Miriam Munch was standing outside the flat in Møllergata, wondering whether or not to ring the bell.
Julie’s flat. Julie was an old friend who had texted Miriam repeatedly to say that she absolutely had to come. Years ago the two of them had been close; rebellious teenagers, they would hang out at Blitz and volunteer for Amnesty International, believing there was a point in protesting against oppression. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. A different era. Another life. Miriam sighed as her finger slowly approached the doorbell, but she pulled it back and continued to procrastinate. Marion was with Grannie and Rolf. A sleepover. She had insisted on spending the weekend after her birthday there. Johannes was working as usual, their flat was empty and not terribly tempting, but even so she could not make herself ring the bell. It was not as if she had not been to a party since having Marion, for heaven’s sake. No, she did have a social life; it was something else that stopped her. She looked down at her shoes and suddenly thought she looked ridiculous. Wearing a frock and pretty shoes. She could not remember the last time she had dressed up like this. She had spent over an hour in front of the mirror at home, trying on different outfits, put on make-up, changed her mind, changed her clothes, removed her make-up, sat down on the sofa, turned on the TV, looking for anything that could make her relax, but she had found nothing. So she had turned off the TV again, reapplied her make-up, had another session in front of the mirror in various outfits, and now here she was. As nervous as a teenage girl, butterflies in her tummy for the first time in ages.
What do you think you’re doing?
She shook her head, despairing at herself. She was happy, wasn’t she? She had repeated this sentence many times in her head these last weeks. You’re happy, Miriam. You have Johannes. You have Marion. You have the life you wanted. And yet she could not help it – thinking thoughts she should not. She had tried, but they refused to go away. At night, her head on the pillow, just before she went to sleep. In the morning, from the moment she woke up. In front of the mirror in the bathroom when she cleaned her teeth. When she took Marion to school, waving goodbye from behind the large, cast-iron gate. The same thoughts over and over again, and this image in her head. A face. All the time the same face.
No, this won’t do.
She had made up her mind.
No further.
She took a deep breath and had started walking quickly down the stairs when the door behind her opened and Julie appeared.
‘Miriam? Where do you think you’re going?’
Julie had had quite a lot to drink already; she waved a full glass of red wine in one hand and laughed out loud.
‘I saw you from the window but thought you might have got lost. Come in.’
Julie raised her glass in a toast and beckoned Miriam up the stairs again.
‘I got the wrong floor,’ Miriam lied as she walked slowly up the steps to hug her friend.
‘Darling,’ Julie giggled, and kissed her cheek. ‘In you come, in you come.’
Julie – who had once known everything about her – dragged Miriam inside the flat and kicked the door shut behind them.
‘No need for you to take off your shoes. Come on, you have to meet everyone.’
Reluctantly, Miriam let herself be ushered into the living room, which was crammed with guests. There were people sitting on the windowsills, sofas and armrests, and on the floor; the small flat was packed to the rafters. The smell of tobacco and illegal substances wafted heavily across the room, across bottles and glasses in all shapes and sizes. A young man with a green Mohican had hijacked the sound system and was playing The Ramones so loud the walls were shaking, and Julie was forced to shout at the top of her voice to get everyone’s attention, something Miriam could have done without.
‘Oi, Kyrre,’ Julie whistled. ‘Turn that wannabe punk rock off.’
Miriam said nothing; she suddenly felt overdressed and completely exposed as she stood hand in hand with her friend in the doorway.
‘Everyone, hello!’ Julie shouted as the boy with the Mohican reluctantly turned down the volume. ‘This is my dear old friend, Miriam. She has joined the ranks of the upper classes now, so do try to behave like human beings rather than plebs tonight, will you?’
She laughed uproariously at her own joke and raised her red-wine glass in a toast.
‘Wait, everyone, I haven’t finished. Miriam is the daughter of a police officer. Yes, you heard right. Her father is the super-detective himself, Holger Munch, so if you don’t want the Drug Squad crashing this party, then keep your weed out of sight. Geir, I’m talking to you.’
She pointed her glass in the direction of a young man with dreadlocks and an Icelandic sweater who was slumped on the windowsill with a big joint between his lips and a blissful smile on his face.
‘Right, you can turn it up again.’ Julie smiled to the young man with the Mohican. ‘But if you’re going to play punk rock, then please pick something decent.’
Miriam wished more than anything that the ground would open up and swallow her but, luckily, no one seemed to care about what Julie had said. Two seconds later the music was back on and people were bent over their drinks as if nothing had happened, while Julie dragged Miriam through the living room and into the kitchen, where she poured her a brimming glass from a carton of red wine on the kitchen counter.
‘I’m so thrilled that you could come,’ her friend said, giving her another long hug. ‘I’m a little tipsy, sorry.’
‘That’s quite all right.’ Miriam smiled, looking cautiously around the kitchen.
He had not been in the living room, nor was he here. Perhaps she had worried unduly. A party. It was just a party. A party with people her own age, acting like teenagers. That was all it was. Nothing more. She had been to enough formal dinners with Johannes’s doctor friends. Spent enough time discussing cars and country cottages, brands of silverware and china. She was wearing the wrong clothes but, apart from that, it was like the old days. Just a party. Nothing else. No harm done.
‘Is that true?’
Miriam turned to the spot where Julie had just been standing, but she found someone else in Julie’s place.
‘Is that true?’ the young man in front of her said again with a cautious smile.
‘Is what true?’ Miriam asked, glancing around the kitchen a second time.
‘That Holger Munch is your father? The police officer? He’s a homicide investigator, isn’t he?’
Miriam felt a certain irritation at the question. She had heard it many times, had dealt with it ever since she was a child – her daddy is a policeman, we can’t tell Miriam anything – but when she met the eyes of the young man who had asked the question, she realized that he meant well, no hidden agenda. She was no longer eight years old and alone in the school playground. The young man wore a white shirt and round glasses, he had kind eyes and was merely expressing an interest, no ulterior motive.
‘Yes, he’s my father,’ Miriam said, sensing for the first time in a long while that it was actually OK to say so.
‘Cool,’ the young man with the round glasses said, and sipped his drink, looking as if he wanted to say something more, but found nothing.
‘Yes, it is cool,’ Miriam said, raising her gaze over the rim of her glass of red wine once more.
‘And what do you do?’ the young man said.
‘What do you mean?’ Miriam said, a little defensively. She regretted it immediately.
The lad was shy and a little awkward. He was just trying to make conversation; he might even be trying to hit on her, something he quite clearly did not have much experience of or talent for. She was almost starting to feel sorry for him as he stood there, clutching his drink, hoping that tonight might be his lucky night. He seemed just as out of place as her, his white shirt tucked into pressed trousers and shoes which almost looked like shiny, expensive Italian shoes but which were not, only a cheap copy. She shook her head at herself, ashamed at the last observation. Years ago, she would have been one of the people sitting on the windowsill with a joint between her lips; these days, she could spot the difference between a pair of genuine Scarosso shoes and fakes.
‘I’m a mum,’ she said kindly. ‘I used to study journalism, and I think I might go back, but right now I’m just a full-time mum.’
‘Oh, right,’ the lad with the round glasses said, looking slightly disappointed.
Miriam Munch was a pretty girl, never short of interested parties or offers. I have a six-year-old daughter, however, was usually enough to make them slink away with their tail between their legs. Never mind that she also had a boyfriend.
‘And what do you do?’ she asked, still kindly, but the air seemed to have gone out of his balloon now and the young man was already looking for someone else.
‘He’s brilliant at designing posters, aren’t you, Jacob?’
And suddenly there he was.
‘Jacob, this is Miriam; Miriam, this is my friend Jacob. I see the two of you have already met, how nice.’
He winked at her and smiled.
‘Oh, so she’s the one you’ve …’ the lad with the round glasses said; he seemed a little embarrassed and all at once very keen to get away.
‘I think I need another one,’ Jacob mumbled, pointing to his drink before he disappeared.
‘She’s the one? As in …?’ Miriam smiled.
‘Oh, you know,’ he said, laughing softly. ‘Nice dress, by the way. Good to see that somebody here has style.’
‘Thank you,’ Miriam said with a small curtsy.
‘So?’ he said.
‘What about it?’ she asked.
‘Don’t you think it’s getting a bit crowded here?’
‘Far too crowded.’ She giggled.
‘I’ve heard they serve quite a decent margarita down at Internasjonalen.’ He smiled.
‘I never thought I would ever say this’ – Miriam laughed – ‘but right now I could really do with some tequila.’
‘Then that’s what we’re going to do.’ He winked at her, put his drink down on the kitchen counter and calmly led the way through the noisy crowd.