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in that way. What had happened to me? Was I a different person in Budapest?
    The tattered red rose János had thrown on to the balcony mocked me from its slender vase on the chimney breast. I had been hard on him last night and the truth was he was probably a better person than I was. He wore his heart on his sleeve, he was honest about his emotions. I was just a weasel. A dreary weasel. A great big gaping void where a personality should be.
    I held a cushion over my face and groaned into it, bathing in self-loathing and despair.
    That was how János found me when he let himself into the flat five minutes later.
    ‘Hey, it’s not that bad,’ he said breezily. I heard the rustling of a paper bag and I lifted one corner of the cushion, peeking out. ‘I have the best hangover cure.’
    He looked disgustingly healthy and full of verve. He pulled the cushion off me, took my hand and yanked me to a sitting position before commandeering the space beside me. He took two round pizza-like things out of the paper bag. ‘Lángos,’ he said, passing me one.
    ‘What is it?’ It looked and smelled like a heart attack in a bag. My fingers were already oily from handling it and it oozed melted cheese and sour cream and bacon.
    ‘Hungary’s favourite snack,’ he said with a grin. ‘We have a lot of hangovers.’
    I eyed him sheepishly. ‘I had far too much to drink last night.’
    ‘It was not so much.’
    ‘For me it was.’ The powerful waft of fried dough turned my stomach and I handed the lángos back to him. ‘I don’t think I can. Not yet.’
    ‘We can heat it later,’ he said, tucking into his.
    ‘Thanks.’ I watched him wolf the oily, fatty dough with his customary vigour.
    ‘You don’t want it,’ he pointed out.
    ‘No, not for the … pizza thing. For taking care of me last night. I was horribly drunk. It was kind of you.’
    He stared at me in astonishment, chewing until the chunk of dough was swallowable. ‘You think I leave you like that? Falling over drunk in strange city? That is insult to me.’
    ‘Oh. Sorry. All the same, I’m grateful.’
    He finished his snack in silence, then rose to his feet. ‘I take you to see the sights,’ he announced.
    I paled and felt a mini-wave of nausea unfurl from stomach to throat. ‘Go out? I was going to go back to bed.’
    ‘You waste this day? This is a beautiful day!’
    ‘Is it as hot as yesterday?’
    ‘No, no, is cool, nice little wind. Great day for climb the Fisherman’s Bastion.’
    ‘Don’t you have work to do?’
    ‘I take off a day. I have no appointments. Tomorrow I go to look at maybe good place for a kert. You come with me if you want.’
    ‘Oh, OK. I’d like that.’ The prospect of business-related activity cheered me up for some reason. ‘Let’s have coffee and go out.’
    ‘Good plan.’

    ‘There is Hungarian Parliament, you see. And this island, it is Margit-sziget, many good spa and pools there.’
    I peered through the white stone neo-romanesque arches and listened, too enchanted by the view to speak. János was right – the day was fresher with a cooling breeze that whipped my hair across my face every so often. My head was clearing, slowly but surely. I watched the sunlight glisten on the beautiful but not very blue Danube. A jumble of fairy-tale-medieval roofs and alleys sloped down from the bastion to the riverbank, making me imagine all kinds of Grimm goings-on. Budapest seemed like the most glorious place in the world. 
    And the man beside me was doing nothing to dispel that thought.
    He had already taken me to Buda Castle and the Matthias Church, apparently quite happy to indulge my tourism requirements. Now we stood, watched over by stern-faced statuary, taking in the city panorama.
    ‘Seven towers,’ he said, ‘for represent the seven Magyar tribes who settle here many years before.’
    ‘You’re very well-informed.’
    ‘I live here.’ 
    He shrugged, then moved his foot infinitesimally closer to mine. ‘Do