by Rachael Blok
‘Absolutely.’ Ebba smiles.
There’s a knock on the door. ‘That will be my reminder. Maarten Jansen is here with a few questions.’ Ebba rises, looking round the room. ‘I’ll have to go,’ she says. ‘I think we’re all set? I’ll let the press know to expect us as planned.’
She exits.
‘Good decision,’ Aksel says, and it is this, and the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth, that reawakens the hangover in Filip, the crushing weight of his sense of a need to fight. Fight against the apathy and acquiescence that is draining everything he used to be. He sees Aksel again, with his arm around Sophie. He’s never known if she slept with him on their honeymoon. If she had, it would kill him. Aksel has already robbed him of his self-esteem, his confidence with Sophie. Months of failed sex, embarrassment, shame. Months of it. And he’s been close to throwing it all away. It’s eaten into him. He can’t roll over on this too.
‘No,’ he says, standing up. ‘I do want to think about it. I’m not speaking to the press just yet. I’ll speak to Ruben. Give me a couple of hours.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Aksel says. ‘This is the big league now, Filip. There’s an international spotlight on this.’
But Filip leaves the room. His hands are shaking.
*
‘Filip!’ It’s Lois. She runs after him in the hall. ‘You do whatever you need to do, I’m not going to pressure you. Look, I have something to show you. It’s not about the deal,’ she says. ‘Do you have five minutes?’
Nodding, the weight of the morning crushes his brain.
She opens the heavy front door and steps out into the damp, and the freshness of the morning is a physical relief; wetness clinging to the air like it’s pulling on an autumn coat.
The mist sits low over the trees as they head towards a clump of willows, whose arms fall and curve to the ground like they’re shielding their young. Standing next to them, Lois gives him a headset device, to cover his eyes and his ears. It’s sleek, padded. It’s lighter than he was expecting.
‘Try it,’ she says.
‘What, here?’ He glances around but her excitement is infectious.
‘Yes, try it. Put it on as normal. It’s fully charged. The graphics are all programmed into the headset – you can take it outside. And here, these gloves too; they have panels in the fingertips. Then you control the panels like this.’ She points at the raised keys. ‘Look, you can feel the different buttons, they’ve shapes. It’s for inside or outside. It’s a new mindfulness programme. You don’t need to do it outside, but I like feeling the grass under my feet. It’s better—’
He’s picking the headset, feeling the buttons, and he slips it over his head.
And the world changes. He feels the stress ebbing away. This is what he loves. This is a product he believes in.
The screen opens up and he chooses his location. He picks a mountaintop, and birds fly above him, the sound sliding with them. He turns his head up to see them, and they’re heading towards the horizon. The sun flashes, and he has to duck his head slightly, blinking. Changing locations, he’s in a rainforest. He walks forward, hands outstretched. There’s a waterfall ahead and, as he reaches out, there’s a light spray on his fingers.
‘But how?’ he asks.
‘Do you like it? It’s built on the same principles as the superhero game, but I’ve moved the sound and touch qualities across to encourage mindfulness. You can be anywhere, in your own room. We can market it as aiding mental health. It will help those who feel isolated. We all want the games, but we also just want to feel as though we’re outside, somewhere else. You really feel it, don’t you?’
Filip nods. He switches to a beach, and the sound of the waves laps ahead of him.
‘Lois, this is something else. And we will bring this out soon, once the game is launched?’
‘Yes. We’ll need to agree it. We’re all shareholders now, but I want to run a demonstration soon. Iqbal’s been working really hard with me – we’ve worked round the clock recently.’
And Filip feels his indecision wavering again. ‘I feel like I own the world in here.’
‘Yes, it’s a way to really reach out in nature, from the most urban of rooms. And you can join friends here. Even those from other countries. Face-to-face connection is important, and now we can do it side by side.’
He’s lost at sea, he thinks, watching the waves lap before him. He needs anchoring.
34
MAARTEN
Maarten’s head throbs. Marieke goes to reach out, but seems to think better of it and instead asks, ‘Does it hurt?’
‘It’s fine,’ he says.
She looks tired today. He feels exhausted. Wrung out. The garden is colder. October seems to realise it’s drawing to a close, paling, stepping out of the way for November’s chill. He plunges his hands in his coat pockets, digging for warmth.
‘What do you think? Really? I’ve asked Ebba to cancel today. If it were up to me, we’d shut the day down. Someone has found a way into the house, via the staff.’ He pauses, not wanting to scare her. ‘Or maybe, even the guests themselves. Don’t discount it, Marieke. Someone is here to maybe hurt you. It could be closer than you think – they could be closer.’
He thinks of the guests round the table. Of the tension in the air. He thinks he doesn’t want Marieke to be hurt. Not just because he’s protecting her and it’s on his watch: she meant something to him once and that still counts.
Lifting her head, she stares at the sky. Clouds skit quickly across the pale blue.
There must be wind up high, Maarten thinks. They will need to think about the helicopter ride later. But he can’t control the skies. He’s pushing against his boss, Ebba, and even Marieke. He wants it all shut down, because it doesn’t feel right. It feels dangerous.
‘I think we should just go ahead,’ Marieke says, still looking upwards. ‘I hear what you’re saying. It could be close to home. But there’s a lot at stake here. Archipelago have made a big public statement reducing their slavery footprint and trying to pay a living wage, all the way down the chain. You know how much that costs? And yet they’re thriving and won the franchise by standing up for those values. They’re proving it’s possible and beneficial. I’m trying my best to make the world follow suit.’
Her eyes, brown and serious, are steady. ‘This is important to me, Maarten.’
She kicks a pile of leaves. The trees wave in the breeze; more leaves fall, brown, orange and twisting in their descent. ‘It’s important.’
With a last look at the helicopter, they head to the house. Maarten’s feet land heavily on the grass. He drinks in the crisp air. The heat from yesterday has fallen away.
Lois’s laugh sounds clearly across the garden. She and Filip stand in a cluster of trees up ahead.
Maarten and Marieke make their way towards Aksel, sitting outside the huge French doors at the table that overlooks the garden. Coffee and croissants are laid out, and Ebba steadies herself, with a tray of cakes and biscuits.
‘Let me help you.’ Aksel rises, taking the tray from Ebba.
Maarten pulls out a chair, waiting for Aksel to say something. Will he say anything? Surely he wouldn’t have mentioned it earlier, if he wasn’t planning something?
Sophie appears at the door, leaning against the frame for a second.
‘Coffee?’ Ebba asks, filling cups.
‘Hello. How lovely you could join us this morning!’ Sarah greets Maarten with kisses on each cheek, and he shakes hands with Richard. They both pull up a chair at the table. Maarten tries to smile. A weight of responsibility sits between his shoulder blades, cutting.
‘We’ve just walked down to the Roman theatre. It’s beautiful,’ Sarah says, her arm looped through Richard’s. ‘If you get a chance, you should visit. It’s like an amphitheatre, but it’s actually the only Roman theatre in Britain – it has a stage, which I think is the difference. We’ve seen a few things there, over the years.’ She aims this last
part at Marieke, and they all settle into their chairs, the iron feet scraping against the stone terrace. Maarten sees Filip wincing at the sound as he climbs the steps with Lois.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Ebba calls. ‘We have something stronger for anyone who wishes. Lois is bringing cocktails out in a little bit. Not everyone had a chance for breakfast, so croissants are here too.’
The breeze gusts Lois and Filip up the last steps and Sophie pulls a thick cardigan round her shoulders, offering her cheek to Filip as he pulls out a chair beside her.
Like miasma, the previous evening hangs as everyone assembles around the table. Filip’s eyes don’t quite meet the group. His face, blank.
Maarten takes a croissant, trying not to look at him too hard. Filip had been the angriest last night when he’d spoken to him, but Aksel is clearly playing his own game. He’d been over-courteous to Sophie, who today looks pale, hugged by knitwear, her hair loose and long.
The croissant melts as he chews and he takes another. He’s had no breakfast, and drinking the coffee makes his stomach rumble.
‘Looking forward to the games later,’ Aksel says, looking at Lois. But Filip stares at him, frowning. Sophie watches Filip. Lois tries to catch Ebba’s eye, but she is talking to Sarah. Richard drinks coffee, staring at the helicopter, looking nervous. ‘Have you flown in it often?’ he asks no one in particular.
Leaning back in the wrought-iron chair, its green cushion soft against his back, Maarten scans the guests. They speak of the weather, of the helicopter sitting much further down the lawn. It looks like a huge drone. Again, he feels caught out of time. Like he’s in the setting for a play. Did one of them send the letter? Did one of them hit him? What secrets do they all know? How do they all fit together?
Someone round this table, he thinks, is playing tricks to get what they want. Someone is unbalancing the scales.
He has to unravel it all quickly. Before it’s too late.
35
LOIS
‘We have Halloween treats!’ Lois sees Marieke, in casual trousers and boots, coming out of the house with armfuls of something.
‘What’s this?’ Aksel says. He wears a roll-neck jumper and Tom Ford sunglasses, black, and he looks like he could be fresh off the slopes, tanned, relaxed.
Marieke had disappeared upstairs for a sweater and she returns, cashmere snuggled up against her skin, and slips a Halloween mask on her face. ‘I’ve a few, here.’ She hands them out. ‘I thought we could make a photo – an informal shot before we do the press conference later.’
Sophie takes one, laughing, and pulls a witch’s mask over her face. ‘Give me a kiss, Filip,’ she says, pressing the mask up against his cheek.
There’s something different about them, Lois thinks. Last night he had been jumpy; Sophie’s fingers – they’d shaken as she’d arrived; and there had been his blush when he’d dropped the lie that she had been ill. Now they seem relaxed, open.
You never know, Lois thinks, you never know what’s happening between people. Maybe even they don’t. She watches Filip reach for Sophie’s fingers, then almost as he’s about to hold them, he pulls his hand away.
Filip hadn’t agreed to release his signature, and she hasn’t told Ebba yet. She needs to find a time to do it before they leave in the helicopter.
Ebba is talking to Aksel. They stand slightly apart from the group; his mask is green like a goblin, and her hair stands out blonder still against the black of his clothes.
They really look good together, Lois thinks again. She wonders how she will cope with it, if she loses Ebba to him.
‘You want one?’ Marieke says, her voice soft at Lois’s elbow.
‘What about this?’ She pulls out a Venetian-style clown mask, which covers the surrounds of her eyes. ‘What do you think?’
‘Stunning,’ Marieke says, leaning in. ‘Here, a photo.’
Lois smiles and Marieke whispers quietly, ‘Are you feeling OK, Lois? I heard you being sick this morning.’
Stricken, Lois nods. ‘I think I must have drunk too much last night,’ she says, looking at her toes, glancing at Ebba and Aksel, looking at her fingernails.
‘It’s OK, I will say nothing,’ Marieke says. ‘But you can talk to me, if you wish. I suffered terribly, all the way through. They say ginger helps, but sometimes nothing helps. It’s a blessing, but not for everyone?’
The urge to come out with all of it is strong. Lois manages to smile. Marieke isn’t usually so kind to her. Lois’s eyes are wet, she bites her lip. ‘A blessing – yes, exactly that. But so soon. Too soon! I’m so happy, but…’
‘Say no more. Tell me when you’re ready, if you want to. I raised my child on my own. I never regret any of it. I just don’t talk about her – avoid the trolls, to keep her safe.’
Biting her lip, Lois shakes her head. ‘I know it’s too early to trust in anything, but if we make it to the twelve weeks, I’m definitely going through with it – my body, it’s different even now.’ Closing her eyes, Lois thinks of how fate unwinds. That one afternoon.
‘Well then,’ Marieke pats her arm, ‘you are already fighting.’
Cakes with Halloween faces are passed round. Iqbal winks at Lois as he brings the tray.
‘Is it Iqbal? The father?’ Marieke asks.
‘No,’ Lois splutters, cake crumbs spraying from her mouth. ‘No, Iqbal is like a brother! But he knows. He’s the only one.’
Marieke presses her hand on Lois’s arm.
‘I can’t tell Ebba. Not yet.’
‘The father?’ Marieke’s question is quiet.
‘I… I don’t know what to say. He was a one-off. A treat. A restorative present to myself. God, does that make me sound terrible?’ Lois rolls her eyes.
‘Can you get in touch with him? If you want to?’
Lois nods.
‘Well then. You have time.’
‘Is the father involved with your daughter?’ Lois is curious.
Smiling, Marieke says quietly, glancing quickly to the left, ‘I’ve never been married. And no, the father isn’t involved. I’m not sure the father even knows she exists. We’ve done well, the two of us. There’s nothing wrong with the number, Lois. Don’t forget that. Numbers don’t come into it when you love your child. Two is big enough.’
‘More cake?’ Maarten has appeared and passes round a tray. ‘I’m the catering assistant for the morning. Now that I’ve banned the serving staff from coming in until we’ve completed the checks and statements.’
He towers over Lois, and she thinks how good it is to have two tall men in her company. She’s often as tall as most of them in every room, and there’s something about height – you don’t realise it until you find yourself smaller. You can hide more. She feels more hidden. It’s not an unpleasant feeling.
‘Did you bake these yourself, Maart?’ Marieke asks, and Maarten laughs.
‘I’m very good with rice,’ he says, ‘and I can baste meat, choose cheese. Not ever been one for cake.’
‘Nothing’s changed there then,’ Marieke says. ‘How’s the zabaglione coming along?’
‘Marieke Visser!’
Lois is surprised to see Maarten laugh hard as he pronounces her name, and she looks from one to the other.
‘Do you two know each other? From before this weekend?’
Marieke nods. ‘Maarten was a member of my staff, a million moons ago when I worked for the Rotterdam police force, at the central politiebureau. Anyway,’ she winks at Maarten, ‘one night we had a team dinner. Only it was almost Christmas, and we gave a course to different members of the team. Maarten pulled the ticket for dessert.’ She pauses, smiling at Maarten, passing the narrative.
‘Not my finest hour,’ he says. ‘Marieke invited us all to her flat – we all lived in tiny rented boxes. We turned up at this huge, luxurious flat, and I decided to make my dessert there. I picked zabaglione.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I thought I was being clever.’
‘What he didn’t realise,’ Marieke continu
es, ‘is that when it says “whisk eggs”, it really means with an electric mixer. He went in to hand-whisk some egg yolks, thinking it would only take five minutes, then you mix it with some sugar, some cognac…’
‘…Cognac! It’s not like I was being cheap!’ Maarten says, laughing.
Richard and Sarah join them. Everyone is laughing. Even, Lois thinks, if they don’t get the whole story. It’s that kind of laughter.
‘So off he trots, after some fantastic course of duck…’ begins Marieke.
‘…We decided no turkey for us,’ Maarten says. ‘And there had been at least two courses before that. I thought I had it made. Zabaglione is more a drink and dessert. How hard can it be?’
‘And after twenty minutes, I go into the kitchen, and there he is: red-faced, bent over a bowl of split egg yolks and sugar. He’s practically crying into the food.’
‘I’d had a fair bit to drink!’
‘So, I gave him my electric mixer and the cornflour. If you mix in a spoonful of cornflour, it helps prevent the mixture from splitting.’
She offers the last bit to Lois, who knows she’s standing looking confused. She can make a number of things in the kitchen, but they’re all basic, and most involve pasta.
‘So, what happened? Did it work?’ Sarah asks, fully involved. And Aksel and Ebba have turned their way too. Ebba is smiling, even though she doesn’t know the joke, and Lois winks at her.
‘I go back in the other room. I pour wine, I tell everyone to be kind. And then…’ Pausing for effect, Marieke takes a deep breath and Maarten rolls his eyes, comically, up to the grey-blue sky and back again. ‘And then we all hear this scream.’
‘It was not a scream!’ Maarten says.
‘It kind of was, Maart,’ Marieke waves her hand at him, looking at her audience, ‘but we can call it a cry of desperation if you like. Anyway, I rush in, and there he is. He’s plugged in the mixer, shoved it in the shallow bowl he was using, and turned it on. Everywhere. The eggs are everywhere. He was cooking for twelve of us. That’s a lot of eggs.’