‘Every … time …’ Margot gulps to get the words out between sobs ‘… I spend time … with people … I like—’ she dissolves into hiccups and does some loud sniffing before she can resume her sentence ‘—they never … like … me.’
There is an awkward silence, at least on my part. Then Melissa pipes up. ‘Of course we like you!’ She pokes at my thigh, urging me to follow her lead.
‘Yes!’ I blurt. ‘I didn’t mean it, that stuff I said – it was the gin talking!’
But Margot won’t be consoled. Her bottom lip is trembling and she’s battling snot now, so I scrunch up some loo roll for her to have a wipe with. Once I’ve leant over the top of the toilet door and delivered my gift of several sheets of two-ply, I poke at Melissa.
‘Go on!’ I tell her.
‘What?’ Melissa hushes me.
‘Say something else! Something nice! Please?’ I beg. ‘You’re good at all that.’
‘What?’
‘You know, talking and stuff – words coming out of your face …’ I’m floundering now.
‘No!’ she hisses. ‘This is your crap-storm, you clean it up!’
Must everything relate to excrement with my sister? Seemingly so …
‘Margot?’ I try, looking back over the plywood wall. ‘Margot! Listen – what you just heard … Ignore me. Forget about it. I shouldn’t have said—’
‘But you meant it!’ she wails.
‘No! Not really.’ I glance back at my sister, still hoping for backup. She makes a V-sign with her fingers and points them at me, then at the cubicle next door. What? ‘What does that even mean?’ I hiss. ‘I have no idea what you’re on about!’
Melissa shakes her head in despair. ‘Just keep talking! To her!’ she whispers back.
So I do.
‘I didn’t mean mean it,’ I go on. ‘It’s just that you can sometimes come across a bit … perfect … what with your hair and your face and your tiny bottom and nice arms and your no-bra policy—’
‘What?’ Margot cups her hands to her chest defensively and Melissa mimes slitting her throat to indicate that I might just be making things worse.
‘Sorry, that’s not important right now,’ I say, trying to dismiss my previous point. ‘You’re also clever and good at things and young. So young …’ I lose my train of thought momentarily.
‘That’s not my fault …’ Margot retaliates, quite rightly.
‘No, it isn’t,’ I say. ‘I think I was just—’ I take a deep breath before I can bring myself to say the words ‘—a bit jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ She looks wide-eyed. ‘Of me?’
‘Mmm,’ I murmur, embarrassed now. ‘As though we were somehow in competition—’ I break off, aware that I’m flattering myself by even entertaining this notion.
‘Basically, I think my sister would quite like to be you.’ Melissa cups her hands and speaks into the wall. Oh, so NOW she’s joining in? Thanks a lot … ‘Isn’t that right, Alice?’ Melissa raises her eyebrows at me encouragingly.
Really? Is my vilification to be quite so complete? Thank god for the gin, I think. This would be far too much, sober …
‘Yes,’ I manage, jaw clenched. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘See?’ Melissa beams. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ She hops off the loo seat looking pleased with herself.
I step down, tentatively, and between us we coax Margot out of the stall. Her feline eyes are pink from prolonged crying and her brow is crinkled with confusion.
And yet … still pretty! How does that work?!
‘Come here, come to mama bear,’ Melissa says, inexplicably maternal all of a sudden. She holds out her arms and envelops Margot into one of her best hugs as the younger woman attempts to compose herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again – for what must be the twentieth time today.
‘’S’OK,’ Margot mumbles, wiping away tears. ‘But you would tell me, wouldn’t you?’ she asks. ‘If there are things I do that put people off? Because this happens a lot …’ She’s crying again. ‘At school …’ She sniffs. ‘University …’ Her sentence is further punctuated by a nose blow. ‘… even the Duke of Edinburgh Awards! Though of course Phil would never say anything to Daddy …’
‘Of course he wouldn’t.’ Melissa strokes Margot’s hair and shushes her as I fight the urge to roll my eyes. ‘But perhaps,’ my sister offers, ‘you could do with … relaxing a bit more?’
‘Mmm.’ I make a tentative ‘agreeing’ noise then try to get in on the hugging and head-stroking action.
Is this what girls do in these sorts of situations?
But Melissa breaks away and both women stare at me.
‘I mean you as well,’ Melissa tells me. ‘No one likes a smartarse and there’s no need to make everything a competition.’
Oh …
‘No …’ Margot and I say in unison, struggling to take on these new life lessons.
‘But it’s never too late to change.’ She turns back to Margot. ‘Look at my sister? She’s been uptight for thirty-seven years—’
‘I have not!’ I retort on reflex.
‘You have,’ Melissa corrects me.
‘Not … ?’ I’m less sure now.
‘OK, what was the last party you went to where you let your too-long hair down?’ she asks.
‘The last party? That’s your metric? Are we fifteen?’ I flash her my best ‘teenage’ look and wonder aloud whether a dentistry conference counts. Melissa shakes her head and a pitying expression comes over her. ‘In that case, I don’t know,’ I concede. In truth, it may have been the millennium. ‘I used to be fun once, didn’t I?’ There is silence. ‘Then suddenly, one day, I woke up with two kids and a Renault Espace …’
‘You both just need to … loosen up more,’ Melissa goes on, giving a – possibly drunken – shimmy to illustrate ‘optimal loosening’.
‘Like how?’ I ask, cautiously.
‘Like …’ Melissa thinks of a suitable example, before settling on, ‘Like Tricia! Come on, I’ll show you.’ With this, she boots open the toilet door, links an arm in each of ours, and leads us back out into the now buzzing bar where a bouffant blonde bob is just visible amidst a crowd of cheering Vikings. She stands, legs apart, breasts hoiked together like buns by a fire-warmed brassiere, a clutch of silverware in one hand and tumbler of ‘brown liquid’ in the other.
‘Tricia?’
‘There you are!’ she greets us enthusiastically. ‘Are you having a marvellous time? I’m having a marvellous time! It turns out that when I get drunk, I can speak Danish!’ She slurs something incomprehensible at a passing Viking who looks perplexed.
‘What are you doing with those?’ I point to the knives in her hand.
‘Ah! Well.’ She looks pleased to have the opportunity to explain her cunning ploy. ‘I’ve been chatting to the indigenous, and with the help of my push-up bra, I have negotiated a deal whereby we’ll all get a free beverage of our choosing, every time I can hit that corkboard, over—’ she squints at the far side of the room ‘—there! At least, I think that’s where it is … I was telling everyone all about our axe-throwing lesson and then I thought, “Why not show them?” Here, hold my drink …’ A glass is deposited in my sister’s hands as Tricia turns to take aim, before any of us can form the words to dissuade her. I reach out, in what feels like slow motion, to catch her right arm as it swings back to launch weaponry in the direction of the immaculate clientele, when a voice from the entrance halts Tricia in her tracks.
‘Stop!’
Silhouetted by a crack of lightning from the outside world stands a statuesque figure: her mane of glossy hair apparently undiminished by a pounding from the elements.
Sleek and surefooted, Inge gusts into the bar as a ripple of awareness follows her. Even the catalogue-esque clientele pale in comparison with her Amazonian form and self-assured presence, and one by one they greet her, vying for her attention. But Inge’s eyes are only on Tricia. The crowd parts as she marches over and confiscates the cutlery.
‘I’ll take those, thanks,’ says Inge, returning them to their rightful place behind the bar.
‘Sorry,’ mumbles Tricia.
‘Never apologise,’ Inge holds up a hand. ‘Just keep your axe-throwing for outside.’
‘Right, yes. Got it.’ Tricia nods. ‘But for all of us running off, too … and for taking the boat …’
‘Yeah, that was a little dumb,’ Inge concedes. ‘In a storm. When there was no hope of seeing a swan … But I must congratulate you all on your wanderlust and seafaring spirit.’
‘You must?’ I’m stupefied.
‘Of course,’ she says.
‘Even though we almost drowned?’ Margot asks.
‘None of you died, did you?’ Inge clarifies, doing a quick headcount.
‘But we nearly did. Twice, in my case …’ Margot starts up again, before Melissa gives her a look that says, ‘You know that thing we talked about when you can be a massive goody-goody who takes things too literally and puts people off? Yeah, this is one of those times. Stop talking. Now.’
‘You were Vikings,’ Inge tells us. We all stand a little taller on hearing this. ‘You survived. Otto gave me the heads up that I’d find you here – and that you’d made it together. Which means you’re ready – for tomorrow. For the final stage of your training. You’re ready for—’ even before she can say the word, I tense up ‘—berserking!’
Bile rises in my throat. Because in spite of all we’ve been through and everything I’ve learned, I still don’t feel as though ‘me’ and ‘berserking’ are entities that should ever go together. How am I going to be able to slough off thirty-seven years’ worth of ‘uptightness’ – as Melissa puts it – to be able to do the whole running, shouting, naked thing in a few short hours? I’m fretting now, so I’m relieved when Inge tells us that there’s a supplementary step we’ll be taking together first.
‘Although I’m proud of you for making your own way here and getting through the week, we still have some work to do around honesty. Wouldn’t you say?’ She looks at each of us in turn. ‘There have been secrets. Lies. Concealments – even from yourselves. To be a Viking, you need to be true to yourself. To finally go berserk, you need to know who you are and what you stand for.’
This is all sounding a little more earnest than I’m normally comfortable with. But somehow, I can’t think of any cynical quips. Maybe it’s the gin. Maybe it’s the quinine. Maybe it’s the ABBA playing on loop … Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the fact that already today I have reckoned with the prospect of losing my sister, fought my way back to her, battled storms – literal and metaphorical – and been humbled in ways I could never have imagined when I woke up this morning. It’s as though I’ve been broken down, only to be built back up, better than before. So if there were ever a time to embrace my ‘inner truth’ and bare my soul in as un-British a way as possible, it’s probably around now, I reason.
‘I want you all to focus on what’s holding you back and what you’re going to do about it,’ Inge tells us, taking a seat at the head of a table and gesturing for us to join her on the wooden benches. ‘Because we all have to share a world. So anything you’re preoccupied with on the inside, now’s the time to get it out. Own up to it here, tonight, so we can move on.’
‘Like a sort of honesty arms amnesty?’ Melissa asks.
‘A little like that, yes,’ Inge indulges her.
‘Ooh, can we have a mantra?’ Tricia requests. ‘I love a mantra on a retreat. Or a manifesto!’
‘The Viking Convention!’ Margot pipes up. ‘Like the Geneva Convention,’ she adds for the benefit of the rest of us in case we don’t quite ‘get it’.
I get it, Margot, I think. But I let it lie. Because I am the NEW, improved Alice!
‘Sure.’ Inge shrugs, as though aware she only has to humour us for another twenty-four hours. ‘So The Viking Convention “Protocol I”.’
‘I plan to stop being a – what was it, Alice?’ Margot looks at me, then remembers. ‘Oh, “a pain in the arse knob-head”. And to try relaxing more.’
She says this totally innocently, apparently unaware she is landing me in it, even deeper than I’m already mired.
Inge is appalled and even Tricia looks as though she’s trying very hard to raise her eyebrows where the effects of the latest batch of botulism are starting to wear off.
‘I SAID, I was REALLY sorry about that,’ I clarify for the rest of the party.
‘No, it’s OK,’ Margot assures me, eyes still wide. ‘Feedback’s a gift, as they said on my gold DofE—’
The rest of us look blank.
‘Oh, sorry, the Gold Duke of Edinburgh Award – to complete the process, you have to meet your assessors and talk about what you’ve done and what you can do better in future. A bit like this! Only with fewer near-death experiences. Usually.’
Margot, I understand now, isn’t a bad person. She’s just inexperienced of the ways of the world beyond her £36,000-a-year boarding school and (en)titled social circle. And yes, I know exactly how much her schooling cost because old Alice Googled it. Back when she had a contraband phone and hadn’t learned about things like ‘honesty’, ‘humility’ and shades of grey.
‘So anyway, I’m going to cut loose more!’ Margot announces with a flourish, beckoning over a heart-stopping beautiful barman bearing a tray of aquavit and downing two shots in quick succession. ‘Mmm, umami …’
‘Good for you!’ Melissa gives Margot a slap on the back that almost makes her aquavit go down the wrong way, before adding, ‘And maybe tell people you can’t swim next time you’re near open water, OK?’
‘Oh yes, that.’ Margot blushes.
Inge looks momentarily surprised. Then she nods sagely, murmuring something in Danish.
‘What’s that?’ Melissa demands.
‘I said, “textbook stuff”,’ Inge clarifies. ‘It’s your classic overachiever: self-conscious about the seemingly simple skills or activities they haven’t yet mastered. A lot of highly successful people can’t drive, for instance—’
I experience a momentary a tinge of disappointment that I can both swim and drive.
‘Or cook,’ Inge goes on. I ruffle my feathers with tentative pride, wondering whether I can put my sub-par culinary skills down to overcompensating in other areas of life. ‘Though of course, this can just be laziness,’ Inge continues.
Oh …
‘Well, I’m going to sign up for swimming lessons as soon as we get home,’ Margot announces. ‘And stop treating life like one long competition for who can accrue the most House Points …’ She tails off in what I suspect is a rose-tinted recollection of her glory days at school. Playing lacrosse and snaffling buns in the prefects’ common room, probably, I think. Although it’s also possible that I’m projecting my own Mallory Towers fantasies here. Melissa wasn’t the only one who liked Enid Blyton, I am now prepared to admit.
‘Great,’ Inge moves us on. ‘And you, Tricia?’
‘Oh, god, me …’ Tricia puffs out her cheeks and adjusts her bra. Those padded T-shirt bras take an age to dry. She’ll catch a chill if she’s not careful … I worry. Then I stop: Shut up, Alice! You’re boring yourself …
The beautiful barman passes back with a depleted tray of shots so I take one to silence my inner monologue. The potato liquor is as much of an assault on my senses as expected. It’s almost … chewy. I try not to gag.
‘I’m going to think about what’s really important rather than running away all the time,’ Tricia starts, ‘to Ibiza, or Arizona, or … well … here. In fact, I might stop running all together – doesn’t do anything for the knees at my age: makes me want to throw up most of the time and I’m pretty sure it’s contributed to making my face look like a collapsed mineshaft – without “help”,’ she adds, tapping the area underneath her eye and feeling her brow to check it’s still eerily smooth. ‘I’ve spent the past thirty years grafting, seeking out the celebrity waft – Phil Collins, Anneka Rice, et al – dry ice machine turned up to eleven. But all it got me was fired from a job I hated and dumped by a man with a hairy back (and I mean really hairy – like he was wearing a jumper. Clogged up the shower no end – as if a woodland creature had taken up residence in the plughole). Anyway, the point is, it wasn’t great. Overall, I mean. So maybe it’s time for change. To think about what comes next.’ We nod, supportively. ‘I’m no good at doing nothing – The Shipping Forecast followed by Gardeners’ Question Time banging on about a pensioner’s bush? No thanks. I need to work. I’ll get another job, somewhere. And it’ll be marginally more interesting than the previous one. But I’ll stop running. Spend more time with the dogs. And my son.’
‘Right, yes,’ I say, in as supportive a tone as I can, trying not to dwell on the fact that her son came after the dogs in Tricia’s list of priorities. Again.
‘He’s all grown-up now, of course. Married, even. Pretty girl, nice eyes. Works as an accountant,’ She pulls a face. ‘But in general, a good egg. And he’s turned into a very pleasant human being, in spite of his parents. So it would be nice to see more of him …’ She looks wistful and Inge lays a hand on her arm.
‘Reconciling with your son would be a very good plan,’ she says. ‘However much they annoy us, kids are for life and family is important.’ Here, Inge shoots me a look. ‘So we need to work at these relationships,’ she adds.
Melissa gives me an arm punch. ‘D’you think she means us, too?’
‘Ow! Yes, yes I do.’ I sigh. ‘But you have to stop doing that – it really hurts!’
‘Oh, come on! Build a bridge. Get over it!’ Melissa scoffs as I resolve to work on my own unique Melissa-greeting. A sisterly Chinese burn perhaps? I wonder. A sibling wedgie?
‘Melissa? Are you volunteering to go next?’ Inge interrupts.
‘Me?’ Melissa asks.
‘Yes, go on: what’s your plan for moving forward?’
‘Erm …’ she hesitates for a moment before coming up with. ‘Carry on being a legend’?’
‘Try again,’ Inge tells her, firmly though not unkindly.
‘Umm, OK … well.’ Melissa frowns. ‘Well, I suppose, I’m going to try not to live in the past so much. What with all that’s coming up—’ she looks at me here ‘—I need to get better at taking each day as it comes. Living in the now.’
Inge looks as though someone has just presented her with Alexander Skarsgård, starkers – a bottle of schnapps in each hand. ‘That’s it!’ she tells Melissa, slapping the table in triumph. ‘Well done.’
‘Have we left anyone out?’ Tricia asks, looking around as I try to shrink further down into the bench to evade scrutiny. ‘We’ve done Margot, me, Melissa …’ Her eyes rest on me. ‘Alice!’
‘Ah yes, Alice!’ Inge turns to me. ‘Anything you’d like to share?’
I’ve learned so much over the past few days. Where to start?
‘I’m going to stop being an idiot. I’m going to put my own oxygen mask on first—’ I nod to Inge, then catch sight of Melissa ‘—and I’m going to spend time with the people I care about.’
‘And forget about perfection,’ Inge adds, swishing her unicorn’s mane.
Margot spills some of her spud juice at this. ‘Easy for you to say …’ she slurs, as four pairs of eyes swivel towards her, surprised by this outburst.
Inge smiles. ‘Ah, you and Alice and your perfection!’ She shakes her head. ‘I said it to her and I’ll say it to you: perfection doesn’t exist.’
‘Show her your arse!’ I heckle, remembering what first won me around to Inge’s way of thinking. Then I realise the inappropriateness of what I’ve just demanded and backtrack. ‘Sorry, sorry, I—’
‘No apologies!’ the other women bark at me in unison.
‘Right. No. As you were – bum out! Or not, whatever you like …’ Befuddled, I drink more, instead – as Inge obliges. Standing up to give us the full benefit of her impressive stature, she drops her trousers and bends over to flash Margot her behind.
‘Battle scars!’ she tells her, adding, ‘we all have them, whether you can see them or not. And we need to own them.’ At this moment, the insanely hot barman passes again, replenishing our glasses, followed by Otto, delivering snacks (for all of us) and snogs (exclusively for Melissa). Inge pulls her trousers up, in no sort of hurry and as though it were the most normal thing in the world to get your arse out in public, then sits, slowly, as Tricia, Margot and I down our drinks for fortification.
Stubble-rashed and light-headed on lust, my sister promises she’ll see Otto before she goes before turning back to the group.
We finish a final round of drinks in comfortable, companionable silence, each contemplating all that has happened and cementing the pledges we have made for the future: to be more honest. To be more Viking.
‘You’ve done well.’ Inge stands finally and announces that it’s time to leave. ‘You have a big day tomorrow, you’ll want to rest up.’ She tells us that Magnus – here we all pull a face – is back on his feet so he’ll be leading the running part and pushing us hard. ‘So come on, I’ll drive us home.’
‘Did you say drive?’ Tricia is baffled. ‘Aren’t we on an island?’
Inge looks at her. ‘No?’
‘What?’ Melissa’s head snaps up. ‘But we came by boat …’
‘I thought you just wanted the adventure,’ says Inge, frowning. ‘We’re not on an island, it’s a tombolo.’
‘A tom … what?’ Tricia asks again as Margot slaps her forehead.
‘A tombolo! Of course!’ Margot exclaims, delighted at the opportunity to finally make use of her first class (Hons) Geography degree. ‘A land mass attached to the mainland, by a spit or, in this case, a road—’
‘Wait, so hang on, there was no need come by boat?’ Melissa checks, doubtfully. Inge shakes her head. ‘Shit a brick …’ is Melissa’s instant, unguarded response. Her eyes widen as she turns, slowly, to face the rest of us. ‘Sorry …’ she starts to say, before Margot interrupts by walloping my sister on the arm.
‘Never apologise!’ she says, before adding, ‘I wouldn’t have missed tonight for the world!’