Lillemor almost felt sorry for Ingrid. The expression on her face as she watched them leave; the way she tried to hide it and force a smile. Whatever had driven Ingrid to come down south, Hjalmar’s announcement about Olga had shaken her. If there were reason to be kind to Ingrid, Lillemor would have told her the truth about Olga there and then. But she remembered the photograph she’d taken of Mathilde’s unconscious face, pale against the pillow. The image imprinted on her brain as well as on the strip of film hidden in her cupboard. Their trip had a dark underside and that episode had revealed it.
She was content to allow Ingrid to suffer. For Olga was a piece of fiction.
Lillemor had stopped herself smiling when Hjalmar began his story, and pretended to be upset. But there was no such ship as Christianna, which Lars, the shipping man, should have known. Olga’s story had appeared in a book published the previous year, purporting to be the adventures of a young whaler who’d joined a whaling ship in New Zealand and heard the legend of Olga from one of his shipmates. When Lillemor had read the first edition, her own disappointment had been as acute as Ingrid’s was now. But she’d asked around, and Anton had a friend check the shipping records. There was no vessel by the name of Christianna. As she was sure Hjalmar knew.
When they’d left the bridge after seeing the continent that afternoon, Hjalmar had detained her with some spurious question and when they were alone, had asked directly about Mathilde. It wouldn’t hurt, Lillemor had thought, for someone else on board to know how vulnerable she was, and so she’d told him what happened – the fight, Ingrid’s fall, Lars arriving with the sedative and his instructions to keep Mathilde locked in the cabin.
He hadn’t said much, but she’d seen the muscles in his jaw tighten and a hardness creep into his eyes. No explorer succeeded without a ruthless streak for it was by nature a competitive endeavour and coming second – unless you were Robert Falcon Scott and died on the way back to earn your place in history – wasn’t good enough. For all his apparent charm, Hjalmar was an explorer, and he must have made ruthless decisions of his own over the years. Now, it seemed, he’d decided to twist the knife on his own benefactors. It was risky, and the only way was to act as if he was reporting a known fact.
Lillemor looked around the table. Mathilde, having gone with Hjalmar, was safe for now from the Christensens. Ingrid had slipped away without excusing herself. Lillemor had seen Lars lean in to talk to her, seen the tight set of his body, and she wasn’t surprised when he stood a few minutes later and made his farewells. The main game for him was surely to see Antarctica for himself and now he’d done it. He was the type of man who’d want to celebrate.
They’d been married – how long? Must be fifteen or twenty years. Good luck to them if their marriage was still passionate. You wouldn’t think it from the outside with their easy companionability, but outer appearances couldn’t tell you everything about a marriage bed, she knew that.
She turned to Hans. He was looking after Ingrid with a peculiar yearning on his face and Lillemor remembered seeing it before, early in the voyage. She leaned across the table towards him.
‘So, Mr Bogen, does Ingrid go into the history books today as the first woman to see Antarctica?’
He adjusted his glasses nervously. ‘Well of course I’ll have to investigate this tale of Hjalmar’s and see if there’s any truth in it. Sounds like some sailors’ legend, but I’ll have to verify it before I write about Mrs Christensen.’
‘Have you known her a long time?’
He smiled. ‘Oh yes. I remember her wedding day. I was only a boy at the time, but everyone talked about how enchanting she looked and what a beauty she was. And still is now, of course.’
Lillemor sipped her wine, amused. Hans’s feelings for Ingrid were stronger than she’d imagined.
‘And you got to know her later, when you’d grown up?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Not a close friend, Mrs Rachlew, I wouldn’t presume that, but she always made me welcome at Ranvik. Lars is a very lucky man, to have a wife as bold and fearless as Ingrid. Most men who wish to explore must leave wives or sweethearts at home, but in this case, the two of them are completely united in their goals. It’s extraordinary.’
‘Indeed,’ Lillemor said.
‘She has the wonderful ability to brighten up a room when she walks in, don’t you think?’
Lillemor nodded. For most of this trip Ingrid had blown into a room like a cold wind. Hans must be deluded.
‘Are you married, Hans?’ she asked.
He blushed like a boy and dropped his head. ‘I’ve not been fortunate enough to meet the right woman yet. My work keeps me very busy.’
Lillemor slid her elbow closer until her arm was touching his sleeve. She judged – correctly – that he’d be too startled to pull away.
‘We were all part of history today, in a way,’ she said. ‘How many people have seen Antarctica? A mere handful, and now we’re among them. Will you list all of us in your book, Hans?’
He glanced at her. ‘That would make a very dull history, Mrs Rachlew. I hope to do more than provide lists. The first person to arrive somewhere is history; the others fit somewhere else. Perhaps within journalism? I’m sure some magazine would be interested in hearing about the first women to reach Antarctica together, even if Ingrid was the first to see it.’
She moved her arm slightly so it wasn’t touching his. Of course, he was Lars’s man, wasn’t he? It would take more than a rational argument to sway him. More than words to ensure she’d be memorable.
‘Say my name,’ she said, pushing both hands down on his chest and tightening her thighs, gripping him so he couldn’t move.
‘Lillemor,’ he gasped.
‘Again. Open your eyes.’
His eyelids flickered open; his hands were on her hips trying to move her. ‘Lillemor. Please.’
She had drawn on her usual techniques to seduce him, adapting them to suit the Antarctic conditions. The suggestion of a walk around the deck after dinner. The exaggerated shiver that prompted him to give her his coat. The iceberg that conveniently floated by at the right moment so she could sigh about Antarctica’s beauty and let her hand drop on top of his on the railing. The cold air that made the approach of a warm body so much harder to resist. She used his surprise to her advantage.
The hardest part was taking the stray thread of guilt she felt about Anton and tucking it away where it couldn’t bother her. This was an act in service of a higher cause, and as such, didn’t qualify as infidelity.
And she was looking forward to sex. It had been three weeks since she’d said goodbye to Anton, and she was a woman of appetite. The conquest, even of such a man as Hans, was exciting. His response – aroused, shocked and terrified – was a thrilling reminder of her sexual power.
However, from his first fumbling kiss she realised he was desperately inexperienced. After she’d undressed herself and then him, he embraced her and groped briefly between her legs, knowing that he should do something down there, but apparently having no idea what. Lillemor was sure he was too old to be a virgin, but she’d been with virgins who showed more composure. She felt a flash of envy for Mathilde, probably experiencing a sexual awakening in the capable arms of Hjalmar. As Hans began to press against her she closed her eyes and called up her current secret fantasy, one that could take her to readiness in moments. It involved a certain Miss Earhart.
But she’d need more than just readiness, she realised. Hans had to have a sexual awakening of his own. And so she rolled him over and moved on top of him. When he made a startled outburst, she put her finger to his lips. ‘Let me,’ she said, and began to slide down his body. Judging by the way he was quivering and his uneven breathing, she didn’t have long. She’d spread out the pleasure, she decided. Once like this, and then the second time, when he had more staying power, inside her. She had time to spare. Mathilde might be in their cabin with Hjalmar, and Lillemor didn’t want to disturb them.
‘Oh God,’ Hans groaned. He gripped her hair so hard it hurt. ‘What are you doing?’
There was no answer to that, except to continue. And hope she’d driven all thoughts of Ingrid from his mind.