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“I see.” It was his revenge! “Thank you,” I offer.
“You are most welcome.” She gives me a coquettish smile, and I wonder if she’s talking about the tablets or undressing me. Grinning, I down the painkillers and wonder if Tom and Thanas will be in a similar state to me.
Following our lengthy discussions yesterday, and with the marriage formalities supposedly settled, Mrs. Demachi and Alessia had prepared a lavish meal and kindly invited my friend Tom, our translator Thanas, and Drita, his girlfriend. While they prepared the meal, Alessia taught me some Albanian words—my pleases and thank yous.
She laughed.
A lot.
At my pronunciation.
But it’s always a joy to hear her laugh.
Alessia’s mother had been in her element, happy to have a house full of guests, even though she didn’t say much. She left that to her husband, who regaled us with stories of the turbulent 1990s as Albania transitioned from Communism to a democratic republic. It was fascinating—his family was caught up in a terrible pyramid scheme, and they’d lost what money they had. It’s how they’d found themselves in Kukës during those dark times. While he talked, his generous but heavy hand poured and poured the raki. Tom and Thanas matched me shot for shot, I’m sure. They’ll be meeting us at the town hall, provided they’ve survived the Ordeal by Raki. I check my watch. I have an hour to get it together.
The town hall is a nondescript modern building a stone’s throw from Hotel Amerika where Tom and Thanas are staying. Hand-in-hand, Alessia and I stand in the reception area waiting for them to join us, and despite the dull ache in my head from my hangover, I cannot help my smile. Alessia’s so buoyant since our earlier stop at the police station that she lights up the dreary foyer. Her new passport will be ready to collect on Friday—I paid for it to be expedited—and one would think I lassoed the moon she’s so jubilant, but Alessia having a passport gives us options.
“Just the sight of your joy is easing my hangover.” I try to contain my smile, but I fail. She is a joy.
“I think it is the tablets I gave you.”
“No. It’s you.”
She laughs, peering at me through her lashes, and I lift her hand and skim her knuckles with my lips.
God, I wish I could whisk her away from this drab little town.
Soon, dude. Soon.
Tom and Thanas appear, Thanas looking how I feel—disheveled and hungover.
“Well, Trevethick, you look like hell. What are we doing here?” Tom asks, bright as a fucking button. Raki appears to agree with him.
“I am sorry we’re late,” Thanas mumbles. “I took Drita to board the bus to Tirana. She has to get back to her studies.”
“We’re here to visit the clerk who will officiate our wedding.”
“The registrar. I’ll go check where we must go,” Thanas says and wanders toward the reception desk to wait in line. Alessia joins him.
“So,” Tom hisses, keeping his voice low and sounding conspiratorial. “I never congratulated you about the baby.”
The baby?
It takes me a moment in my befuddled state to realize what he’s talking about. I laugh and stop suddenly as my head throbs. “Alessia’s not pregnant. She told her father she was so she wouldn’t be forced to marry that wanker Antonelli or whatever his name is.”
“Ah.” Tom looks relieved. “Well, I suppose that’s good. Too early in a relationship for sprogs.” He leans into me while watching Thanas and Alessia and hisses, “But you know you don’t have to marry her, old boy.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Tom.” My voice warns him off the subject. “We’ve had this conversation already. For the last time, I love Alessia and want her to be my wife. Understand?”
“Frankly, no. She’s a beautiful girl, I’ll give you that, but I can’t imagine you’ve got much in common. But the heart wants what the heart wants.”
I’m in no mood for an argument, so when he holds a conciliatory hand up at my scowl, I blow out a breath. “Should I humor the old goat, marry her here? Or wait until we return to the UK? I’m stuck here until she gets her passport and a visa, and I’m not leaving her on her own.” I glance over to where she’s standing patiently beside Thanas, who’s talking to the receptionist.
“Well,” Tom says. “If it’s what you want, I think you should go along with it. It’s a civil ceremony at the town hall. You’ll keep the old chap happy, and then you can abscond with his daughter and do it properly in London, Cornwall, or Oxfordshire. Wherever.” He frowns. “If you can.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if you can get married more than once to the same woman, old boy. I’m sure there are rules. What do you have to do here?”
