Ingrid saw Mathilde glance back once from the door as she left. She looked ethereal with her large, dark-rimmed eyes and her hair framing her pale face.
Hjalmar’s hand brushed the small of Mathilde’s back as he held the saloon door open and the grateful inclination of her head, the way her back yielded to the touch of his fingers, the invitation and its acceptance, were as blatant as a slap. Ingrid blinked. Was the whole party staring? But after briefly rising when Mathilde stood, everyone sat again and they were eating or talking, oblivious to what had just unfolded.
Only Lillemor was watching, with that damned knowing look in her eyes. But there was no wink or grin this time, no complicity. The lines of loyalty had shifted. Ingrid was on her own and Mathilde and Lillemor seemed to have joined forces.
Next to her, Lars leaned in close. ‘That story is a nonsense,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t let it upset you.’
Ingrid shrugged, but didn’t trust herself to speak.
‘You are the first woman to see Antarctica,’ he said.
She turned her head to the side so Lillemor couldn’t see her lips. ‘Before Mathilde, even.’
‘Yes, before her. She did the wrong thing and she knows it. We can forget it now. It’s over.’
Lillemor was still watching and Ingrid moved her body away from Lars and directed a smile at the table at large. Her head was pounding and the strain of keeping up a flow of cheerful conversation was exhausting. She longed to retreat to her cabin, to hide in the only safety on board, her bunk.
She was disappointed, she told herself, that after all Olga had been the first woman to see Antarctica.
But in truth, the bitterness in her belly was having witnessed Mathilde’s seduction of Hjalmar. She’d done it that way deliberately, Ingrid was sure, to enrage her.
Ingrid felt the spotlight of Lillemor’s attention blazing on her. The nuances of interactions between men and women were Lillemor’s speciality, and Ingrid knew the woman would be analysing any visible reaction on her part.
She’d thought of Hjalmar as her friend, but this night he’d twice undone her – firstly over the matter of Olga and then, following on hard, with his seduction of Mathilde right in front of her. Before this trip she’d thought their friendship a firm thing, strengthened by their shared grief over Amundsen. Now she wondered if it was all an artifice. Perhaps the appearance of friendship was only that, and all he really wanted was the means to explore Antarctica.
Mathilde had said Ingrid wanted to keep him around like a dog. The unfairness of it stung at the time, but she’d been pleased when Hjalmar divorced and came to their home first when he returned from exploring. She liked being the first woman to welcome him, to draw him a bath, to bring him a meal. She’d thought of him like a younger brother, she’d told herself. But it was a decidedly unsisterly feeling she was having now, imagining him and Mathilde together.
With his revelation about Olga, he’d robbed her even of the consolation of Antarctica, no matter what Lars said.
She pushed her plate away and wiped her mouth. She’d had enough. The pounding in her temples threatened to descend into a searing headache. The confines of the saloon suddenly seemed stuffy and airless, the smell of the food nauseating.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she whispered to Lars.
He turned to her. ‘I’ll come with you.’
The intensity in his demeanour was unnerving. ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Ingrid said softly. ‘I just want to slip away.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll follow.’
Ingrid waited a few minutes until the conversation was loud and Lillemor had been distracted by Hans Bogen, then rose and slipped away from the table. She didn’t look back from the door. Let them think her rude.
It was bitterly cold outside. So close to the continent, the wind carried the chill of thousands of miles of empty ice in its breath. It was after midnight. The sky was a deep, translucent purple with a slash of orange light down low on the horizon. It would stay that way for an hour or two before morphing into a long, bright dawn that made it hard to fall asleep.
Lars came out. As she turned to him, he stepped forward and kissed her, his lips demanding. He took her hand and led her to the cabin. Inside, he came up close behind her, reaching over her shoulders, taking her coat by the lapels and sliding it off. He put his face to Ingrid’s neck and kissed the skin there, pressing his body against her back.
‘Time to try for that baby,’ he whispered.
Ingrid’s heart sank. She’d never felt less like making love. Just feet away, Mathilde and Hjalmar were probably doing just that and at that moment she hated them. But there was little enough time left in Antarctic waters and her bargain with Lars still stood.
‘I’ll get ready,’ she said, grateful he couldn’t see her face.
‘Don’t be long.’
In the toilet there was a long streak of red when Ingrid wiped herself. Her cycle had run off course with the travel and the disorientating effects of the light. The feeling of unease in her belly resolved itself into a dull menstrual ache. She leaned back in relief. A reprieve.
Lars had undressed, got into bed and turned off the light by the time Ingrid assembled belt and cloth and pins and put them on. She slipped into her nightgown and came in beside him.
‘You took so long.’ He rolled towards her, crushing their bodies together.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ingrid whispered. ‘My monthly has come early.’
She expected him to roll back and let her lie against his side, her belly pressing against his hip, as she often did when bleeding. But he shifted on top of her, his lips urgent, his eagerness hard against her.
‘Lars, we can’t make a child,’ she said, turning her head away.
‘I don’t care.’ He fumbled at her nightgown, his breath fast. ‘Please,’ he said hoarsely.
Behind her closed eyes she saw Mathilde and Hjalmar together and the image infuriated her. In spite of herself, her desire rose, full of rage and jealousy.
She pulled at the nightdress and her underthings and reached down for Lars. He was in her hand, hot and alive, groaning out loud with his own need. She manoeuvred him on top, opened herself and took him in, deeper and deeper until it felt like she was splitting in two.
This was Antarctica, hard and bloody and full of need, longing and repulsion, fury, competition and jealousy, bargains made and payments extracted, everyone implicated, everyone faced with their own desire and brutality.
Mathilde had given her the word for it, a word Ingrid had never used even to herself to describe this act. Tonight it was the only word to describe it. Lars fucked her, and in her despair and bloodiness, Ingrid fucked him back. She thought the whole ship full of men would sense the animality of their coupling, the very continent would feel it, the vibrations rippling out from the ship underwater, so the whales could hear it and know that the steel monster floating above them contained living things like themselves. They fucked, and below them in Thorshavn’s tanks the essence of two thousand whales stirred and slid noiselessly.
She hoped Mathilde heard them.
The pounding reverberated through her sleep and woke her. It was loud enough to drive her straight to sitting with a jolt and for a few moments she looked around, confused. Lars shifted beside her and their surroundings shifted into familiarity.
The sound came again. Now that she was awake, she could identify it as a knock, not some portent of impending disaster.
Lars groaned and rubbed his eyes. The night before came rushing back to Ingrid and she felt embarrassed. As he rolled over and out of the bed, she lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin. She was naked, and from the stickiness between her legs, surmised that she’d bloodied the bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed that to happen.
Lars found a dressing gown and wrapped it around himself before opening the door, sending in a blaze of daylight that made her blink. It was Nils, who glanced in and then drew back, blushing.
‘What time is it?’ Lars asked, rubbing his tousled hair.
‘After ten,’ Nils said. ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ve made contact with Mikkelsen.’
‘About time!’ Lars said. ‘Where is he?’
‘Eighty miles away, off the coast. Horntvedt’s heading that way now. There’s some news.’
‘Yes?’
Nils hesitated. ‘Captain Mikkelsen went ashore. He took his wife with him. I’m afraid Caroline Mikkelsen has become the first woman to land on Antarctica.’