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Damn. I passed out and have no memory of her in here at all.
Why did I let him ply me with so much alcohol?
Was it his revenge because I’ve bedded his daughter?
And what happened?
Snippets from yesterday sneak past the pain in my head. Alessia and I had sat down and discussed wedding plans with her parents. I close my eyes and try to recall the details.
From what I understand, we’re departing from the Albanian tradition by celebrating on one day only—rather than several days. Firstly, because I’m British and have no family or home here, and secondly, we’re doing all this at such short notice as Alessia is “with child.” Demachi gave me a sour look as he sputtered this, and Alessia, blushing furiously, had to translate.
I sigh. Perhaps we should confess to the lie. Maybe he’ll back off.
Maybe he’ll let me take her back to the UK and get married there.
The ceremony and celebration will be on Saturday and will start at lunchtime—not in the evening. It’s another break with tradition, but because I’m staying with the bride’s family, it makes sense, or so they told me. Besides, the registrar has another wedding to conduct in the evening.
The Demachis will host the wedding themselves, and Mr. Demachi asked if my family would attend. I set him right on that score. My mother will no doubt be in New York, and she wouldn’t get here in time, and my sister, as a doctor, won’t be able to get the time off at such short notice. I reassured them that we will celebrate in London when we’re back in the UK. My excuses seemed to pacify the old goat. I don’t think my family will approve of a shotgun wedding, and I don’t want to give them the opportunity to object, or question the legitimacy of our marriage. However, I’m hoping my sparring partner, Joe Diallo, will join us so I’ll have him and Tom Alexander with me. They are my oldest friends.
That counts for something, surely.
I had offered to pay for everything but was shot down by my father-in-law, with his most wounded expression.
Boy, is he proud.
He would hear of no such thing. I suspect he likes a little drama; he’s a melodramatic man. I suggested a compromise, and we agreed that I’ll supply the alcohol. But it chafes that he’ll be out of pocket if Alessia and I decide not to go through with it.
Hell. That’s his problem.
There’s also something about the rings, which I can’t remember.
Rings! I need to buy rings.
Shall I buy them here?
I sit up and my head swims, but once it settles, I stagger out of bed and drag on my jeans to go in search of my future wife. What I do remember is that today we implement our plan. Alessia and I will visit the police station to apply for her new passport and then on to the town hall to keep our appointment with the clerk officiating the marriage and find out if what Demachi has organized is indeed legitimate.
Yeah. That’s the plan.
I reach for my phone and notice a couple of texts from Caroline left last night.
Where are you? Did you find her?
Call me. I’m worried about you.
Surprised that my thumbs are cooperating, I send her a quick text, knowing she’ll probably send out a search party if I don’t respond.
All good. Found her. Will call later.
She’ll lose her shit over this wedding; I know it in my bones. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell her until I see her.
Coward.
My head throbs, and I rub my temples, trying to calm the squall that rages between them. If I tell Caroline, I’ll have to tell Maryanne and my mother, and that’s a conversation I’m actively avoiding, especially with a hangover. I’m not ready for that yet. I need to know where Alessia and I stand legally, then, maybe, I’ll tell the Mothership, but perhaps I’ll leave telling her until the day before we do the deed.
I drag on a T-shirt and pocket my phone. All that can wait; I need pain relief and coffee, preferably in that order.
* * *
Alessia and her mother are sitting at the dining table, drinking coffee.
“Mama, do you have my ID card?”
“Of course, my heart. I’ve treasured it since you left.”
Alessia is taken aback at her mother’s words, and an aching void forms in her throat as she reaches across to squeeze Shpresa’s hand. “I thought of you often while I was gone,” she says, her voice husky with emotion. “I didn’t have any of my photographs or my phone. The men… They took everything. Including my passport. I’m glad I left my ID with you. I need to get another passport.”
“I’ll fetch it for you shortly. I’m glad that the scrape on your face has almost healed. And the bruises. They look much better.” Her mouth thins as she examines her daughter. “I would like to box Anatoli Thaçi’s ears.”
