Greatest Love Story of All Time (3 page)

‘
What?
’ I froze. ‘Dave, I’m a gimp. I’m just a junior producer! I’m the lowest of the low – I wouldn’t have the first idea how to do Stella’s job! I … can’t. It’d be like asking Stephen Fry to stand in for one of Girls Aloud just because he’s an entertainer. No way.’

Dave smiled briefly. ‘You
can
do this and you will,’ he said. ‘There’s only one direct flight each day. By the time anyone else gets out there we’ll be going home again. Come on, Franny. Stop being a fanny.’

I gulped. Dave grinned more encouragingly. ‘Are we good to go, Producer Fran?’

Pristina, the capital of the brand new country of Kosovo, was still alive with people celebrating two weeks after the Declaration of Independence. Flags hung from balconies, fireworks continued to explode over the city at night and a gigantic series of concrete letters spelling ‘NEWBORN’ was being visited by Kosovars from all over the country. It would have felt like a carnival had there not been armed police and UN tanks everywhere. I was very glad to have Dave with me, his bulk never far from my side, insisting that I wore a bullet-proof vest and shoving me sideways into shops as soon as he thought he saw trouble. In the safety gear he’d kitted me out with, I looked awful beyond my wildest nightmares but I had never felt so alive. ‘Isn’t this AMAZING?’ I breathed, as we hid under a truck while the police broke up a violent protest in a small Serbian enclave on the outskirts of the city.

‘Shut up, you tit,’ he said, but I could tell he was smiling.

After spending a day or two helping our main Balkans team cover events in the capital, Dave and I were sent up to a more dangerous town in the north
called Mitrovica to make our own report. Tensions there were high and suddenly it was my job to tell the story of this angry town to, oh, just a few million people back home. Hugh’s praise suddenly felt a long way away, and I was gripped with fear. Silently I thanked God for the correspondent up there, some bloke called Michael whom I’d not heard of at ITN before. He seemed to Know Stuff.

As Dave and I sped up the main road north out of Pristina, I prayed that Michael Slater would be able to run the show. (‘I should never have fucking well sent you out there,’ a very worried-sounding Hugh had said on the phone last night. ‘Just let Michael take control. And don’t take risks. A Japanese journalist was beaten up there the week before last. There’ve been riots too. Stay with the UN. And don’t leave Dave’s side.’)

As we passed fields of bombed-out houses, I asked our driver, Haxhi, if we could get out and film some of them. ‘No,’ he replied curtly. ‘You will get shot.’

‘Definitely? Even if we only stop for five minutes?’ I asked.

‘Definitely. You may risk your life but I shall not be risking mine.’

I sat back.

Dave whispered, ‘See? You’re a proper producer already. They’re always the ones who want to endanger everyone else’s lives for a good shot.’

I gave him a distracted V-sign and watched the
unexpectedly verdant countryside sliding past. It felt good to have Dave on side.

The heavily guarded UN offices, where Michael had taken refuge for a while, were sad and grotty. An ancient tractor sat inexplicably in their front car park and the walls were covered with angry graffiti. A man on the roof of the neighbouring building stared at me as if I was an alien and picked his nose pointedly.
Don’t eat it, please don’t eat it,
I thought. He ate it and then fiddled with what I realized was an enormous old Kalashnikov on a belt slung over his shoulder. I scampered inside behind Dave.

We were guided along a damp, pitch-black corridor. ‘No money for light,’ Haxhi told us, as I crashed into a cupboard. Suddenly a door opened at the end of the corridor and there … There, with a sleepy, smiling face and a faded army jumper, was essentially the most attractive man I’d ever seen.

‘You must be Stella,’ he said, reaching forward to shake my hand. His was smooth and warm. ‘You’re a lot younger than I expected. I’m Michael.’

‘You’re a lot younger than I expected, too!’ I yelled shrilly, completely thrown. This man was
gorgeous
! ‘Oh, actually, hang on, I’m not Stella. I’m Fran.’

Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You did just nod quite enthusiastically when I asked if you were Stella.’

‘Yes. I’m definitely Fran. Stella was on the toilet. Well, she was under the toilet, really.’

Michael grinned. ‘Interesting.’

‘She ate some bad seafood. She was curled up on the floor at Gatwick last time I saw her. Her face was sort of see-through, she was so ill. I reckon it was probably coming out both ends …’ I trailed off.

By now he was laughing. ‘I think she’d be very touched by your description of her,’ he said.

I blushed. ‘Yes, sorry. I’m sure she didn’t really get the shits, I’m sure she –’

‘Fran, shut it,’ Dave said, laughing too. ‘Enough. Poor Stella.’

Michael, chuckling, disappeared behind something that resembled an upright coffin to make tea. It was a big, dirty, dusty room with a collection of decrepit tables and chairs at one end and various weird objects filling the rest of the space. Dave sat down on a sofa and I grabbed a wooden chair. It collapsed as soon as I sat on it. As I tried to save myself I brought a coat-stand on top of me and sprawled backwards with my jumper rucked up round my breasts. Mortified beyond all comprehension, I prayed for death. Nothing happened, other than Dave bursting into fits of laughter which subsided into chesty coughs, and Michael running over to extract me. I tried frantically to pull my jumper down over my white winter belly, but it was no use: I was pinned to the floor by a coat-stand.

‘That was impressive.’ Michael took a machine-gun belt from round my neck and picked up the coat-stand.
‘I’m delighted you’re here instead of Stella. Are you really mental or just a bit clumsy?’

I went red. ‘Bit of both!’ I said, climbing out. ‘I like to shake things up a bit!’ I tried to smooth my hair down. It bounced straight back up into the I’ve-clearly-slept-on-this-hair-and-then-not-washed-it style that I was going with today. (My hotel-room shower featured flashing blue lights and Balkan music, which I hadn’t been game for at five forty-five a.m.)

Extreme fitness discovered in the UK building. Am acting like a twat. Will report back by 18.00 hours. I texted Leonie.

The next two hours in Michael’s office were ridiculous. Forgetting entirely that this was not only my first international assignment but my big chance to prove myself as a Proper Producer, I tried everything at my disposal to work out whether or not he was single, and didn’t ask one question about what was really quite a serious situation in Mitrovica. Politics, my arse! Today was about romance and passion! I concocted a new tinkly laugh, which I thought made me sound carefree and relaxed but also knowing and wise, and threw in references to cultural things I knew nothing about. When other correspondents from other channels came in, I did my best to flirt with them so that Michael could see what an amazing catch I was. My heart raced throughout. The whole thing was lamentably embarrassing.

Michael was remarkably calm in the face of my pathological lying and madness, smiling across the
table with two slate-grey eyes as I babbled on about my
wonderful
life in London. ‘I go to the theatre a
lot
,’ I trumpeted at one point.

‘Really?’ Dave asked. ‘What did you see last?’

I shot him a foul look. The last time I had been to the theatre, as he well knew, was to see
Dirty Dancing
with Leonie. ‘Er … well, I like a bit of everything … Eclectic taste, y’know,’ I muttered.

Michael sighed. ‘God, I miss London. Did you see
Attempts On Her Life
at the National? Astonishingly powerful,’ he said.

I stared at him and wondered at what age we would send our children to stage school.

Dave cleared his throat. ‘Personally I love nothing more than a power ballad delivered by a woman wearing a good sturdy shoulder pad. “I Know Him So Well” is one of the greatest songs ever written.’

I ignored him.

As the afternoon wore on, the sun shifted round behind Michael and sliced in over his shoulder while a million particles of Eastern European dust danced round his head in a crazed halo. I was entranced. The way his eyes held mine – languidly, but with absolute intensity and purpose – was electrifying.

Dave watched the scene unfold with a face of amused despair, and when I came out with ‘So, Michael, when do you think you’ll be moving back to England? Just, y’know, important insight for this report … er … your life as a correspondent and
whatnot …’ He put his head in his hands and murmured, ‘Fran, I think it’s time we went and filmed something.’

I smiled gratefully at him. I was making an unforgivable cock of myself. We concocted a plan of attack for the report and left. Walking out of the building and into the cold, hard afternoon sun, I caught sight of Michael’s bottom. I’d not realized I was a bottom sort of girl until that moment but Michael’s was exquisite. Small, manly and firm, with just a hint of muscle. I wanted to cup it gently. And then firmly. And maybe give it a soft slap just to be sure. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked. I came out of my blissful reverie. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked curiously.

‘What? Yes, I’m fine. Why?’ I said.

‘You seemed to be staring at my leg,’ he said, sounding slightly confused.

‘Fran was checking out your backside, Michael,’ Dave said firmly.

Briefly, I prayed that Dave would be run over by a passing tank.

Michael went back to collect a couple of guards and we got into his truck. Dave thumped me. ‘Will you fuckin’ well pull yourself together?’ he hissed. ‘You’re meant to be doing a job out here. This is a fuckin’ dangerous city, Fran, not a fuckin’ pick-up joint.’

I thumped him back. ‘Why did you say I was looking at his arse?’ I whispered. ‘You made me sound like a total BELL END.’

His eyes creased in amusement. ‘You’re
acting
like a bell end. It’s pure car crash, Fran! This is your big break and we’re in a dangerous place. Don’t cock it up over some man, OK?’

‘What am I meant to do?’ I whispered, as Michael and the guards came outside. ‘You have no idea what it’s like to be single! Particularly when you look like Barry Manilow!’

Having spent the last few days in steel-toecapped boots and bullet-proof vests, I’d stopped caring about my appearance and today’s outfit was testament to my slipping standards. In addition to a pair of nineties jeans that made my legs look like flared hams, I was wearing a stab vest (on Dave’s insistence) and a large pastel ski jacket of Mum’s from a bygone era. On top of it all was a UN vest. I resembled a massive UN Easter egg. With a Barry Manilow hairstyle. Rarely had I felt less fanciable.

So why did I keep catching Michael’s eye in the rear-view mirror? And why, when we parked in the unsettled north of the city, did he fall into stride beside me and stay there for most of the next few hours? There was surely no way he was interested in me when I looked like an egg on legs and was behaving like a clumsy thirteen-year-old at a school disco.

But something
was
happening. Something exciting. It left me breathless.

In Michael’s office we had come up with a plan of action that consisted largely of him conceiving a
report about the Angry Men of Mitrovica and me staring at him and nodding. He was extremely clever. He Knew Stuff. He knew where we could go and not get beaten up. I was awed. I texted Leonie: I am being completely shit at my job. Help.

Her reply was swift: Do you have an initial estimate re the size of his package? That is the important matter, Fran. Don’t let me down.

Serbian men talked quietly and angrily in cafés. They stared at me and my Barry barnet with confusion when we entered but soon went back to ignoring me. I didn’t blame them. I’d been here long enough now to understand why they were so furious. The whole situation was completely unacceptable to them, and our presence was just another reminder of what was going on. We were on the very outer limits of welcome and no one, not even Michael’s friends, was prepared to talk on camera to him. The two guards with us were on high alert all the time, hands resting on their guns and eyes always watching.

In the fifth café, I watched Michael and Dave try to cajole a group of them into talking and eventually backed outside the door to pull out a wedgie.

Before the guard had a chance to follow me I heard a chorus of giggles. Behind me a group of kids, aged maybe ten, was watching me from yet another tractor that was just parked in the middle of the city. I smiled. ‘Hello,’ I said, forgetting they were Serbian.

‘HELLO!’ they yelled back, in thick accents, cackling
with laughter and miming the act of wedgie-pulling-out.

‘Hello,’ I said again, pleased by the encouraging response.

‘HELLO!’ they roared, abandoning their tractor and coming to stand round me. I shook their hands at least once and tried to repeat their names amid much hilarity. ‘FRAN! FRAN! FRAN!’ they yelled.

‘Do you speak English?’ I asked the eldest.

‘Yes. Hello. I like go to ceenema. I eat toasts for brakfast. Where is post offices please? Goodbye. Thank you,’ he replied proudly.

I giggled. ‘That is BRILLIANT!’ Delighted, he high-fived his companions and chattered away in Serbian, repeating ‘brilliant’ several times.

Amid the high-fives I noticed a girl of about my age standing near the tractor, watching the scene with a shy smile. She walked up to me. She was short and pretty, in a rather haunted way. My guard clocked her and stood up straight, handling his gun in a more macho fashion. He smiled briefly at her. ‘They are only learning English lately,’ she said. ‘They have seen many English speakers these last weeks and they like it.’

‘Do they understand what’s going on?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, surprised. ‘Their mothers and fathers will talk about the problems in the home. Every day they will talk about the problems. Everyone knows about the problems.’

‘Can you ask them what they think about it?’ I asked, interested.

She raised an eyebrow but gathered them round her and listened as the answers came spilling out thick and fast. She smiled. ‘They are saying that their mothers and fathers are angry about it. But they do not want the fighting. They want to go to school. They want to flirt with the girls, but the girls are all being kept inside in case of trouble.’