Have you ever had one of those experiences where you're watching TV and some anonymous woman comes on, not a star or anything, just a member of the public, and you find yourself thinking, "Mmm, I'd like to have a scene with her"? I suppose most people must have at least once, it's happened to me loads of times. But you don't do anything about it, do you? I mean, it'd be crazy to even try, right? So the programme moves on, and five minutes later you've forgotten the woman even exists. Only, what happens if you can't forget?
I'm Richard Duxbury, and I'm a 31-year old solicitor from just outside London. Five feet eleven, slim and trim, brown hair, soft brown eyes. I'm a partner in a successful law firm and I've been single for about two years, since a long-term relationship broke up. I've always considered myself quite stable and rational. Well, I did until that night when I caught the end of a particular news broadcast. It was actually on video that I saw it. I'd been to a dinner party with my sister and her husband, and Sally had made her usual ham-fisted attempt at matchmaking, sitting me next to some vaguely pretty but terribly dreary financial consultant. I'd set the video to catch the last episode of a particularly exciting thriller series. It just happened that the news had over-run, and the end of the broadcast was on the start of my tape. I set it running, and was just about to hit fast forward when I saw her.
It was a report on a tiny enclave in the Balkans which had decided to declare independence after years of conflict. Serbia was threatening all sorts of dire consequences, but in the streets and bars of the capital city of the new republic the citizens were celebrating wildly. The reporter did a few vox pops with customers in one particular bar, and the last was a woman who said in broken English that it was a great day, and how happy she was. I did a double-take when I saw her, and thought, "Wow, what a gorgeous looking woman". She looked in her mid-thirties, with sort of pinkish red hair, which hung in curls down to her shoulders; huge brown eyes; a snub nose with a few freckles; a small mouth with pouting lips; and a dimpled chin. I've always had a bit of a weakness for the baby doll type. The camera only gave a headshot of her, but she seemed to be swathed in some sort of grey fur coat. I watched my TV show -- it turned out to have a very disappointing ending -- then, on a whim, rewound the tape and had another look at my Balkan babe, as I dubbed her. She had a sweet, girlish voice, like a bell tinkling.
The next evening when I got home from work, almost without thinking about it, I switched on the video tape and looked at her again. I actually found myself freezing the frame and staring at my lady. Later that night, without any plan to do so, I found myself, just for fun, checking out flights to that area of the former Yugoslavia on the Internet. I was surprised to see that one of the budget airlines actually had flights to the capital of the neighbouring republic. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to go there, but...a bit more searching, and I found that that city was only four hours by train from where my lady had been filmed. I started to get a strange excitement, as a sort of wild, silly fantasy formed in my head. Going back to the airline website I found that they only flew twice a week. For the following Tuesday -- a week to the day since I'd seen the babe -- I'd missed out on the cheap tickets, but they still had a few seats left at a reasonable price.
I had another look at my fantasy girl before I went to bed then I lay in the dark, giggling to myself at the very absurdity of the idea that was forming in my head. After all, I had some leave to use up, there was nothing in the office I couldn't put aside for a few days, and I knew where to find my lady...sort of. The next day, feeling like a complete idiot I phoned the BBC. I explained to a bored telephonist what I wanted, and she put me on hold for what felt like a couple of years, then finally a girl who sounded like a bright, breezy 12-year old university graduated trilled, "News room, how can I help you?"
Clearing my throat nervously, I said, "Well, I'm not sure if you can really." I explained that I'd seen Julia Field's broadcast on the independence celebrations a couple of nights earlier, and wondered if someone could ask her the name of the bar she'd filmed in. I was met by a long, uncertain silence. I added, rather lamely, "You see, I think I saw someone I know in the film, and I'd like to try and trace, er, him."
When the BBC kid finally recovered, her brightness seemed a little forced. "Well, as I'm sure you'll appreciate sir, Julia's pretty busy covering the events out there at the moment, but if you'll give me your number I'll see what I can do." I hung up in the certain knowledge that what she'd do was have a good laugh about my call with her mates then lob my number into her bin. Not that I blamed her, it couldn't be every day she got a raving madman calling the office. I chuckled bitterly to myself: I supposed I could schlep round every bar in the city, on the off-chance that I might happen to be in the right one at the exact same moment as my quarry.
That evening I ran the video through frame by frame, hoping I might get a clue. No chance -- Julia had filmed her summary of the situation to camera on a hill overlooking the city centre, not outside the bar; and from what little I could see of the bar in the report it was big, dark and had lots of bottles hanging in optics -- just like a hundred bars in every city on the planet. The following day, Friday, I actually caught myself sulking over it. It was bloody ridiculous -- obviously I had no real intention of dashing to the other end of Europe to try and track down a woman I didn't know the first thing about, based on a few seconds of grainy TV footage. I decided to knock off a bit early in the afternoon, and I was actually pulling my coat on when the phone rang. I nearly ignored it, but then decided it just might be the other side in a doomed house sale I was handling. It wasn't.
"Mr Duxbury? Hello, this is Tamzin at BBC News. I managed to catch Julia. She's fascinated by your story. If you do decide to go over and you find your friend she'd love to interview you, it would make a great human interest piece." I lied that, if I found who I was looking for, of course I'd let Julia know, then I waited impatiently. "Right, that bar. It's called Savo's, apparently, and it's in Cetinja Street -- just round the corner from the Grand Hotel, that's where Julia and the other journos are staying." Making a mental note to avoid the hotel like the plague I thanked her effusively and ran down the stairs to the street. On my way to the tube station, on a sudden impulse, I went into a florists and ordered a dozen roses to be sent to my informant. I didn't know her surname but, after all, how many Tamzins could there be in the BBC news room? (Actually, knowing the BBC, probably dozens!)
That evening I whirled around the Internet like a dervish. I booked my air tickets, found a cheap hotel in my destination city, ordered some local currency and checked the train timetable. Then I sat and wondered what the fuck I was doing. I was on tenterhooks for the next three days. At last Tuesday came and I got up at the crack of dawn to drive up to Luton for my flight. To kill a bit of time in the terminal I bought a quart bottle of brandy in the terminal. I then spent the entire flight telling myself I was a bloody idiot for going. It wasn't until the plane landed that I realised I'd made a few serious errors in packing for the journey. For one thing, I hadn't packed a jumper. The moment I stepped from the warm air conditioned cabin onto the steps to the tarmac my blood froze in my body. I had left home on a nice, slightly cool late winter's morning. Here in the Balkans there were flurries of snow in the air and, in my jeans, sweatshirt and light jacket I thought I had literally never been so cold. I tried not to shiver in case my teeth shattered against each other!
Getting to the station was easy enough -- there was a big bus outside the terminal with a picture of a train on it, and I just held out a few coins to the driver and hoped he wasn't ripping me off with the ones he took. I really started to regret not picking up a Serbo-Croat phrasebook, or whatever they spoke around there, when I came to buy my train ticket. My slow English explanation was met with a look of total incomprehension, but by pointing to my destination on a tiny map and running my finger back and forth between there and my departure point the clerk finally understood that I wanted a return ticket. I had half-expected the train to be a wheezing old puffer bought second hand after retiring from 50 years on the Indian railways; in fact, its sleek lines, cleanliness and speed put the British rail system to shame. The heating could have been better though -- I pulled two T-shirts out of my bag, squeezed them on over my sweatshirt, and still sat shivering all the way.
I took just long enough to check in at my hotel, where the clerk, bless him, spoke a very clear form of English he seemed to have learnt from 1930s British stiff upper lip films, then headed off to find Cetinja Street. It was only a few minutes walk away, and I wandered staring in fascination at the scenes around me. There seemed to be heavily armed militia men everywhere, and I even saw a tank on one corner. For the first time I began, somewhat belatedly, to reflect on the sheer stupidity of parachuting into a city where the local Serbian minority had threatened bloody revenge for the independence declaration. Christ, there wasn't a single person who knew me who had any idea where I was.
