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Caroline sighs. “Well…” She gives Maryanne a reassuring glance. “We’ll be there to help you.”
“Let’s get these byrek finished,” Maryanne chirps, and Alessia knows she’s trying to lighten the mood.
* * *
The bar is crowded and noisy, but the atmosphere is sociable and celebratory, despite the spartan surroundings. This is the third bar we’ve been in, and it’s as functional as the first two, though not quite as austere because there are several FK Kukësi football scarves and shirts on the walls. Football is big in Kukës. Tonight the men, all of whom seem to be related in some way to Jak Demachi, are drowning their sorrows as their team lost to Teuta, the team from Durrës.
Our love of football is an icebreaker—Joe and I, who are Arsenal and Chelsea supporters respectively, share their sorrow. Tom, on the other hand, is a rugby man, as are we—but he’s no time or love for the beautiful game.
I’m on my fourth beer and feeling the buzz. I cannot remember anyone’s name, but Tom and Joe are holding forth.
Joe, as a good-looking guy, is undoubtedly an attraction. I’ve not seen any Black people in Albania, though I’m sure they exist, so he’s an object of curiosity. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable—quite the opposite. He’s lapping up the attention, and we’re all treated as honored guests. The Albanians are delighted that we’re here.
Frankly, it’s touching.
There are only two flies in the proverbial ointment: One is Caroline and facing her wrath at some point—I’ve not been lulled into a false sense of security about that. She’s probably hurt too, and I need to make it up to her. The second is the uneasy feeling that I’m being watched. I know that we’re curiosities here in this small town, but every so often, an unsettling itch skitters down my back as if someone has me in their sights.
Is it him?
Her “betrothed.”
Is he watching? I don’t know.
It could be my overactive imagination.
“Urdhëro!” Jak hands me another beer. “Më pas raki!” He clinks my bottle with his.
Oh God, raki. The devil’s brew!
* * *
It’s late. The food is cooling and ready to go into the refrigerators in the utility room. Alessia sits with Caroline and Maryanne at the table, and they’re on their third bottle of wine. Alessia, feeling more light-headed than before, has stopped drinking. Her mother has been sensible and retired for the night. After all, they have a big day tomorrow.
She yawns. There is no sign of the men, and she suspects Maxim will be as drunk as he was that night of the raki. She’d like to go to bed, but Caroline and Maryanne are talking about men, and it’s fascinating.
“Men are confounding,” Maryanne says.
“Emotionally unavailable more like,” Caroline responds. “But, all they really want is someone to suck their dick.” She laughs, but her laughter sounds forced and hollow.
“Caro. Enough,” Maryanne scolds, glancing at Alessia, who is trying to absorb this arresting insight. She’s shocked at the turn in the conversation but keeps her face neutral, she hopes, as she struggles with how to respond.
Is this how English women talk to each other?
Caroline turns her attention to Alessia, narrowing her eyes as if assessing her anew now that they’re all tipsy. “You really are very pretty,” she says, slurring her words slightly.
Alessia suspects she’s more than a little tipsy.
“I’m not surprised he’s fallen for you… but… I’ve not seen it before. Him. In love. You know, he’s my best friend.”
Best friend, now.
Alessia seizes her chance.
The phrase more than friends has been rattling around her brain, tormenting her since Caroline blurted it out earlier. “You and he were… lovers?” she asks.
“I should say so. We popped each other’s cherries.” Caroline quirks her lips up as if it’s a fond memory. “He’s a better fuck than my husband.”
“Oh.” Alessia is now completely lost for words, as a vision of Caroline wearing nothing but Maxim’s shirt and making coffee in his kitchen comes unwelcome to mind.
“Caroline!” Maryanne exclaims, shocked.
“It’s true. I know he’s your brother. They’re both your brothers,” she slurs. “But you know Maxim’s a complete player.” She turns her unfocused gaze on Alessia. “Darling, he’s slept with most of London.” Her face falls. “And after Kit… Well, we—Ow!”
“Enough,” Maryanne growls, her voice much firmer, and Alessia suspects she’s kicked Caroline under the table.
Caroline shrugs. “It’s true. Promiscuous doesn’t cover it. He’s proof of the adage: Practice makes perfect.”
“I think it’s time we got you to bed, Caro.” Maryanne stands. “Forgive her; she’s grieving and had too much to drink,” Maryanne says to Alessia. “Don’t pay any attention.”
Caroline frowns as she stands as if she’s just realized what she’s said. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Do forgive me.”
“Good night, Alessia,” Maryanne says, and she drags a staggering Caroline out of the room, leaving Alessia reeling.
