, we could try walking a bit and see what happens?’