Greatest Love Story of All Time (4 page)

I heard a quiet chuckle right behind me and spun round, only to head-butt Michael square in the nose. ‘Fuck!’ he yelled, jumping backwards, clutching his face.

‘Fuck!’ I cried, mortified.

The kids roared with laughter. ‘FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!’ they yelled, high-fiving again. The girl laughed and covered her mouth, blushing and looking shyly at Michael.

It wasn’t just me, then.

‘Is it broken?’ I said awkwardly.

‘No … mmffpppff,’ he said, from behind his hands, eyes still screwed up in pain.

‘I’m so sorry …’ I said, unsure what the best move would be. What I
wanted
to do was to grab his face, kiss his nose, then jump into his jeep and drive off into the grey hills behind the city where we would make passionate love and wake up in each other’s arms the next day, ready to get engaged, but instead I just stood there, anguished, shifting my weight from one leg to the other and hoping the Serbian girl didn’t know first aid.

He took his hand away. ‘My fault,’ he said, from behind a big red honker of a nose.

‘No –’

‘Fran, I think you should interview these kids,’ he said, as Dave came out and joined us. ‘It’d be a lovely piece to put into the report.’

I started laughing. ‘That’s nuts! You’re the correspondent! I’m not even a real producer. I’m just –’

But Dave interrupted: ‘I agree, Franny,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this. The kids like you. You’ve made more progress in two minutes than we’ve made in an hour.’ He hitched his camera up on his shoulder and sat on the ground with the kids staring uncertainly at his sprouty facial hair.

‘Do you mind translating?’ I asked the girl.

‘Of course not. I will do anything you want.’ She blushed again, smiling at Michael. ‘My name is Milinka.’ Dammit, I both hated and loved her.

We all knelt down to talk to the kids. At first they were silent, ignoring my questions and staring at Dave as if there was an orang-utan in their midst. After a few minutes I offered the youngest a high-five and a whispered, ‘Fuck,’ and they were off, gabbling away excitedly to Milinka and pausing only to yell, ‘FRAN,’ and ‘FUCK!’ while I fed Milinka questions amid the general disorder.

Three hours later, when we eventually finished in a striking worker’s house, with a patchy but adequate report, I began to panic. I couldn’t possibly leave this man: hearing Michael talking on camera about all of the Clever Shit he knew had made me quite weak with admiration and horn. And there was definite flirtation going on. Only three minutes earlier he had whispered right into my ear that I was doing a great job, and I’d known full well he was smelling my hair.

As I packed up Dave’s kit, Michael saved the day. ‘Um, do you two fancy coming round to my digs for dinner? It’s in the south of the city. Safer. My landlady is a legendary human being and she does a famous omelette and chips for me on Thursday nights. I can’t lie, it’ll be a slightly unorthodox omelette …’

‘YES!’ I interrupted, at the top of my voice, terrified that Dave might say no. Then I felt guilty: he seemed so old and tired and pissed off today. But there was no way I was leaving Michael. I was intoxicated.

‘She even manages to find morel mushrooms!’ Michael enthused.

I widened my eyes with excitement and shouted, ‘WOW! I LOVE morel mushrooms,’ never having
eaten one in my life. I texted Leonie as we drove to Michael’s house: I broke fit man’s nose and am about to eat morel mushrooms with him. He is giving me fanny gallop. Am slightly out of control.

It was true. I didn’t just like this man, I
really
liked him. My stomach turned somersaults as we drove through the city in the gathering dusk. Please let me not make a fool of myself.

The landlady, Ejona, welcomed us as if we were old friends who’d just dropped by for a cup of tea. She hugged me shyly, then looked me up and down, delivering a stream of rapid Albanian to Michael. It seemed that, in spite of my shabby appearance, I was good news.

She invited some neighbours round in our honour, and soon there were eight of us sitting in a large, warm room full of worn Albanian rugs, drinking Pejes beer and not having the first clue what each other was saying. Michael and I were jammed together by the two people next to us and I felt as if someone had set fire to my right leg. ‘For God’s sake, make sure you say that this is the most delicious beer you’ve ever tasted,’ he whispered, brushing my ear with his nose and setting off an eruption of activity in my stomach. He smelt of washing powder and fire smoke. I wanted to cook his dinner and wash his socks for him. I wanted to rub his back when he was tired and rub his privates when he wasn’t.

‘Are you married?’ Ejona asked me, using Michael as an interpreter. I said no, very loudly and firmly, and felt Michael relax. Ejona smirked, her dark eyes creasing as she drew hard on a cigarette. She made a comment in Albanian and everyone fell about laughing.

‘What?’ I asked Michael.

‘I think it’s best I don’t translate,’ he said, smiling. ‘They are, erm, speculating.’

I looked at Dave, who was smoking and watching the whole embarrassing spectacle with a raised eyebrow. I narrowed my eyes briefly –
stop it! –
but he just shook his head. I was going to have to pull my finger out when we got back to London. Dave was a friend but he was also a pillar of the news team and I could ill-afford to let him down.

Outside it was getting darker and soft lights were beginning to illuminate windows in houses across the river. Ejona served up the omelette extravaganza and Michael handed me my fifth Pejes beer. ‘You’re an impressive drinker, Fran. I like what I see.’ My face, already red from having been out in the cold all afternoon, turned an even deeper shade.

Munching my omelette – which was more of a cake with eggs and mushrooms but delicious none the less – I wondered if I had perhaps gone mad. I had known this man for less than twenty-four hours and already I wanted to raise his children. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, even. He wasn’t like
anyone I’d fancied before. He was bewilderingly laid-back, completely at ease with himself and just … just really
nice.
And funny.
And he seemed to like me
.

Leonie texted: Has he got a decent package? Surely you must know by now.

I replied: Bear with me.

She wasn’t having any of it: Fran, you’re not leaving Kosovo till this Michael has popped his truncheon up your luncheon. I shoved my phone back into my jeans pocket. When I looked up again, Michael was watching me. ‘Boyfriend?’ he asked awkwardly, flushing as soon as the word was out of his mouth.

Before I had a chance to answer, Dave butted in with ‘Och, don’t be stupid, Franny’s always single, aren’t you, Fannybaws?’

That was it. Dave and I were over,
for ever
. The betrayal! Seemingly oblivious, he leaned over the table and ruffled my hair, chuckling quietly.

I hated him silently for a few minutes but had to give up. You just couldn’t hate Dave. He was like your lovely bumbling dad and your infuriating little brother all in one big hairy Glaswegian bundle.

An hour later, by which time I was comprehensively drunk but pretending otherwise to impress Michael, Dave started making moves to leave.
Shit
. I needed to do something, fast. Haxhi was now dropping extensive hints about returning to Pristina, and although I had seen Dave hand him a substantial tip, he was clearly going without us if we didn’t come
soon. I panicked, letting out a little beer belch, which fortunately only Dave heard.

Shit
. We were shaking hands with a beaming Ejona, who was full of knowing winks and raised eyebrows, and now we were out in the street. I was walking in slow motion, feeling Michael slipping through my fingers, while Dave thanked Ejona.
Shit
. How could I leave this man behind? A voice in my head yelled that I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
COME ON, FRAN,
it screeched.
DO SOMETHING, YOU USELESS COCK!

Stiffly, I turned to Michael and offered him my hand, which he shook. I looked beseechingly at him and muttered how nice it had been to meet him.

And then, as he opened his mouth to reply, the quiet night was rent with the sound of yelling, banging, crashing and, to my horror, a gunshot.

Michael pulled me fast back into Ejona’s house, Dave following, and double-locked the door. ‘The bridge,’ he said briefly. ‘There’s been trouble down there every night for a while.’ Dave started pulling his camera out of the bag.

‘Good. Let’s go,’ he said as Michael put a winter hat on.

‘Er, guys, are you
joking?
’ I asked, bewildered.

‘Fran, it’s fine,’ Dave replied. ‘This is small fry – a scuffle. I’m not about to go and stand in the middle of the street with an Albanian flag.’

‘Yep. This happens every night. It’s more a venting
of frustration than anything else,’ Michael said. ‘They shoot into the air with Kalashnikovs – they’re not shooting each other. Most of the guys involved are friends. I’ll talk to them and make sure we’re safe. But you should definitely stay here.’

They looked at me, presumably waiting for me to insist on coming with them. No bloody chance! I was a pastel Easter egg with a Manilow haircut. If I was an angry, restless local I’d definitely take me out. More to the point, I was afraid. ‘I think you’re mad. Please don’t go out there,’ I said.

Michael smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Fran. I live here. This is no worse to me than rush hour on the tube,’ he said, pulling on a stab vest.

I struggled hard with my impulse to jump on him. He went off into the noisy street with Dave and the two men who’d come round for dinner, all of them seeming bizarrely relaxed.

Men.

The three women who were left turned off the lights and watched the street through a gap in Ejona’s curtains. They talked softly and sadly to each other in Albanian, and I reflected on how much better this scene in the sitting room would be in a report than a load of dark, confused shots from behind a wall by the danger zone.

So, when Michael and Dave returned less than five minutes later, telling me it had been impossible to get close enough to the action, I was rather pleased.
‘Look,’ I said, gesturing at Ejona and her two friends. ‘That’s the real story, isn’t it? The people whose lives are being torn apart by all of this, not the angry men throwing grenades at the bridge.’

‘Right again, Fran,’ Michael said, smiling at me. ‘You’re bang on. I’ll ask them.’ I nearly passed out with pride.

Ejona and her friends agreed to let us film them and twenty minutes later we had a piece that brought out the emotional tumult of the situation beautifully. I grinned broadly. Perhaps I could do this, after all. ‘Way to go, Franny,’ said Dave later, as the disturbance died down.

‘I agree. You’ve got a lovely human touch. You’re the bollocks!’ Michael grinned.

If you’re not careful I’ll touch
your
bollocks
, I thought. This extraordinarily brainy foreign-affairs man was actually complimenting my work. I resolved to buy a library’s worth of books on clever stuff when I got home. I wanted to be like him.

But back to the matter in hand. We were walking outside once more, stopping in almost the same position that we’d been in an hour ago, when things kicked off. Michael was shaking my hand again. It was warm and I wanted his children. But when I looked up at him, I saw in his face something completely unmistakable. He was panicking! ‘It’s been great to meet you too,’ he said woodenly. ‘Do keep in touch and … Oh, fuck it,’ he whispered
urgently. ‘Please don’t get in the car. Please don’t go. Please.’

I nodded rapidly, my heart hammering in my chest. I watched Michael walk over to Dave. ‘Um, Dave, I thought I’d … Well, I’d like to show Fran a few more sights, if that’s OK, and then I’ll drive her home.’

It was lame as arse. Who shows their guest the ‘sights’ of Kosovo’s most dangerous city in the pitch black in February? If I hadn’t been so nervous I’d have laughed. I walked over to the car where Dave was looking rather stony-faced. ‘Sure thing, matey.’ He smiled thinly at me. ‘Are you OK with that, Fran?’ I nodded my assent. Then the car pulled away and I was standing in the road with Michael, our breath forming small clouds of vapour above our heads.

‘That didn’t go so well,’ Michael said, with a broad grin.

‘Well, we have to sign a risk assessment saying we won’t leave each other under any circumstances,’ I said. ‘Dave made me promise not to go off on my own. I’ll have to do a lot of grovelling tomorrow.’

Michael moved closer and stood right in front of me. My stomach jumped wildly round my abdomen. ‘Well, tell him you’re not in any danger here. I asked you to stay because I like you, not because I want to kill you. Come on. Let’s go for a drive,’ he said. I made a strange noise that was somewhere between ‘oh’ and ‘yes’ and followed him to his jeep.

He turned it round and started driving, revving up a hill out of the city.

I wondered how much he had had to drink, and decided I didn’t care. Probably due to my sudden inability to talk, he’d put on a Kosovan radio station, which, rather surprisingly, was blasting out Duke Ellington in tinny surround sound. We were heading up what seemed like an interminable hill and the road had become narrow and rather treacherous. Had I been with anyone else I would have been terrified,
but with Michael, in his stinky old jeep, Duke Ellington parping away, I felt completely safe. And thrillingly alive.

‘I have a cat called Duke Ellington,’ I said. The thought of my fierce grey tiger made me smile. I imagined Michael and him together and knew they’d get on.

‘That’s a good name for a cat,’ he said. ‘My mum has a dog called Alan. I think that anyone who calls their dog Buster should be punched. It’s human names all the way. Although we did have a dog called Trumpet when I was a kid and he was pretty cool.’

‘Eyes on the bloody road!’ I yelled, as we approached a hairpin bend, Mitrovica glittering malevolently below us. ‘Jesus!’ We cleared the bend – just – and then the road petered out and ended with a Kosovo trademark: a half-built house.

Michael pulled over. ‘Get out of my car! You’re distracting me. Go on, out.’ He was laughing.