by Rachael Blok
‘Good,’ he says, feeling caught out. The change in her tone is quick. He knows he’s wrong-footed, feels uncomfortable; she’ll be able to tell he’s off balance from his voice.
‘But if I’m going to come, I need a bit of effort from you. Remind me,’ her voice becomes softer, almost a whisper, for which he is grateful, ‘remind why I should come. Remind me how happy you can make me.’
He’s sweating. What does he say?
‘Shall I send a car?’ he asks. ‘I can send a car to bring you – the train could get you here for dinner? Or fly, it’s only an hour to Heathrow.’
‘Filip, look at me.’ The phone switches to FaceTime; the ring sounds. He knows he shouldn’t press the button as Marieke is still in the room and he doesn’t want to be rude, but he wants to avert a row. Also, Marieke can’t see and he’s sure she can’t hear. He steps into the bathroom. He presses the accept button as he speaks, trying to answer quickly and get rid of the call. ‘Can you give me five minutes? I’ll call in five? I’ll just finish with Marieke?’
The screen fills with Sophie on their bed at home. The room is filled with light, the curtains are wide open. She’s undressing. One hand holds the phone, the other trails slowly across her stomach.
‘Tell me how much you want me to come, Filip. If you can tell me properly, I might just make it.’
There’s no sign of Stefan. He looks at Sophie’s skin, the light catching her curves. He feels a wave of desire, heady; a wave of shame: to be on display, such pressure now, every time.
Marieke is in the room and he needs to say goodbye, to say he’ll see her at the dinner. About to lower the phone, his heart rate quickening, he opens his mouth to speak to Marieke.
There is a slam of a glass on the table, the bang of a door. She has already left.
10
LOIS
Lois lies across Ebba’s huge bed, sinking into the mattress. Her body feels thicker, more real. The waves of nausea have progressed. Her mouth tastes metallic and she can smell Ebba’s perfume from the other side of the room. It reminds her of a thousand afternoons on this bed, talking school, friends, boys…
The rain has stopped outside and as she sits up to watch the sun tint the sky burnt orange as it begins to set, she sees Aksel in shorts, running hard back towards the house.
She had seen him and Ebba emerge from the room by the kitchen earlier, the wooden door opening slowly, Ebba’s eyes glancing left and right quickly as they stepped out. Her cheeks had been flushed.
The idea of Ebba and Aksel getting together turns her stomach. Maybe it is that too, which makes her feel so sick, so churned up.
Lois’s hand rests on her stomach for a moment: is her period coming? She can never keep track. It aches. She lifts a dress from the bottom of the bed, its folds light, like paper. Her sister’s dress for the evening.
Ebba comes out from her bathroom wrapped in a robe. Her bright blonde hair is locked up in a white towel, tendrils escaping from the edges, curling with steam.
‘Aksel is attractive,’ Lois says, watching for Ebba’s response, fingering the dress, which is red silk and floor length. The light changes the colour of the silk as it bends beneath her fingers.
‘You think so?’ Ebba sits on a stool and unpeels the towel, beginning to comb through her hair slowly, spraying oil on knots. ‘He’s OK.’
‘I don’t think it’s up for debate. Six foot, dark, amazing eyes…’ Lois thinks of him, of her distrust. ‘But cruel eyes. You know he destroyed the last company he took over? Sacked everyone then replaced their jobs with AI. That’s a lot of unemployment. And he’s going along with our People Before Profits motto, but I think it’s lip service.’
‘I suppose so,’ Ebba says, rubbing cream into her face now, patting under her eyes with her ring finger. ‘I’ve not really thought about it. He’s distributing the product, not buying the company. That’s all we need him for.’
‘Hmm…’ Lois says, lying back on the bed and looking up at the ceiling. She tilts her head a little to watch her sister’s face in the reflection of the mirror.
‘I saw you two having a chat earlier, near the kitchen. You came out looking a bit pink. Not like you to blush around men?’ Lois keeps her tone light, willing it not to be true. But the signs are there.
‘Lois!’ Ebba swings round on the stool and looks to the ceiling. ‘No! Nothing! You are the worst. Why do you always think I have love affairs going on, right, left and centre?’
Lois laughs. ‘Well, you usually do. It’s been a quiet week for you. Only the one date?’
‘Well, I like the company of men. So, sue me,’ Ebba says, and grins. ‘I’m only twenty-eight; I reckon I’ve got a couple more years before I need to stick a pin in one.’
Lois smiles, sitting up, and lifts a lipstick from the bag of make-up that Ebba has left at the bottom of the bed. ‘What about this for tonight?’ She holds up a shiny lipstick, almost black.
‘Yeah, alright,’ Ebba says, winking at her. ‘Wearing a thrash metal T-shirt too?’
‘I wish. Ebba, be careful, you know I want to turn up in jeans.’ She grins. Her thin arms wrap round her knees as she shivers, more to emphasise a point, waiting for Ebba to reveal the promised evening outfit.
‘Just wait. You’ll not want to wear anything else when you see the dress I’ve bought for you!’ Ebba says. ‘Here.’ Ebba pulls out a dress, still in its cotton cover, and she unzips it. ‘This is perfect. Spot on.’
Lois pulls a face. ‘It’s so short!’
‘Yes, but you have great legs. You’re straight up and down. This is high-necked, and it will surprise everyone to learn that you have legs at all.’
Lois unpeels the legs in question from beneath her. ‘You mean I’m so flat on top, I may as well detract from that.’
‘Definitely.’ Ebba is deadpan. ‘Anyway, you have to trust me on real-world stuff. You live for games and escaping reality. The moment life gets tricky, you disappear into those worlds you create. You’d turn up in sweatpants if it wasn’t for me.’
‘Seriously, though, is there something going on with Aksel?’ Lois asks, looking out of the window. He is stretching against the wall, leaning his arms forward while he rests his weight on his back leg.
‘No. Nothing.’ Ebba smiles. ‘Why? Are you into him? I thought you were hoping for another chance with Helen?’
‘Nope, seems that was definitely the end. A fucking dumping at a conference in LA. Almost glamorous.’ Lois tries to laugh but she sees Helen’s face. Tears swell. She thinks of what happened the next day; she’d never told Ebba, felt too ashamed. Lois feels another stomach twist. She almost retches.
‘Well, Helen doesn’t know what she’s missing,’ Ebba says. ‘But really, Lois. You need to learn to be alone. Don’t think I didn’t see a man’s shirt in your room when I Skyped you the day after Helen dumped you. I know we all have rebound flings, but you cling to people sometimes. It’s OK to be on your own, you’re enough, you know?’
Lois thinks of Helen’s last words: You just try too hard, Lois. You’re too… too pleased to see me!
Lois lowers her leg, stares out of the window again. ‘I’ll find someone at some point. Someone…’ She thinks of a distant figure, strident, funny. She’ll know, she reckons, when she meets them.
‘Only another thirty-six hours to go. Should all be over then. And then, man or woman, you can hit the dating pack with the rest of us,’ Ebba says. ‘Here, try it on.’
Lois steps out of her clothes, slipping the green dress over her head. It clings without being clingy. She looks most unlike herself, but she looks good. Even she can see that. The light is soft in the room and the mirror tilts away, stretching her shape, elongating her into someone taller, more sophisticated, distant.
‘Here, try these earrings,’ says Ebba. ‘It’s too short for tights, but I’ve got a tan we can rub in. It’ll come off in the shower. It’s got sparkle in it too. You look amazing,’ she says, standing behind Lois, lifting the earrings.
‘You’ll dazzle them all,’ she whispers.
Lois smiles at her. ‘Thank you.’
Nausea swells upwards, her mouth fills with acid. And she knows she needs to run, saying, ‘I’ll go and get changed!’
She makes it back to her bathroom only just in time.
Exhausted, her head aching, she searches once she’s rinsed her mouth. She’s got one somewhere. She bought a pack for Ebba last year, after a scare. Here.
Lifting the packet, she skims the instructions. Her fingers shake as she peels away the sticky edge.
No, it can’t be true. Like Ebba says, she can’t even cope with being on her own.
Waiting the five minutes is torture and then, there it is. The blue line.
‘Fuck,’ Lois says, sitting on the cold porcelain of the loo seat. ‘Fuck.’
NOW
11
FILIP
Time winds down as Filip takes in the details. The helicopter is still in its ascent; it’s not even been minutes. The lawn falls away beneath them, the Roman amphitheatre further away each second. The huge country house is now like a toy on the ground. The cocktail is still warm in his stomach and the blue of the October sky is vivid.
Inside the helicopter, sound ricochets like bullets. Fright ignites the air, which burns with screams and cries: cacophonous, dizzying. Filip looks round; time slows further before him. The faces of the passengers are locked in screams like a slow-motion sports playback, as though unfolding slowly, shouting for a goal.
Another scream from Ebba, further up towards the pilot, and Filip turns, blinking, the action unreal. It’s all so unreal. Marieke clings to her seat, white with fright, as Richard reaches for Sarah’s hand. Her mouth open in a cry that’s lost in the noise.
Aksel stands and falls back against the pilot’s seat, the helicopter lurching like a bird hit with a stone. Ebba takes off her seat belt, shouting at Aksel and reaching forward. She stands too, screaming, hanging on to the seat. ‘Aksel!’ But he’s out of her reach.
The pilot is shouting, ‘Sit down! Sit back down!’
What’s happening?
Aksel stumbles towards Filip, who grabs him as he tips to the side. They all sit in two long rows, facing each other, and Filip is towards the rear. Aksel’s eyes are red and he’s bent double, clutching at Filip’s hand. His breath burns hot in Filip’s ear as he mutters.
Filip knows this is important and he tries to piece the words together, sticking them to a mental wall, but already they are a jumble of sounds, rattled inside the can of the metal bird, as fear rises like bile.
Falling again, in a jolt, the helicopter shakes them all, and Aksel flies backwards.
Reaching out for him, Filip sees Aksel’s eyes close as he slips from his grip and falls back on to the pilot.
Ebba must have done up her seat belt again because when she reaches for Aksel as he sails backwards – like a perfect six dive, a graceful arc – she can’t reach him. He falls past her fingertips, crashing into the pilot’s seat.
Everyone is screaming.
Filip’s hands burn. Desperate. Aksel’s words echo in his head, tumbling.
And now they spin in descent, plummeting, whirling. Down, like a falling stone.
BEFORE
FRIDAY
12
MAARTEN
Night falls into the colours of the day like drops of midnight paint spilling into water. As they pull up to the house, Maarten stares back at the winking fairy lights woven into the thinning wisteria. Candles sit in glass lanterns on each of the steps that rise up to the huge front door.
He’d pay money to stay in the shadows tonight.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Liv says, unclicking her seat belt and leaning forward. ‘What a house!’
‘More British,’ Maarten says, ‘than real Britain.’
No one lives in these kinds of houses any more; this is Hollywood’s England. The huge manor house, with its tall wide windows edged with velvet curtains, is imposing. Up close, it’s even bigger: three storeys, with two wings that step forward at either end. Small trees in glazed pots mark a perimeter, sitting beneath the windows that rise taller than doors. Each tree is perfectly round, perfectly placed.
It knows more than me, Maarten thinks, imagining the years of secrets hidden in the walls. Is he grand enough? He’s wearing black tie. It tightens round his neck; he pushes his finger in and around the collar.
He’s half told Liv about Marieke. He needs to finish. He’s sweating. She hasn’t said much the whole way here, putting in earrings and fastening jewellery. The moment the dinner invite had been mentioned, Liv had raised her eyebrows. ‘Ostle House?’ she’d said, as though he’d said Buckingham Palace.
‘So, this Dutch politician who has been receiving the death threats,’ he starts, wanting to just say it. He has no idea why he doesn’t.
‘Let me guess. She’s an old girlfriend?’ Liv asks, still gazing through the window at the house.
‘Yes,’ he says, and then wonders why he can’t say the rest.
‘Maart, I had boyfriends before you. We’ve been married fourteen years. It’s OK that your ex-girlfriend will be at dinner. I promise not to catfight.’ She grins.
‘Yes, but could you not mention it?’
‘What, that you went out?’
Silence again. He picks his words carefully. ‘It wasn’t public knowledge. It was kind of a secret.’
Liv laughs. ‘Maart, was she married? Were you her bit on the side?’
He could just leave it there, but he never lies to Liv. It would feel like a lie, if he and Marieke held this secret between them, in a room with Liv. It would tighten the secret, turn it into a tie. Liv needs to be on the inside.
Then why does she still not know? Why isn’t he just telling her?
He tries again. ‘She wasn’t married, but she might have had a partner, we didn’t really talk about…’
Liv looks at him, waiting.
‘She was my boss at the time, though. And, well…’ He picks up his wallet, pulls the keys out of the ignition. The engine is quiet now. Liv has her hand on the door handle.
‘Well, it got in the way of work once, and so I asked her not to say anything. Please, I wanted you to know. It’s obviously all over now. It was short-lived and it was years ago. But it wouldn’t do any good for anyone else to know.’
Liv looks at him. ‘Maart, you have a secret you have never told me. I’m not sure if I mind, or if it’s wildly sexy.’
He coughs, the sound flying out of him like a pebble he’s been choking on. ‘Neither!’ he says. ‘It was a long time ago.’ He glances at her sideways.
He’s been so ashamed, for so long. It’s harder than he thought.
They climb out of the car. The sky is now a deep black velvet, stars like sequins. The evening is unusually warm for October. Liv’s not wearing a jacket and her arms are bare; she wears a backless black jumpsuit. Her blonde hair is curled up, pinned, and she’s a few inches taller in heels.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t want to come,’ she says. ‘We never get dressed up. I know it’s work, Maart, but I can’t wait for a grown-up night out without the kids. Archipelago are major now. I bet the bubbles will be the real stuff.’
Still hesitating, he watches her climb the stone steps, thinking she looks caught out of time against the vast green door with its ornate brass knocker. There is something out of time about the evening. Talking to Liv about Marieke has brought the past hurtling forward, colliding with the present like atoms in a reactor. His head vibrates with the sound of his blood quickening, beating at his temples.
Maarten! Stop! The rain, heavy that night. His mind fogged but frantic. A wilting bunch of flowers still in his hand. He’d thought Marieke would be pleased with a surprise visit. But the pitying look on her face when he had burst into her apartment… And then he’d run back to his car. When the work call came through…
They had both stayed silent for twenty years. There’s no reason to think that w
ill change tonight.
‘Come on, Maart! What are you waiting for?’ Liv smiles at him and he stirs himself.
*
They are greeted by a young blonde woman, her hair lighter than Liv’s – almost Scandi, whereas Liv has hints of brunette beneath the sun’s highlights. This woman is sleek in a long red dress, and her eyebrows are raised in a question as she leans forward to greet Liv with a kiss on each cheek, finding her name quickly and smoothing their way in; handing Maarten a glass of champagne as he steps on the antique rug that lies across the huge hall.
‘Ebba Munch,’ she says, as Liv moves forward and it’s his turn to be embraced, lightly. ‘It’s DCI Jansen, isn’t it – how lovely. We’ll all feel much safer knowing you’re here. So good of you to take this seriously.’
She smells expensive; her dress drops low at the back. He’d wondered briefly if Liv would be overdressed for dinner when she’d come down the stairs earlier into their kitchen, which had been wet with the papier mâché of Sanne’s Halloween mask; Nic slouched on a chair, her face covered with an iPad. But no. Liv blends into the room like a shell on a beach and he curses his shabby dinner jacket. No one defers to the cheapest suit in the room.
‘Filip Schmidt.’ A man appears at his elbow and Maarten recognises the name.
‘Maarten Jansen,’ he replies.
‘Police? Is that right?’ Filip’s eyes scan the room quickly, returning to Maarten.
Unsure of how much Marieke has said about her police protection, Maarten bats it away lightly, nodding, and recognising Filip’s accent, he replies in Dutch. ‘My wife told me we had to come for the champagne.’
Filip smiles, though his eyes stay on the ground. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Rotterdam,’ Maarten says, ‘originally.’
‘Me too,’ Filip says, and glances at his glass. ‘Well, I’m no connoisseur. One glass tastes much like any other, but I guess this is expensive. It seems nothing has been spared.’