But the cold suddenly makes itself known and as we trudge along in the shadows, my spirits are on the slide.
‘They don’t make it easy,’ Josh mutters.
This isn’t like other cities where everything is signposted and the sights are spoon-fed to you, where every avenue leads to something wonderful and all wandering is swiftly rewarded.
But there’s some structure up ahead.
‘Aye, aye,’ Josh says – and I wince. ‘Aye, aye’ isn’t as bad as ‘lav’ but it’s not good either. We’re at something that looks like a tiny metal hut, a bit like the Tardis but made of steel.
‘I think it’s a lift,’ Josh says.
Ah, here. So now I’m in a science-fiction film? Or maybe an episode of Lost?
Josh presses a button, a door slides open and the light nearly blinds me. ‘You think this will take us to the waterfront?’ he asks.
But how the hell would I know?
‘We give it a go?’
He can’t be fecking serious. That feeling hits again. Who is this man? What the hell am I doing here? What if it’s not a lift? What if it’s a spaceship? Or a container to kidnap eejits? Or –
‘It’ll be okay.’ His voice is soft. ‘I understand now. This brings us down to the river.’
I don’t want to but, feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience, I get in. An eternity later, or maybe it’s five seconds, the door opens and there it is, the frozen Sava.
‘And here’s our restaurant,’ Josh says.
93
Wednesday, 28 December
The part of town where the gallery is looks nothing like last night’s thriller-noir setting. ‘It’s all a bit touristy.’ Josh looks around with distaste.
‘But we are tourists!’ I say happily.
It’s like being in a prosperous rural village: the streets are cobbled and the restaurants and shops look like fairy-tale farmhouses. Christmas lights sparkle in the crystal-cold air. A small folk orchestra, huddled around a smoking brazier, plays a jaunty enough tune, undercut by pleasingly mournful Eastern-sounding strings. Misfortunate men, decked out in embroidered frockcoats and trousers, intercept us with menus, trying to lure us into their taverns.
‘Maybe later.’ Because I’m on a mission.
‘Log fire,’ the menu-man says. ‘Pancakes with cream. Pork cooked in …’
In front of each tavern there are lots of tables and chairs, covered by pretty awnings.
‘In the summer, everyone probably sits outside,’ Josh says.
‘We’ll have to come back,’ I quip, then really wish I hadn’t because he pounces on it and demands, ‘Do you mean that?’
I squeeze his hand and keep walking – and finally! My gallery! I am shaking with adrenalin.
The young man speaks good the English, but when I explain my quest, he gives an apologetic smile and says, ‘None here in this moment.’
‘No Du?anka Petrovi? paintings? Are you sure? Can I order one?’
‘You give your details? I will email when next one comes.’
‘When will that be?’ My words are tumbling over each other.
‘I cannot say. Artists …’ He shrugs helplessly and, to win his friendship, I smile and make special eye contact. Yes, indeed, artists! Unreliable crowd of unreliable feckers.
We think the same, you and I.
‘So she is still living,’ I ask. ‘Er, alive?’
‘Yes. Still living.’
‘Has she a website? I’ve tried so hard to find her and … No?’ No, indeed. Why would he be giving me her details so I could contact her directly and cut him entirely out of the equation?
‘How much are her paintings? Say –’ I point to one at random – ‘that size?’
My new friend quotes me a figure so low I want to vomit. Oh, why couldn’t there have been one here for me to buy?
I extract a promise that he’ll email me the very second a new painting arrives, then Josh and I return to the cold and, all of a sudden, I’m starving. A combination of acute disappointment and it actually being early afternoon – we’d stayed in bed all morning.
‘Sorry, Amy.’ Josh gathers me in his arms.
‘Let’s go back to the frockcoat man for pancakes.’
‘Here? Are you sure? I’d rather see some of the real Belgrade.’
‘The real Belgrade got into the back seat of our car yesterday to help with directions and we both nearly had a freaker,’ I say. ‘But if you’re really desperate for authentic, we can go for another few laps of the one-way system?’
He’s awestruck. ‘You’re amazing.’
Am I? Astonishing how a bout of hunger-rage can come across.
Soon we’re inside, sitting next to a crackling open fire, and I order a shot of plum brandy. ‘Staying local.’ But I’m just looking for a quick fix for my disappointment.
I order the pancakes and Josh orders the pork thing the menu-man had been going on about.
‘Sorry about your painting, Amy,’ Josh says, again.
‘No.’ I’m fierce. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. You’re not to apologize. And just to see her work for reals yesterday was amazing. And, you never know, the man might get a delivery. It’s all good.’
‘You sure?’
‘Totally. Absolutely.’ Christ, I want to have sex with him again. This is out-of-control.
‘Are you thinking what I’m –’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ He bursts out laughing.
‘No,’ I say. ‘We’re not leaving. These nice people – Look, here’s the food now. Stand down your weapon.’
My pancake looks lovely but Josh’s pork, with apples and roast potatoes, is awe-inspiring. ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s a good-looking plate of food.’
He gives me a funny look. Too late, I realize that’s a Hugh in-joke – and the expression on Josh’s face tells me he knows. ‘Wrong man?’ he asks.
‘Um, yes.’ No choice but to style this out. It would be worse to lie. ‘Sorry. Josh, I’m sorry.’
‘’S okay.’
I’m the one in the wrong here, but there’s a turn to Josh’s mouth that leaves a bad feeling.
AFTER
* * *
94
Thursday, 29 December
My luggage is lost. Of course it is, that’s the kind of day it’s been. Dublin airport is a-swarm with Christmas travellers and there are eleven people ahead of me at the lost-luggage desk.
Saying goodbye to Josh at Belgrade airport was sweetly romantic. We kept kissing until I had to say, ‘I’m going to miss my flight.’
‘Okay. Bye. See you on January the tenth.’
We kissed again. ‘Enjoy the rest of your break,’ he said. ‘Can I call you on New Year’s Eve?’
At that, I was hit by the realization I’d to face into the utter chaos of Hugh’s return.
‘What?’ He was instantly wary. Then, when I hesitated, ‘What is it?’
‘Hugh, my husband. He’s back.’
Josh twitched as if I’d slapped him. ‘Back where?’
‘Ireland. Dublin. Home.’
‘For good?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did he arrive? Christmas Day? Where’s he living?’
‘I don’t know. Well, ours, mine, but only for the – Look, I don’t know, but probably his brother’s.’
‘Are you back together?’
‘No! No, Josh, no.’ I was certain about that. ‘That’s never going to happen. He knows about you. No details, but he knows I’m away with you.’
His eyes had darkened and his hand tightened on my shoulder. In a low voice, he bit out, ‘Don’t sleep with him.’
There was no way I’d sleep with Hugh, but I said, ‘Josh, don’t tell me what to do.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t quiz you about Marcia.’
‘I don’t sleep with Marcia.’
Somehow I doubted that. And even if he did, I’d actually be glad. I don’t understand why but obviously it’s something to do with my guilt.
God, having an affair, it’s all about extremes of emotion: the giddy highs, followed by painful soul-searching. Or downright depression – being back in Dublin after the glorious escape of the past three days, everything feels flat and sad.
The lost-luggage queue shuffles forward. My bag is probably stuck in Vienna, where I’d transferred. I just want to get this paperwork done, then go home – but Hugh will be there. We’re going to have to address painful, painful stuff. It’ll be borderline unbearable.