I splash a little aftershave onto my palm and pat it lightly over my cheeks. The weekend at last. Oh, it’s going to be good. It’s been a hard week, I’m totally wasted, aching in just about every bone in my body. I lean over the sink till I’m almost touching the mirror, pluck a long black hair out of one nostril and straighten up again. “But now it’s the weekend,” I murmur, and I look at myself in the mirror and smile, hold it for a moment, smiling and trying to look bright and cheerful, and I feel this strategy starting to work: seeing yourself as brighter and more cheerful than you actually are really does make you feel brighter and more cheerful. I feel that weight starting to slip from my shoulders. I do up the last button on my shirt, straighten the collar, humming softly to myself – another way of fooling yourself into believing that you’re in slightly more sparkling form than you actually are. Humming is associated with light-heartedness and when you hear yourself humming you tend to believe that you’re feeling more light-hearted than you actually are. Even when you know very well it’s a form of self-deception, you happily go along with it. “Or, you do anyway, Ole,” I murmur.
I stand there smiling at myself for a moment longer, then with a nod at my reflection I turn and and walk out of the bathroom. I’m looking forward to switching off now and doing absolutely nothing, except get mildly pissed with Helen and watch TV, maybe listen to some music or read a bit of Growth of the Soil, thought I’d remembered more of that book than I had, so I’d better finish reading it before the book circle meeting next Sunday. If there’s one thing I hate it’s turning up unprepared for the book circle, so I’ll just have to keep going. I walk down the hall and into the kitchen. All’s quiet in here, but Helen’s sandals are outside the terrace door so she must have got back from wherever she’s been. I wander into the living room and there she is, sitting hunched over her gossip mag and rolling a cigarette. I stop, smile at her.
“Hi,” I say. She doesn’t answer right away. “Hi,” I say again.
“Hi,” she mumbles, without looking up from her magazine.
A moment passes and still she doesn’t look up at me. I stay where I am, looking at her. Have to watch what I say now, she’s not in the best of moods it seems, the pain’s probably bad again, maybe she didn’t sleep too well either, it’s hard to say.
“So, how’s your day been, then?” I ask, regretting it as soon as I’ve said it. Now she’s sure to make out that I know she’s had a rotten day and that I ought to know better than to ask something like that. I’m getting to know her now, I know she takes just about everything in the worst possible way and on days like this she never misses a chance to take offence, maybe it’s her way of justifying the fact that she’s in a bad mood: shifting the blame for her misery onto me or something, I don’t know. I look at her, feel myself preparing mentally for some sort of outburst, an attack. But it doesn’t come.
“Same as usual,” is all she says, again speaking without looking up. She smooths the roll-up, raises it to her lips, moistens the wafer-thin paper with the tip of her tongue, turning the end from white to shiny grey. I smile and nod, relieved that she didn’t seize the opportunity to take offence.
“It’s going to be good to have a couple of days off now,” I say. I make my voice sound brighter and more cheerful than usual, trying somehow to cheer her up along with me.
“Mm,” she says, still not looking up from her magazine. She pops the cigarette into her mouth and gropes for the lighter that’s lying on the table, finds it, lights up and inhales.
“Will I open a bottle of wine?” I ask, eyeing her and smiling. She glances up at me, juts out her upper lip and exhales downwards. The grey column of smoke breaks as it hits the tabletop and swirls slowly up to the ceiling.
“Not for my sake,” she says, looking down at her magazine again.
“I bought that Australian one,” I say.
“No, thanks,” she says, taking a puff of her cigarette and flicking over a couple of pages.
“That one you really liked,” I say.
“Yeah, but no thanks,” she says, putting a hand to her mouth and picking off a shred of tobacco that’s stuck to her lip.
“Fair enough,” I say. It’s kind of heavy going when she’s like this, I mean I know she’d like to have a couple of glasses of wine with me. I don’t know many people who enjoy a little drink as much as Helen, and I know she’s forcing herself to say and do the opposite of what she really wants to do right now. It’s always the same when she’s in this mood, maybe she wants to punish herself or something like that, I don’t really know, it’s not always easy to figure her out. Ah well, I’m not going to let her drag me down along with her, she often tries to do that when she’s in this mood, so I have to watch my step. I just stand there for a moment or two, then I turn and stroll out of the living room. It’s best to leave her alone for now, give her a little time and she’ll come round, I’m sure she will. I can’t see her staying sober on a Friday night, she’ll help herself to some wine eventually, and whisky too. I go into the kitchen, take the whisky bottle out of the carrier bag and pour myself a shot, then I wander through to the computer room, pick Growth of the Soil off the desk and wander back through to the living room. I might as well grab the chance to do some reading since she’s not in the mood to talk.
“Where’s Daniel, by the way?” I ask. I raise my glass to my lips and take a sip as I sit down in the armchair. I feel everything in me gradually relax as the spirit burns its way down.
She looks at me, lowers her eyes again.
“Your mother asked if she could keep him till tomorrow,” she says.
I feel a little ripple of pleasure run through me as she says this, feel like getting more than just mildly pissed tonight, I could do with it. Great to have a babysitter, it couldn’t have worked out better.
“Oh, right,” I say. I look at her and smile, but she doesn’t glance up from her magazine so I open my book at the page I’ve turned down and start to read.
Silence. Then: “Ole, have you been reading my diary?” she asks.
I look up from my book, stare at her open-mouthed. What did she say? What did she just ask me? Does she really think I’ve been reading her diary. I keep my eyes fixed on her, but she just sits there smoking and gazing at her magazine.
“Oh, honestly, Helen. Do you really think I’m that bad?”
“I don’t think anything at all,” she says, still not looking up from the magazine. “All I know is that somebody’s been reading my diary, or handling it at least. I left it on my bedside table after I’d been writing in it the other day, I’m quite sure I did. But that’s not where I found it this morning. I thought maybe it had fallen down behind the table, but it was in the drawer,” she says. “And that seems a bit odd to me.”
And then she looks up from the magazine, fixes her eyes on mine and gives a hard little smile. She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks down at the magazine again. There’s total silence. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I haven’t seen her diary and that I know nothing about it, but I don’t, because it must have been Jørgen of course. Jørgen’s been reading her diary to try to find out if I’ve told her about him selling hash. He knows that if I had told her Helen would be bound to write about it in her diary and he’s fallen for the temptation to sneak a peek at it. He’s scared, poor lad, of course, that has to be it. I can’t tell her that, though, because if I do she’ll know I went behind her back, and I don’t want that, she’ll just use that as an excuse to explode on me and I can’t face that right now.
“Well, maybe it fell on the floor and I picked it up and put it in the drawer?” I say.
“Ah, and you just happened to remember that now?”
Silence.
“I haven’t been reading your diary, Helen,” I say, trying to sound as sincere as I can. “Christ, do you really think I’d do that?”
“I told you, I don’t think anything at all,” she says, slowly turning the pages of her magazine.
Long silence.
Then: “How about taking a run over to Sweden first thing tomorrow?” Helen says. I glance up from my book, she’s looking at me with that hard little smile on her face. “We could pick up cigarettes, stock up the freezer a bit,” she adds. I say nothing for a moment or two, just stare at her: she’s out to torment me now, she knows I feel like getting pissed tonight and that I won’t be fit to drive first thing tomorrow, that’s exactly why she’s suggesting this, suggesting it so as to make me feel guilty, make me despise myself, see myself as a bad husband, a bad father who’d rather get drunk than take his family on a trip to Sweden. She thinks I’ve been reading her diary and she wants to punish me for that, maybe she noticed that I looked pleased when she said Mum was going to keep Daniel for the night, she must have done, and this is her way of spoiling that pleasure. “Hmm?” she says, still with that smile on her face, making herself look happy to make it even harder for me to say no, I know that’s why she’s doing this, she hasn’t the slightest notion of going to Sweden, she’s just pretending she wants to so she can act even more disappointed and annoyed if I say no.
“We’ll see,” I mutter. I feel my good mood starting to melt away. After a moment I lift my book, act like I’m going to carry on reading. But she’s not about to give in, she keeps goading me.
“Yeah, but don’t you think it would be nice with a day out?” she asks. “I’m sure Jørgen wouldn’t mind a trip to Sweden either. To pick up some snus if nothing else. And I’m sure you’re mother would be only be too happy to have Daniel to herself tomorrow as well,” she adds, looking at me and smiling.
“We’ll see,” I say again. My voice is strained now, bordering on angry, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me angry, because that’s just what she wants, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I fix my eyes on my book, try to read, but I can’t concentrate and she can see right through me, I know she can, she knows exactly how I’m feeling right now. I don’t take my eyes off the book, but I can tell that she’s sitting there looking at me. I wait a couple of seconds and then I glance up at her as casually as I can. She holds my gaze for a moment or two then she snorts and gives a little sneer, looks down at her magazine again, as if to say: that’s put you in your box, as if to say she’s shown me up for what I am: a drunk, an irresponsible father who puts getting drunk before taking his family for a day out in the car. Or something along those lines. I’m not like that, I’m not like that at all, but she makes me feel as if I am when she carries on like this. Moments pass and then I feel my cheeks start to burn, feel my blood starting to boil. It never fails, she always has to bring me down when she’s having one of her days, it’s like she has to drag me down into the black hole along with her. I get so sick of it, I mean I know it’s not easy being her, of course it isn’t, she’s been through so much in her life it’s a wonder it hasn’t left more of a mark on her than it has – neglected throughout her childhood, beaten half to death by Jørgen’s father and on top of all that she’s in pain and not getting enough sleep, so I can well understand if she has her bad moments but still, it’s hard going being around her when she’s like this. I have to be as supportive and sympathetic as I can, but God knows it’s not always easy.
I pick up my whisky glass, drain it, feel like getting myself a refill, but decide against it. If I pour myself another drink now she’ll only use that as an excuse to get even more uptight; she’ll hold it up as proof that I really am the no-good drunk she’s making me out to be and I can’t take that, so I simply sit here, gazing at my book, but the words are just a blur and I find it impossible to read.
Silence.
Then Jørgen suddenly turns up the music in his room, I hear the thud of the bass and the voice of some rap singer blaring out up there again.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Helen mutters.
I raise my eyes from my book and look at her, but she doesn’t look at me, she sits there staring at the ceiling. I watch her for a moment or two, then carry on reading.
We sit for a couple of seconds. Then:
“Does he have to play it so bloody loud?” she mutters.
I glance up from my book again, she’s still staring at the ceiling, her mouth is tight, her lips narrower than usual and she’s breathing quickly through her nose, looks like she’s getting herself worked up. The music’s not that loud, in fact he’s got the volume turned down lower than normal, so she’s got no reason to get worked up about it, but she is, she’s going to vent her anger and frustration on Jørgen. Either that or this is some sort of attempt to make it up with me, it could just as easily be that, yeah, that’s probably it. If she’d really been mad at Jørgen she would be on her feet yelling at him to turn it down. Either that or she would have found something to bang on the ceiling with, but she just sits there, letting me know that she’s mad at him, so this is probably more an attempt to make it up with me. She’s complaining about him so we can find common ground in our irritation over the loudness of Jørgen’s music. That’s what she’s trying to do. First she dragged me down, now she wants to build me up again, it’s always the same when she’s having one her days, she does everything she can to put me in as foul a temper as herself and no sooner has she done that than she starts working to lighten the mood. I don’t like it when she does this. I don’t like it when she tries to control my mood like this, because that’s what she’s doing here, it’s got nothing to do with her feeling sorry for being angry, at least I don’t think it has, it’s more like an attempt to gain control or something, an attempt to control me, something like that, yeah, unless it’s the wine that’s doing it, yeah, that could be it, she wants to have a drink every bit as much as I did and if she’s to be able to have a drink without looking too foolish, she has to make it up with me first. What do I know. I look down at my book again, don’t say a word, I don’t feel like softening and meeting her halfway.
“You’d think he’d have a little consideration for the rest of us,” she says.
I look at her again, hesitate, don’t really feel like meeting her halfway but there’s no point in getting all self-righteous about it either, can’t face ruining our Friday evening just for that.
“Let him play his music,” I say, looking at her and wagging my head, standing up for Jørgen a bit. That means even more to her than me getting upset along with her, I know it does. I suppose she sees it as proof of a sort that I like her son, that must be it.
“Yes, but listen to it,” she says.
“I know, I know,” I say, wagging my head again, still making light of Jørgen’s loud music. “Why don’t we put on some music ourselves,” I say, with a nod towards the sound system. “It would save us having to listen to rap music at least,” I add. I look at her, she doesn’t say anything, but she gives a little shrug, letting me know that that’s fine by her. I pick up my empty whisky glass and cross to the sound system, run a finger along the row of albums.
There’s silence for a moment or two.
“Sure you won’t have a glass of wine?” I ask, trying to sound offhand, keeping my eyes on the albums. I yawn and try to look as if I don’t care one way or the other. I have to be careful not to smile and seem too upbeat now, mustn’t rush it, because if I do I’ll only disturb her rhythm, I know her well enough to know that. If I suddenly start sounding too bright and upbeat she’s liable to lose the feeling that she’s in control of the mood and then she could take it into her head to spoil everything again. “Hmm?” I say, glancing over at her. She screws up her nose and waggles her head, trying to look as if she can’t decide but I know she’s made up her mind to say yes.
“Oh, all right, maybe I will have a glass after all,” she says.
“One second,” I say. “I just have to find a record first.”
“Just as long as you don’t put on any of that Swedish golden oldies crap of yours,” she says.
I look at her, give a little laugh, it’s probably safe to laugh now.
“I don’t know why you’ve got so much against old Swedish pop music,” I say. “There’s a lot of good Swedish pop music. Listen to this, for example.” I pull out a record by Sven-Ingvars, teasing her a little by pretending I’m going to put on a golden oldie from the 1950s.
“Don’t you dare,” she cries, putting her head on one side and eyeing me darkly.
“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing a little as I put the record back, I feel my spirits lifting, we’re getting on fine now, we’re starting to climb out of the black mood and into a brighter frame of mind and that’s good. I pull out a Creedence Clearwater Revival album and slip it into the CD player. There aren’t all that many records of mine that she likes, but she thinks Creedence are good, she’s even been known to put on one of their records herself, I’ve noticed. I stand up, eye her questioningly as John Fogerty’s gravelly voice issues from the loudspeakers.
“Nice one,” she says, nodding approvingly. I look at her and smile, step into the kitchen and pour myself a whisky, then I open one of the bottles of wine, get a glass out of the cupboard and go back to the living room. I set both glasses on the table and start to pour wine into the wine glass.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling.
But I don’t stop pouring, I’m deliberately slow to react, fill the glass almost to the brim.
“Whoa, whoa,” she says.
And then I stop pouring. I look at her and smile innocently, but she’s onto me, she smiles slyly back at me and I immediately feel a little ripple of happiness run through me. It’s kind of like a sign that smile, a sign that we both want the same thing from this evening. We’re going to get nicely pissed and chill out together.
“There you go,” I say, putting the bottle down on the table.
“Thanks,” she says.
I sit down on the sofa, pick up my whisky glass and take a little sip. It’s good to be past that tricky patch. I feel a surge of happiness, feel my spirits lift, and I have the urge to say or do something to show this, but I’d best wait a while, I mustn’t overdo it and seem too chirpy, otherwise Helen might find this brighter mood too good to be true and then she could take it into her head to destroy it all again, I know her. A moment passes, then I put a hand to my back and give a little wince, I don’t even have to think about it, I’ve resorted to this ploy so often that it’s quite instinctive. I try to hide my happiness by pretending that my back hurts.
“Ow,” I say, half-closing my eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Helen asks. “Is your back hurting again?”
“No, no,” I say, but my hand’s still pressed to the small of my back, I’m still wincing. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to sound like I’m putting a brave face on it.
“Are you sure?” she asks. I look at her and nod, it feels good to have her show concern like this.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, taking my hand away from my back. “It comes and goes, I’m not sure what it is.”
“Well, if it goes on like this you’ll have to see the doctor,” she says.
“Nah,” I say.
“Yes, promise me you will,” she says, putting on a worried expression, overdoing it a little, but it feels good nonetheless and I laugh and wag my head, like I’m playing down the pain in my back, letting her know that it hurts but that I can live with it.
“Men,” she says, shaking her head despairingly.
I chuckle softly and take a little sip of my whisky. “Just have to go to the loo,” I say, and I go to the loo, pee and return to Helen. Her glass is already empty, she’s sitting hunched over her magazine and doesn’t look at me, so I seize the chance to pick up the bottle and fill her glass again. She looks up when she hears the faint glug-glug of the wine.
“Are you pouring me another glass?” she says, but she’s only saying it for appearance’s sake, I know her, she feels like getting pissed every bit as much as I do, but she likes to think that I’m leading her on.
“Huh?” I say, giving her a kind of puzzled look as I carry on pouring, act as if I’m not quite with her.
“Oh, well,” she says. “One more glass can’t hurt.”
“No, I’m sure it can’t,” I say with a little laugh as I put down the bottle, a laugh designed to encourage her to drink with a clear conscience.
“Well, if I get drunk tonight, on your head be it,” she says, and then she looks me straight in the eye and smiles that kittenish smile of hers.
“I’ll take full responsibility,” I say, with a little laugh. “But maybe we should go down to the beach and have our drinks there,” I say. “Seeing as we’ve got a babysitter and all,” I add.
“Oh, yes, let’s do that,” Helen says brightly, looking at me with wide, rather eager eyes. It feels good to see her like this. Okay, so she’s overdoing it a bit, pretending to be slightly more enthusiastic and delighted by this idea than she actually is, but it makes me happy anyway. I smile at her, have the urge to pay her a compliment or something.
Moments pass and I’m just about to tell her that she has the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen, but I don’t get the chance, because suddenly there’s a knock at the door.
“Yeah?” I call out.
I stay where I am on the sofa, my eye on the door and who should come in but Per, his massive body almost filling the doorway. He looks at me and grins, standing there in camouflage pants and a white T-shirt several sizes too small that’s probably meant to show off his muscular chest and shoulders. I look at him. I’m not really in the mood for visitors right now, I’m a bit too tired to want any company but Helen’s, but I return his grin and try to look pleased that he’s dropped in, what else can I do?
“Well, hello there,” I say. “It’s yourself, is it?”
“Me and none other,” he says, marching into the living room. After a moment Helen gets up and heads towards the kitchen. “You don’t have to go on my account, you know,” Per says with a look of mock surprise. He eyes Helen for a second, then he lets out that loud, bluff laugh of his. He looks at Helen, then at me and I chuckle and act as if to say: nice one, very funny.
“No, I just thought I might get you something to drink, that’s all,” Helen says.
“Oh, well in that case, don’t let me fuckin’ stop you,” Per says with another laugh. “Right, well, I’d better sit down before I fall down, eh,” he says, and he drops down onto the leather armchair, cups his hands round his knees and sits there looking at me. He’s about to say something, but before he can get that far:
“D’you want whisky or wine, Per?” Helen calls from the kitchen.
“Whisky or wine?” Per repeats. “Only a townie would ask a question like that,” he says, and he looks at me and grins, and I grin back, feel I kind of have to.
“What?” Helen shouts from the kitchen.
“Are you trying to insult me?” Per calls back. He slides forward to the edge of the seat, with a look on his face that says he’s only joking, then he sits there with his eyes fixed on the floor and the corners of his mouth twitching with sly merriment. He moistens his lips and waits expectantly for Helen’s reaction.
“What d’you mean by that, you daft bugger?” Helen asks. There’s not much she can’t handle, she’s neither upset nor shocked by Per’s way of talking and Per likes that, I can tell. He looks at me and gives a little laugh, then he plants a hand on his knee again and turns towards the kitchen, smiles slyly and smacks his lips, as if to let me know that he’s about to fire off another witty remark.
“Excuse me, did my wrist look limp to you when I walked in?” he calls. “Hmm?” he adds. There’s silence for a moment, then I hear Helen laughing in the kitchen. “Fuck no,” Per goes on. “You can keep your bloody Ribena, gimme a whisky,” he says, and then he turns to me and lets out a big, booming hohoho, and I look at him and laugh back, try to laugh as heartily as him, but I can’t quite manage it, it comes out as a half-hearted chuckle and I quickly lift my glass to my lips so he won’t notice, I take a sip and put my glass down again.
“Just bring the bottle, Helen,” I say.
“See, now there speaks a real man,” Per cries.
“Oh, yeah, you’re such big men, you two,” Helen says, coming into the living room with the whisky bottle and a glass for Per. “But maybe we should just go down to the beach now,” she says, “while it’s still warm and sunny?”
“Yeah, let’s do that,” I say.
“I just have to pack a few things,” she says, putting the bottle and glass down on the table and disappearing back into the kitchen. I pour a drink for Per and fill up my own glass.
“Thanks,” he says, wrapping his great mitt around his glass. “I’m half-cut already. I’ve just left Knut and his lady friend, you see, and they got out the gin,” he adds before taking a little slug of whisky.
“Lady friend?” I say, looking at him in amazement.
Per smacks his lips, takes his time answering. He sets his glass down on the table and grins at me. He must be enjoying the feeling of having some news to tell and he’s trying to prolong the pleasure by not giving it all away at once.
“Knut’s got himself a lady friend?”
“Uh-huh, you mean you hadn’t heard?”
“No.”
“Ah, well,” he says.
Two seconds.
“Aw, come on, out with it, man!” I say, raising my voice, letting him know that I’m as impatient to hear more as he wants me to be. He’s enjoying this, I can tell, it’s like the news he has to tell becomes bigger the more impatient I am to hear it, and he laughs happily.
“Well, you see,” he says. “Three or four weeks ago Knut replied to one of those ads in the personal column. From this Russian woman. And now, fuck me if she hasn’t gone and moved in with him.”
I realize I’m sitting there gawping at him.
“Must’ve been love at first sight, eh?” It just comes out.
And Per laughs that big, booming laugh of his again. I stare at him for a moment, then I burst out laughing too. I feel a little twinge of guilt for laughing at Knut like this, but it was funny and I can’t help it.
“Yep, must have been,” Per says, coughing and spluttering a bit as his laughter dies away. “But for fuck’s sake,” he says, “I mean I know there aren’t that many women to choose from here on the island, but to actually go and buy a Russian female,” he says, and he looks at me and shakes his head sadly. I don’t say anything for a moment, pick up my whisky and take a sip. He’s probably trying to draw me into slagging off Knut now; he’s pretty desperate to have a wife and kids himself, Per, and he can’t resist the chance to talk about how desperate other people are, I know. Maybe he’s had this same thought, maybe he’s considered getting himself a Russian female, and now he wants to check what I and other folk would think of that, testing the water to see whether we would laugh at him behind his back if he did. I wouldn’t put it past him.
I put down my glass.
“And guess how old she is?” he says, nodding at me as he says it.
“No!”
“Twenty-three!”
He roars with laughter and points at me. “I know – that’s exactly how I looked when I heard,” he says.
“And he’s what … forty-six, forty-seven?” I ask.
“Forty-six.”
“Wow,” I say.
“What the fuck do you have to talk about with an age difference like that,” Per wonders.
“I don’t think polite conversation is quite what Knut has in mind.” And we both burst out laughing. I look at Per as he slaps his thigh and gives that big booming laugh of his, a laugh that fills the whole room, and I chuckle happily, pick up my whisky glass and take a sip. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, I feel kind of bad for making fun of Knut for hooking up with a Russian female. I should really say something to let Per know that I don’t see anything wrong with it, but I don’t have the chance because just then Helen comes back into the living room carrying a blanket in one hand and a wicker basket in the other.
“You’ve no room to talk, you’re eight years older than me, remember,” she says with a nod to me. She takes the bottles from the table and pops them in the basket.
“Yeah, but I never said I was looking for polite conversation either, did I?” I retort. I turn to Per. He looks at me, then he slaps his thigh and roars with laughter again and I chuckle again.
Three seconds.
“Hark at you, talking so big now that your mate’s here,” Helen says.
I turn to her, she looks me straight in the eye and suddenly that cold, hard smile is back on her face, an angry, almost menacing smile. I don’t say anything for a moment, just feel the laughter fading on my lips.
“Nah, I’m only joking,” I say, trying to keep my smile in place.
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” she says.
Silence.
I give her a look that says please don’t, my eyes begging her not to grab this chance to fly off the handle, but she’s not about to oblige me. She holds my gaze for a second or two then she picks up her wine glass, knocks back what’s left in it and puts it in the basket too, then she blinks calmly, almost carelessly, turns and looks at Per.
“Well, shall we head down to the beach?” she says.
“Yeah!” Per cries. He doesn’t seem to have caught any of this, he slaps his thighs and jumps up. I try to catch Helen’s eye, but she’s not having it, her glance kind of sweeps past me as she turns round and walks toward the terrace door. I sit where I am for another moment or two then I get up slowly from the sofa, watching Helen’s back, tense and rigid as she marches off across the terrace. All it took was one rather tasteless little joke and she’s a completely different person from she was only moments ago. She’s slipped back down into that black hole, that hostile mood again, or at least she looks as though she has. I feel a flicker of unease as I walk out the door.
We cross the lawn. The terrace door of the cottage stands slightly open and the voices on the television can be heard all the way over here. Sounds like Dad’s watching the football – World Cup semi-finals or whatever it is. We take the path down to the shore, no one says a word and the unease grows inside me, there’s no telling what Helen might do when she’s in this mood, she’s liable to do anything, especially when the wine really starts to kick in. We stroll down the little hill, over the dry, yellow grass and across to the tables and benches on the beach, still without a word being said. An oystercatcher stands on a rock, piping away, and from across the water comes the low chug-chug of a fishing smack. Other than that all’s quiet.
“Better get some wood for the fire,” I say, making no move to start looking for it myself. It’s a good way to get shot of Per for a while. I’d like to have a word with Helen without him around.
“I’m on it,” Per says, just as I thought he would, playing the man of action he so wants to be. He wanders off whistling towards the little sandy beach that runs along the edge of the forest, he must have spotted some driftwood over there. I wait till he’s out of earshot then I turn to Helen. She’s set herself down on the bench, sits there with her eyes closed, letting the sun warm her face.
“Is something the matter?” I ask.
“No,” she says, but she says it in a short, offhand sort of a way designed to let me know that this isn’t true. She doesn’t even open her eyes when she says it, just sits there, soaking up the sun. I don’t say anything for a moment, just stand there watching her, and I’m about to say that I have the feeling she’s annoyed at me, but I don’t get that far because suddenly she opens her eyes and smiles at me, and it’s as if all her anger is suddenly gone, it’s like turning off a switch, and now she looks genuinely happy.
“What could possibly be the matter?” she asks, smiling and looking at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I don’t answer right away, I feel a bit confused, simply stand there staring at her. Moments pass.
“Oh, nothing,” I say. My heart sinks a little at these abrupt changes in her mood, but I smile and give a little shake of my head as I bend down to the basket and take out the bottles. These sudden shifts, these mood swings, they confuse me, and maybe that’s the whole idea, I wouldn’t put it past her. I’m not sure if she’s doing it deliberately, but she might feel that confusing me is a way of controlling me, like she doesn’t want me to know where I have her, so she uses my insecurity to control me and make me the way she wants me to be. This is just one of many ploys she’s learned to use earlier in her life, I suppose. When you get beaten and pushed around and have no say in anything whatsoever, obviously you’re going to find other, more covert ways of gaining power, and this is no doubt one of them. I pour whisky for myself and Per and a glass of wine for Helen, pick up her glass and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says, eyeing me.
And then Per appears. He didn’t pick up the driftwood after all. Instead he’s lugging an enormous tree root, he’d have done better to bring some of that driftwood, but Per is Per and he’ll never change. He’s like a little kid sometimes, and now he wants to show how strong he is.
“Wow,” Helen says. “Isn’t that heavy?”
“Heavy?” Per says, as if he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He stands there with this enormous root in his hands, as if to let Helen know it weighs so little to him that he can’t even be bothered to put it down while he’s talking to her. He’s so transparent that I’m almost embarrassed for him, but I can’t help liking him for it as well, there’s something sweet, something reassuring almost, about his rather simple way of behaving and I realize I kind of like it.
“Yes, heavy,” Helen says, looking at him and laughing.
Per eyes her for a moment in mock bewilderment then he turns to me and shakes his head. He drops the root onto the shingle with a crash and brushes off some bits of bark and dirt that have stuck to his T-shirt.
“Aw, that’s nothing to a big strapping lad like Per,” I say, feeling this fondness for him and saying something I know he’ll appreciate.
“Ah, I don’t know. I used to be in pretty good shape, but my body’s not what it was,” he adds, as if it’ll look better if he makes light of my words of praise, lend more credence to the compliment while at the same time making him seem like a man who doesn’t like to blow his own trumpet. “But you don’t really need to be that strong now,” he goes on. “Twenty or thirty years ago a farmer needed to have a bit of muscle,” he says, “but now …”, he looks at Helen, nods at her, “… with all the farm machinery we have nowadays, you could run the farm as well as I can, I’m sure.” Then he turns to me and grins. “They soon won’t need us men at all, Ole,” he says, and he bends down, grasps one of the thickest branches on the root. “And then it won’t matter so much if our bodies aren’t what they used to be,” he says, squeezing out a yawn as he snaps the branch in two.
“Oh, I think you’re wearing pretty well,” Helen says. She laughs and nods at the snapped branch, letting him see that she’s impressed as well.
“Thanks,” Per says. “I try to stay reasonably fit, obviously,” he says, and then he turns to me. “Well I have to, you see, for the ladies. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that women are lying when they say they don’t like a bit of muscle, so from that point of view the old biceps do still come in handy,” he says and then he turns to Helen again. “Isn’t that right, that women are lying when they say they don’t like muscles on a man?” he asks her, laughing, then he pauses, turns to me again with a taunting look in his eyes. He’s like a little kid, making fun of me because I’m not as muscular as him.
“Are my muscles that puny?” I ask, pretending to sound a little surprised and looking down at my arms, then I look up at Helen and Per again. Neither of them says anything right away, but they exchange glances that say, “Yes, they are actually”, and then they both burst out laughing, laughing at how puny my muscles are. I shouldn’t let it bother me, I know – I mean, how childish can you get – but I feel it getting to me a bit all the same.
“Nah, your muscles are just the right size,” Helen declares, sounding like a mother soothing a hurt child or something. She pauses, then she meets Per’s eye and bursts out laughing again, and Per starts to laugh too, and it’s getting to me more and more, I’m starting to get a little annoyed, but I don’t let it show. Instead I act as though I despair of them, shake my head and try to look like someone who’s pretending to be crestfallen.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “Fortunately, though, there are other bits of me that are big enough for you.” It just slips out and I’m feeling quite pleased with this remark, it gives my self-esteem a little boost, I can tell, firing off a retort like this. Okay, so it was a bit crude, but it was funny. I glance at Per, chuckling happily, and Per gives his big booming laugh again.
“Yes, well I know how upset it makes you if I don’t say that,” Helen says, tipping her head back and draining her glass in one gulp. Then she puts down her glass and looks me in the eye. And suddenly she’s wearing that cold, hard smile again. It’s like turning a switch off and on. I just don’t get it.
“Ah, now it’s all coming out,” I mutter and I try to laugh, but don’t quite manage it.
“Pour me some more wine, will you,” Helen says, pushing her glass over to my side of the table.
“Please will you pour me some more wine, you mean,” I reply, doing my best to keep it light and playful, and I look at her and smile.
“Are you going to start dictating how I should talk now too?” she asks, still smiling that cold, hard smile.
“No, I might as well try to dictate the wind and the weather,” I say, still keeping it light and playful. I look at Per and give a little laugh, then I turn to Helen again. She’s just sitting there looking straight at me and smiling that hard smile of hers.
“So, do I get some more wine?” she asks, motioning towards her empty glass. “Or have you perhaps decided that I’ve had enough?”
“Well, it is nearly bedtime,” I say, ignoring her aggressive tone and manner and still keeping my tone light and playful, possibly in an attempt to lure her into a different, less hostile frame of mind, I don’t know. “Oh, well,” I say, and I pick up the wine bottle and refill her glass. She’s a bit drunk already, I can tell just by looking at her, it doesn’t take much at all with those pills she’s on. She’s already in a very different place from me. I set down the bottle, shake my watch out of my shirtsleeve.
“Gosh, is it only ten o’clock?” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” Helen says. “I know, the night’s still young.”
“Huh?”
“Why can’t you just be a man and ask me not too drink so fast?” she says, and she looks at me and grins as she picks up her glass and takes a big gulp. I don’t say anything for a moment, don’t exactly know what to say. I’ve every reason to ask her not to drink so fast, but that’s not actually what I meant. A moment passes, then she puts down her glass and looks at Per. “Ole doesn’t like it when I get drunk, you see, because then he’s got no control over me,” Helen says with a rippling little laugh. “But now,” she suddenly announces in a bright, jaunty voice, “I’m going for a dip.” She jumps up and starts taking off her clothes. She pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it onto the bench, then she reaches her hands behind her back, unfastens her bra and slips it off. I just sit there staring at her, desperation tearing at my gut, and I can’t get a word out. I try to smile and look as if this isn’t anything to get upset about, but it’s a pretty agonized smile. A moment passes, then she bends down and pulls off her knickers as well. She smiles at us, trying to look as if there’s nothing the slightest bit shocking about this. “Anyone want to join me?” she asks as she throws her knickers on top of her shirt.
Silence. “Hmm?” she says.
“I think I’ll pass,” I say.
“Me too,” Per says, taking care not to look at her, he must realize how embarrassing this is for me and I suppose he wants to spare me that much at least. He may come across as loud-mouthed and uncouth, Per, he’s not always as tactful as he might be, but he can tell that I’m not happy about this.
“Oh, well,” Helen says in a kind of airy, girlish voice, then she makes her way down to the water. I watch her tiptoeing unsteadily over the wet, blue-black stones, we don’t say a thing, Per and I, the crackling of the fire and the occasional cry of a gull are all that break the silence. I glance at Per as I put my hand to my whisky glass, feel a surge of warmth and affection for him. I really appreciate the way he’s dealing with this. He can be a bit too brash and blunt, Per, but he’s being tactful here, pretending there’s nothing wrong, behaving the way a good mate should, he doesn’t so much as glance at Helen.
“Oh, by the way, I ran into Eva in town this morning,” Per says, looking at me and shaking his head. “Christ, she’s aged. I hardly recognized her.”
“Just the way she was dressed, like a right old bag.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed, although I see her almost every day at Daniel’s nursery,” I say. “It’s just the same as with that guy I see in the mirror every morning,” I add, shooting a quick glance at Helen and giving a little laugh, she’s waist-deep in the water now, shivering and looking as though she’s plucking up the courage to duck right under. I turn back to Per.
“Yeah, time flies,” he says. He looks at me with his bleary, boozy eyes and gives a little laugh as well. “It’s pretty scary,” he adds.
“Yep,” I say. I look at him and smile as I take a sip of my whisky, then I notice the grave look in his eyes. He holds my gaze, smiles a little uncertainly. He’s looking at me the way people do when they want to say something, but aren’t sure whether it’s okay to do so. Maybe he wants me to say that I find it scary too, the thought of how quickly the time goes, not just reply flippantly the way I just did, but say it like I really mean it. He’s scared and he wants to hear someone say that that’s perfectly normal, maybe that’s what he’s angling for. I put down my glass and just then I hear Helen squeal. I shoot another glance in her direction, she’s in up to her shoulders, gasping as she tries to acclimatize herself to the freezing cold water.
“Aw, I think everybody our age has their moments,” I say, turning to look at Per again. I have to try to humour him a little. “I mean, we’re at that age when it starts to dawn on us that we’re not going to live forever and that we’re not going to achieve all the goals we once set for ourselves.” I say. “It comes as a shock to a lot of people to realize this,” I go on, trying to somehow make it easier for him by making out that it’s perfectly normal to worry about such things, although I’m not entirely sure what it is that’s worrying him, but I don’t think I’m too far off the mark.
“Yeah, right,” he says. There’s a kind of a glow in his bleary, booze-soaked eyes, he gazes at me intently, waiting to hear what I’m going to say next, waiting maybe for me to tell him about something that came as a shock to me, something that will make it easier and less embarrassing for him to tell me what’s worrying him.
The fire crackles and some glowing embers fly out from one side. I follow them with my eyes, watch how the wind catches them and carries them up and out across the water where they die and disappear.
“Yep,” I say. “I have my black days too, you know.”
He nods, but doesn’t say anything, eyes me gravely, waiting for me to tell him more about these black days and what they involve. But I don’t say anything, don’t quite know what to say. It’s a bit sudden all this and I’m feeling a little confused, it isn’t like the Per I know at all, to talk so openly about things like this. I don’t remember ever seeing him like this before and it knocks me a little off-balance, suddenly it’s like I don’t know where I have him.
“But you’ve done well for yourself, man,” he says. “New baby son and all that.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say, then I stop. I don’t really know what to say so I just sit there waggling my head. “I have, but … it’s just that … everybody who has kids says it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to them. And it is, in a way … but sometimes I find myself thinking it’s all a big lie, a lie that we need to believe in if we’re to cope with all the challenges of being a parent,” I say. “That it’s something we tell ourselves to give us the strength to get through each day or something like that,” I add, not exactly sure where all this is coming from, not exactly sure why I’m saying it either, maybe it’s an instinctive attempt to comfort him by reminding him that it’s not all sunshine and roses for me either, I don’t know.
“But you love him, don’t you?”
“I’d give my life for him without a second thought,” I say like a shot. I look Per straight in the eye as I say it and I feel a little thrill run through me, because it was so spontaneous, which only goes to show that it must be true, and that makes me happy.
“There you are then,” Per says. “Now me, I don’t have anyone I’m willing to give my life for.” He gives an anxious grin as he picks up his glass, keeps his eye fixed on mine as he drinks, watching carefully to see how I’ll react to what he’s saying. I look at the table, gaze at a white splatter of congealed bird shit. Just for a second, then I look up at him again, this really isn’t the Per I know and I realize that I’m growing more and more uncertain, I don’t really know what to say, so I just sit there, playing for time.
“But at the same time you have to remember that things don’t necessarily get any easier just because you have a kid,” I say, following the line I started with, trying to make his problem seem smaller by reminding him that life’s not exactly a walk in the park for me either. “There are times when I feel like running from the whole lot,” I say, “and there are times when I’m so shit-scared … that I’ve made the wrong choices or that I’m not up to it all, stuff like that …”
“There’ve been days when I didn’t dare go out of the house,” he says suddenly.
There’s silence. He looks me straight in the eye, with that anxious grin on his face, like he’s waiting to see how I’ll react. I don’t say anything, don’t know what to say, because this definitely isn’t the Per I know, and I feel a surge of unease.
“Sometimes, when I’m out among people I get so scared I break out into a cold sweat and it’s like I can’t breathe,” he goes on. “And one day last week when I was in the supermarket I left my shopping lying after I’d paid for it because I couldn’t even stay long enough to put it into the carrier bags,” he says, and he gives a strained, high-pitched laugh, still looking me straight in the eye, and I’m growing more and more uneasy because I’m liking this less and less. It’s good that he dares to be more open than he usually is, but still, it’s not right to go dumping all of this on me out of the blue, we’re not such close friends any more, after all. And anyway, he’s a bit drunk himself now, it might be hard for us to look each other in the eye later if he’s going to blurt out stuff like this. I pick up my whisky glass, take a sip and put it down again, then I look up at Per. I really don’t feel like continuing this conversation, not now, I’ve got more than enough to worry about at the moment and I can’t cope with acting as confessor for Per as well, I don’t have the energy for it, but I can’t give him the brush-off either. I know how much it costs Per to tell me what he’s just told me. It’s not the sort of thing a man from around here does just like that so I have to at least try to seem interested.
“Phew,” I say.
Silence. Per just sits there looking straight at me. A moment, and then his cheeks start to flush.
“Yeah, phew is right,” he says, then he grins and I feel a wave of mild panic wash over me: he thinks I don’t want to know. He tells me something really serious and all I can say is “Phew”? Like I’m belittling his problems, as good as saying that I really don’t want to hear about it, and now he’s sitting there looking red-faced and embarrassed. He tries to disguise it with a grin, but I can see that he’s embarrassed and he knows I can see it.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
“Like what?” Per asks, still grinning.
“Well, I…,” I say, then I shut my eyes and shake my head. “I mean, have you tried to get help?” I ask, trying to pick up where we left off, trying to show him that I really am interested and that I do care, but it’s too late, he’s realized that I really don’t feel like talking about this and that I’m only asking because I feel I should.
“Nope,” he says cockily, reaching for his glass. “Aw, what the fuck – cheers!” he cries and he looks me straight in the face and grins, then he tips back his head, drains the glass in one gulp and slams it down on the table, still staring me in the face, flushed and grinning. There’s a wild light in his eyes now, I can see the fire reflected in them, but this wild look can’t just be put down to that, there’s something else too, he looks almost crazy. It’s only there for a second or two and then he pulls himself together, looks down at the table, stays like that for a moment, then raises his eyes to me again. He’s still grinning, but his eyes seem calmer.
“Can I take another drop of your whisky?” he asks in a rather gruff voice, nodding at the bottle.
“Of course,” I say and I pick up the bottle and pour whisky for both of us.
Then Helen comes tiptoeing back up over the shingle, shivering and bent double with her arms wrapped round herself.
“Brr, it’s freezing out there,” she says, planting herself in front of the fire. She’s covered in goosebumps, shivering and chattering. “Ole, could you run up to the house and get me a towel?” she asks.
I don’t answer straight away. I don’t like the idea of leaving her alone here with Per with no clothes on. It’s bad enough for her to strip off and go skinny-dipping in front of another man, but it would be even worse for her to be left here stark naked while I’m up at the house. I can’t bring myself to say this straight out, but I look her in the eye, make it quite clear that I’m not happy about this.
“Well, could you?” she asks, acting all innocent, smiling at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“Oh, all right,” I say, getting up from the bench. I hold her eye for a second longer, but she’s still acting the innocent and my stomach wrenches as I turn and start to walk up the path. It’ll be good to get away from Per for a minute or two after what just happened – a little break, to give us a chance to forget what’s been said and then we can talk about something else, but I don’t like leaving Helen alone with him, not when she doesn’t have a stitch on. I’ve never been a particularly jealous man, but there are limits and I don’t trust her either, not when she’s in this mood. I walk up the little hill, doing my best to walk as fast as I can without looking as if I’m hurrying, don’t want to look like a jealous man who’s terrified of what his girlfriend might get up to. I don’t look back either, walk straight ahead at a normal pace until I’m out of sight and then I break into a run. I run all the way up to the house, up onto the terrace, through the living room and into the bathroom. I whip a bath towel off the shelf and dash out again. I bound back down the path until I’m almost at the top of the hill, then I slow to a walk again and stroll down the slope, looking down at them: Helen huddled in front of the fire and Per still sitting where he was when I left. I don’t quite know what I had imagined, but I feel relieved at any rate. I go over to her and hand her the towel.
“That was quick,” she says. She knows full well that I ran half the way and she’s making no secret of it. She looks at me and grins as she starts to dry her hair.
“Yep,” is all I say, smiling back at her and playing it cool. I sit down on the bench, take a drink of my whisky and gaze out across the sparkling blue fjord. The water’s like glass. On the other side, the island of Jøa lies bathed in the sort of warm, golden light that only the low evening sun can give. I put down my glass and look across at Helen. She’s fiddling with the catch on her bra, tongue between her teeth.
“Per, could you help me with this?” she says. “My fingers are so cold I can’t hook it up.” She looks at Per and smiles and Per smiles back. I look at them and feel my stomach wrench again. I don’t like this, it’s not right, she should have asked me, not Per, but I try to look as if nothing’s amiss.
“Well, I’ve actually got more experience of unhooking those things than hooking them up,” Per says, “but I guess I can manage that as well.” He eyes Helen and laughs that coarse laugh of his, and Helen laughs back, glancing me as she does so, hoping to see me looking upset now, that’s what she wants, I know it is, but I won’t give her the satisfaction. I look at them, force a little laugh as well, as if I’m chuckling at Per’s joke, then I turn away, watch a couple of eagles circling over Tømmervikfjell, hardly using their wings, gliding round and round up there. I take another sip of my whisky, conscious that I’m getting angry, resentment starting to smoulder inside me. I’ve had just about enough of her behaviour, I’m getting sick of her walking all over me, but no bloody way am I going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose my head. I’m going to have to play it as cool as I can, let her carry on, she’ll just have to take the consequences later, and this time I’m going to be firm, I’m not going to give in to tears or pleading. I’ve warned her before, but now I’ve had it, I’m not putting up with this any longer.
“You’ll have some more, right?” I hear Helen say. She’s dressed now and she’s sat down next to Per. She leans across the table and grabs the whisky bottle.
“Yes, please,” Per says.
I feel like saying that it’s actually my whisky, not hers, but I bite my tongue. I gaze up at the two eagles and listen to the glug-glug of whisky being poured. After a moment or two I hear the sound of the bottle being set back down on the table. She might have asked if I wanted a top-up as well, but no. I turn and look at my glass: just as I thought, she didn’t pour any for me either, only for Per. I turn away again, stare at the fire, feel myself growing angrier and angrier, but I try to look as if everything’s fine. A couple of moments, then Helen and Per pick up the threads of the conversation they were having while I was up at the house fetching the towel. Per’s talking about some apprentice who’s apparently as thick as two short planks. He’s not the brightest spark himself, Per. That’s probably why he’s brought up the subject of this apprentice, in an attempt to seem smarter than he actually is.
“I asked him to run down to the ironmongers and buy three kilos’ worth of anvil clangs and he actually fuckin’ fell for it,” Per says, and he roars that coarse laugh of his again. And Helen gives him what he wants, she screams with laughter at this story, although she doesn’t think it’s funny, I know she doesn’t, but she laughs anyway. I shoot a glance at them, feel like coming right out and saying that that story’s as old as the hills, it’s not something that ever happened to Per, but I don’t, I just turn away and stare at the fire. I can’t be bothered pretending I think it’s funny, so instead I try to look as if I’m miles away. I might as well be, they’re both pretty plastered and we’ve slipped farther and further apart, so I’m not really with them any more. After a minute or so I turn to to look at them, they’re sitting there gazing into each other’s eyes, looking like they have some kind of understanding, and it stabs at my heart. It only lasts a second then their eyes unlock and they pick up their glasses. I don’t say anything, but it stabs at my heart, tears at my gut and my resentment smoulders more and more fiercely. I don’t let it show, though. I won’t let her see it, no fucking way am I going to give her the satisfaction of seeing that I’m jealous, because that’s just what she wants, but there’s no way I’m going to indulge her. Moments pass and then they start talking again. I should probably say something too, ought to take some part in the conversation, but I don’t, I can’t. The talk flows so easily between them, their words weaving together so naturally and it seems more and more difficult to say something that wouldn’t be out of place, so I just sit here, slipping further and further away from them. I’m about to refill my glass, but I think better of it, I’m not in the mood to drink any more, I think it’s time to bring this party to a close. I give it a moment or two then I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. I’m not tired, but I open my mouth wide and give a big, long yawn, as a hint to Per that it’s about time to call it a night, that the party’s over and it’s time he went home.
“Aa-ah,” I say, yawning and sighing.
“Tired?” Per asks.
“Hmm?” I say, acting as if my mind was elsewhere, acting a little woozy.
“Are you tired?”
“No, no,” I say, but I rub my eye with my knuckle to make him think that I am. I wait a moment and then I turn and meet Helen’s eye. She’s onto me, I can tell, she knows what I’m up to. She flashes me a rather contemptuous little grin, then turns back to Per. She has a big smile on her face, acting even more bright and bubbly than she’s been up till now, speaking even more animatedly, laughing even louder. Moments pass, then she suddenly edges even closer to Per, does it as if purely by accident, does it in a way that she can excuse later, if I confront her with it, by saying that she was just so caught up in the conversation. I feel my stomach turn at the sight, feel a silent scream slice through me, but I just sit here, trying to look as if there’s nothing amiss, sit here acting as if I don’t care, and I don’t want to care. I wish I didn’t feel what I’m feeling now, but I’m not made that way, my stomach turns and a moment passes and then Helen lays her hand on top of Per’s, this too as if by accident, puts her hand on his as she leans forward, about to emphasize something she has said, and desperation grows and grows inside me. I just sit here yawning faintly, but it’s tearing me apart.
“Gotta take a piss,” Per says suddenly. A moment passes, but Helen doesn’t remove her hand straight away, keeps it there a second longer than necessary before letting it slide slowly off his. “What goes in, must come out,” Per says, with another laugh. He plants his hands on his thighs, gets up and walks off.
I look at Helen, give her a pained smile.
“Having fun?” I ask.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” she says. “Or is that not allowed?”
“No, of course not,” I say.
“Great,”
Silence. She picks up her wine glass, drains it in one gulp, then she grabs the bottle and refills her glass.
“Don’t you want any more?” she asks, not looking at me.
“No,” I say.
“And why not?”
I shrug, give a smile that’s a little feebler than I’d like.
“I thought it might be a good idea to have an early night if we’re going to Sweden tomorrow,” I blurt.
Her eyes bore into me.
“Ah, so we are going to Sweden now?” she says.
“Well, I thought you wanted to,” I say, still with that feeble smile on my lips. “For Jørgen’s sake, if nothing else,” I add.
“Trying to make me feel guilty now, are you?” she asks.
“What?” I ask.
She looks me straight in the eye and grins.
“Christ. Using Jørgen to make me feel guilty,” she says.
“Well, it was you who suggested we take a run over to Sweden, for Jørgen’s sake,” I say.
“Oh, ha ha,” she cries.
“Keep your voice down,” I say.
“Why should I?” she asks, her voice every bit as loud as before. She’s drunk and spoiling for a fight and she’s staring at me contemptuously.
I shut my eyes and clench my teeth for a second. I’m
torn by indecision, don’t want Per to hear this. “Helen, please,” I say under my breath.
I open my eyes and look at her. She holds my gaze for a second, then she sniffs and shakes her head.
“Okay, okay,” she says airily. “Fine by me. I’m just a passenger, though, so I don’t need to turn in yet. But just you go to bed, Ole, you want to be fresh and rested for the drive tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll stay up a while longer,” she adds, looking at me and giving me that cold, hard smile of hers. She’s goading me, she knows how much this hurts and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her if she’s enjoying this, but I don’t, I just sit there doing my damnedest not to look as desperate as I’m feeling. One second, two, and then suddenly it’s as if another person is looking out of her eyes, there’s no longer any hint of anger or contempt in them. It’s like a switch being turned on and off, now she’s got that kittenish look about her again, she tilts her head to one side and flashes me a winning smile.
“My, but you were magnificent this evening,” she says.
“Magnificent?” I murmur.
“Yes,” she says, still giving me that winning smile.
“Well you certainly weren’t,” I retort.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think?”
We sit like that, eye to eye for a second or two, then I look down at the table, run a hand over the top of my head and breathe a sigh. Then I look up at her beseechingly.
“Can’t we go to bed soon, Helen. I’m getting kind of tired.”
“I’m not,” she says, and suddenly that hard smile is back on her face. She holds my eye, pauses, then: “And anyway, who is it who goes on at me about having a threesome every time we have sex?” she says. “Who is it who dreams about seeing me being screwed by another man?”
My stomach turns at her words and I feel a wave of despair wash over me, feel my face reddening.
“Helen, please,” I murmur. “You’re drunk. Can’t we just go to bed?”
And then Per comes back. He strides across the wet, blue-black shingle, looking at us and smiling, and Helen smiles back at him. Then she turns to me again.
“What did you say?” she asked, pretending not to have heard me, she knows I won’t ask again, not when Per can hear.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Oh, right,” she says, and she turns to Per as he sits down on the bench. “Ole’s off to bed,” she says in that butter-wouldn’t-melt voice of hers, she knows how hard it’ll be for me to go off to bed without her, but she doesn’t let on. “But there’s nothing to stop us staying up a bit longer is there?” she says.
“Not at all. We can’t go to bed now, not when we’re just getting into our stride,” Per says, grinning and looking at me as he bends down and picks up a stick entangled in dry, brownish-black bladderwrack. “Hitting the sack already?” he asks, chucking the stick onto the fire.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I say, “it’s been a long week and a long day and I’m knackered.” I feel desperation tear at my gut as I say it. I don’t want to go to bed without Helen, but I’ve said several times now that I’m off to bed and I can’t bring myself to change my mind. And anyway, I’m not going to humiliate myself by sitting here watching her antics, I won’t give her the satisfaction. I’m going to bed, she can do what she likes and take the consequences.
“Okay,” Per says, he doesn’t even try to talk me out of it, lets me go just like that. “Goodnight, then,” he says.
“Goodnight,” I say, letting out a yawn as I get up from the bench.
“Goodnight,” Helen says, not even looking at me as she says it. I stand for a moment, stretching. No one says anything, the seaweed that Per threw on the fire pops and cracks and out on the skerry a gull cries, other than that all is quiet. I try to catch Helen’s eye, but she’s careful not to look my way. I don’t say a word, just look at Per and give a rather feeble smile and he looks me in the eye and smirks back at me, the sort of smirk that says he know what’s going on between Helen and me, he knows how I’m feeling right now and he does nothing to ease my pain, he does the exact opposite, he smirks, hinting at what he and Helen could get up to once I’m out of sight. I suppose he wants to pay me back for brushing him off earlier on. Either that or he misses having a woman of his own so much that he takes a sort of perverse delight in finding that other people’s relationships aren’t perfect – I’m sure that’s it. I feel like saying something mean to him, something that’ll hit him where it hurts most, maybe something about those panic attacks he was talking about, something that’ll put a little dent in that tough guy image of his at any rate. I stand there looking at him for a second and then I just start to walk away, I don’t say a word, I won’t sink to their level.