Greatest Love Story of All Time Read Free Page B

‘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?’

Chapter Two
    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 northcalled 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 theunexpectedly 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