Henrik doesn’t believe she ever menstruates.
‘You can’t begin to menstruate if you have just one
piece of toast for breakfast’, he says. But she does menstru-
ate; there’s both Tampax and Always Night in the
bathroom—she’s as clinical as the girls who do the sanitary
towel ads on TV2.
‘She’s one of their target group’, says Henrik, and goes
on about how he’s waiting for the day when he gets to see
an ad for sanitary towels where there’s a dirty great punk
wringing out a towel with cascades of blood welling up all
over the place.
‘And the punch line will be: Always – sucks you dry!’
And he explains how the ad would then go on to show a
model—dehydrated, borderline anorexic, botoxed lips—
draped picturesquely in a corner, smiling beatifically.
‘What the hell do they need all that blue liquid for?’ he
demands, adding: ‘This is about blood! Blood-sucking
sanitary towels!’
‘Stop it’, I giggle—I reckon Kirstine would disinfect the
entire flat and sack me on the spot, if she knew I was living
with a man with such a filthy mind. Still, she does hide it
well—her period. Of course she keeps a chromium-plated
bin in the toilet, and that gets me thinking how it is for me,
the way I have to wrap the towel in loo paper, and when we
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have people round I have to very discreetly carry it out to
the kitchen and cram it deep down in the rubbish bin. And
each time I think what do my girlfriends do if they’re on
their period when they drop by—do they carry the used
towel around with them in their handbags? How embar-
rassing—I mean for me. And still I haven’t got round to
buying a bin. The thing is there never are used towels in
her waste bin, only cotton wool pads with a smidgeon of
make-up on. Not even a cotton wool bud with earwax.
Then we write notes to each other, Kirstine and me.
The first time I wanted to ask her something I needed a
pad of course, so I was forced to look in the drawers in the
Montana bookcase. There was nothing in the top and
bottom drawers, and in the middle one an empty pad.
Luckily I had a biro in my jacket pocket. So then I write:
Was it okay the way I ironed your sweatshirts and tracksuit
bottoms?
Yes, she writes back, they are only for wearing round the
house. Now fancy that! She wears freshly ironed clothes
round the house. And she leaves notes for me too: Would
I be able to stay on an extra hour next time, as she is going
to the wedding of Count So-and-So and Miss Pipsqueak in
some castle or another. There is so much ironing to get
through, we are staying the whole weekend, she explains in
the note. You’d think she was kidding. Or: I like the way
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you fold the towels so they fit the shelf exactly. You’d think
she was kidding even more; I’m so glad I’m not like that.
Her kitchen ware is also hyper cool—loads of steel. She
has the weirdest stuff. Just one example: a Georg Jensen
gadget for trimming the foil off the necks of wine bottles. By
and large all the bottles in the wine rack have proper corks.
The drinks cabinet would make Henrik hyperventilate.
The food in her fridge: Gaio, Parma ham, Wonder-
white sliced bread, Kærgården butter mix, Harild mineral
water, plus little sachets of espresso coffee for the big
Presto machine from Tefal: in matte black with loads of
gold. And then of course I have to go and drop the big
glass shelf from the fridge when I’m cleaning it one day,
and a corner as big as half a sandwich breaks off at an
angle. Naturally I was sorry about it, though it didn’t really
show if you turned the damage inwards. I left her a note.
Not to worry, she writes back. A couple of weeks go by,
and then Henrik asks:
‘Well, has she got that fridge shelf changed?’
‘No’, I answer. He nods meaningfully, and says:
‘It has set in.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘The rot’, he says. ‘The shelf ’s the first sign. From now
on it’s downhill all the way with her.’
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So I carry on cleaning like my life depends on it. The
hoover is a miracle: a mint green Panasonic MC-E751 with
a perfumed filter—the scent of flowers.
The Montana bookcase has to be sprayed at a distance
of 20 centimetres with Sterling Furniture Spray—some
kind of wax made of silicone and perfume which ‘en-
hances the glow of the wood’, as the can says. Afterwards
you polish the wood—that gets done once a week. The
plants get sprayed with Substral Leafshine. All in all there’s
heaps of spraying. I also iron her clothes with a steam iron
that’s like something out of Star Trek. Certain clothes first
have to be sprayed with Bio-tex, Pre-Ironing Treatment.
She also has a spray called Swimsuit Cleaner to protect her
super expensive swimsuit.
‘No bloodstains on the walls, by any chance?’ asks Hen-
rik, when I tell him about the spray-and-ironing routine.
‘No, why?’ I ask.
‘She sounds almost like a Danish version of American
Psycho,’ he says, ‘I bet there’s something kinky about her.’
He could be right.
I don’t know if she wonders about what makes me tick
just like I wonder about her. Maybe she feels sorry for me
because I have a kid already—I can imagine that, and it
was actually a bit early—Sofie wasn’t planned but I do love
her, even when she mucks up the whole flat. I don’t know
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what to say . . . but in some ways it’s just as unnatural to
live the way she does.
Some things I’m not allowed to touch, for instance the
Piet Hein table.
‘I polish that myself every Friday when I get back in
from work’, she explained to me the first time I was there.
So far as I can tell it’s only a simple melamine table top.
I’ve had a look in the cupboard—she treats it with Trend
Massive Oil which has to be rubbed in with a dry cloth and
polished over afterwards—once weekly.
I’ve told Henrik about it—over time he has become
fascinated with her too.
‘I promise not to do anything obscene’, he says when he
begs me to take him along to see her flat. But I can see in
his eyes he has dastardly plans, and even though it might
be fun it wouldn’t be right.
‘Do you think she fucks in the dark?’ is the kind of
thing he can come out with. Don’t get me wrong, he says it
to get me in the mood; I’m one of those gals who likes the
lights full on—I want to see what I’m up to . . . and what’s
being done to me.
> It’s hard to tell with her. In some ways she comes
across as probably finding sex far too dirty a business to
get mixed up in. On the other hand . . . I mean, you’d think
she must . . . do it. I know she pops Mercilon contraceptive
pills—they’re kept in the bathroom, and you can see they
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get used. And she does have some form of boyfriend,
because once in a while there’s some of his gear among
the laundry: T-shirts with film posters printed on and daft
boxer shorts with Mickey Mouse characters and such. The
weird thing is I’ve found long black hairs in her bed. I just
can’t imagine her having a boyfriend with a long black
ponytail, so that gets me toying with the idea she has a
Latin lover. I almost hope so; I’d be turned right off if
I went and bumped into Mickey Mouse just before the
crown jewels.
I can’t help peeking inside whenever I find a clothes
bag sitting behind the curtain. One day I find two bras in
the 4–500 kroner bracket which are only just starting to
look a weenie bit tatty—like my own clothes once I’ve
washed them a couple of times, because we always wash
everything together, all jumbled up. And there’s worse to
come: there’s a pair of dead smart high winter boots sitting
there; I could so do with a pair like that. I try them on—
and they almost fit. They’re a tad too big, but I’ve only got
thin stockings on—with an inner sole or thick socks they’d
do me perfect. Imagine being able to afford that sort of
stuff . . .
I start on with the cleaning. Her computer has
vanished—no doubt she’s got herself a laptop. I hoover
the kitchen. On the fridge door is stuck one of those
magnet things with a plastic pig on. It holds a couple of
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menus for pizzerias and Thai food. It’s got batteries inside,
so if I happen to knock into it and it falls on the floor it
says ‘oink, oink’ in an electronic voice—it’s hugely irritat-
ing. She’s also got this pair of completely worn-out slip-
pers, shaped like a lion with a mane. So now I think I’ve
pretty well identified the three items which express her
personality. Henrik and I are agreed the oinking pig sig-
nifies: I can be good fun too; the worn slippers Now let’s
have us a real cosy time; and the matches I have my very
own style. And that’s it.
Next the phone rings and the answer phone comes on.
I go over and turn up the sound to hear the message after
the beep:
Hi there Kirstine, it’s Gitte. Okay, you’re not at home. Any-
how . . . things are crazy busy here too. Maybe meet up Satur-
day at NASA—if only I can make it. Talk soon . . . Byeee!
While I carry on working these pictures keep popping into
my mind starring myself floating down the street in the
boots behind the curtain. In sheer distraction I accidentally
spray the TV screen with Sterling Furniture Spray. It takes a
long while to rub off.
Anyhow, at long last I’m done. So I go behind the
curtain to put Panasonic MC-E751 away. Oh heck, how
those boots call out to me! I’ve got a short leather skirt on,
because later I’m meeting one of my girlfriends at a coffee
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bar. The boots would look great with the skirt and . . .
Okay, to hell with it! I pull on the boots, and then I pull
off my top and my old bra. The air feels cool against my
breasts, which still show traces of breastfeeding, but no
stretch marks and they’re beginning to get back their
firmness, though of course they are a touch heavier, but
actually I like that—it’s like I really have something to
offer. Henrik likes them too.
So I’m standing there in her boots and next thing I’m
trying on her bra. It really does something for my tits—
brings the best out of them. It’s the kind of bra you’d like
to see a man’s hands undoing. I stand there in front of the
mirror and sing:
‘These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what
they’ll do—one of these days these boots are gonna walk all
over you!’—Nancy Sinatra—only I look loads better, with
my pout and my sultry turned-on look.
Then the intercom buzzer goes! It’s her! Kirstine! I press
the button to let her in. PANIC, PANIC! I plonk myself
down on the floor to yank the boots off, but they are well
and truly stuck. Why the hell hasn’t she got anything as
simple as a bootjack? I’m tugging and tearing and feel I’m
going to bust out in a fever. Finally they come off, but I can
already hear her on the stairs. There’s nothing for it, I’ll
have to pull my top on over her bra which now feels
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welded to my boobs. I just have time to stuff my own worn
bra behind my beaten up Fjällräv rucksack, which is also
behind the curtain, before there’s a knock on the door and
I have to let her in. She’s been shopping.
‘Hi, I have people coming tonight,’ and she explains
she’s a bit behind. I stand there wondering if I can really be
certain—absolutely bank on her bra being intended for the
Sally Army. Because of course it could easily be she has an
uncool sister who gets her cast-offs.
‘I’m nearly done,’ I say, frantically searching for some
excuse to stop a bit longer, so I can put the bra back. ‘But
I don’t mind staying on a little, if you need help with
anything?’
‘Only if you have the time’, she says.
‘It’s no problem’, I say.
‘Can you really be bothered?’ She’s delighted. Next
thing I’m out in the kitchen slicing up a sea of vegetables
with a perfect razor-sharp Raadvad knife with a wood
handle, on a perfect chopping board, in preparation for
what gives every appearance of promising to be a perfect
Thai dinner. She has two recipe books, both coffee-table
size: Meyer’s Køkken, and Thai Cooking by Jackum Brown
with a ‘consultant’ called Rachanee Boonthon! All authen-
tic: packed with names of exotic spices such as ‘galangal’
and ‘krachai’ and obscure ingredients like ‘tamarind water’
and ‘wonton wrappers’. Kirstine puts the shopping away
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and cleans the vegetables. There’s no chance of somehow
sneaking the bra off from under my top.
I slice the vegetables like a pukka chef, for I also worked
in a café kitchen for a time. Kirstine is dead impressed. The
funny thing is that when I look down at my hands at work
my breasts take up more of the view than normal, because
the bra gives them really good support, without squeezing
or feel
ing tight.
Kirstine rushes round—in and out of the kitchen—
preparing all and sundry; seemingly her guests are sup-
posed to feel like they’re in a restaurant. When we have
people round they get a potato peeler shoved in their hand
as they come through the door—we’re friends aren’t we, so
chill out.
And then Kirstine comes dashing back into the kitchen
to dice a piece of lean beef. She reaches out to grab a knife
from the long knife-magnet that’s screwed to the wall
above the kitchen table. She’s in such a rush that she
doesn’t get a proper hold on the knife, so then it drops
and leaves a very visible nick in the table top which is
wood. She freezes.
Oh my God, now we’re in for a major crisis, I’m
thinking, as she lets out a little despairing sigh. I hold my
breath and watch her out of the corner of my eye. Then all
at once she gives a shrug like she’s shaking it off, and starts
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cutting up the meat. So now I can breathe again. Phew,
I thought she . . .
‘So, are you expecting some hunky guys tonight?’ I ask
to lighten the mood, but a bit also because I’m curious.
‘Ooh . . . no’, she answers, hesitating a bit before saying:
‘My parents are on a visit.’
‘So where do they live?’ I ask, sensing straight off this
isn’t her favourite subject. Again she hesitates.
‘Randers’, she finally answers, ‘they’re coming over
from Randers.’ I’m just about to say something like in
that case she can’t get to see them so often, when she
adds: ‘But they are staying in a hotel.’
I’m not too sure how to react to this—whether it’s good
or bad. Instead I say something about cooking, and so we
start talking about that. After a bit of time she even asks
what Sofie eats, and then I chatter away nineteen to the
dozen.
I’m still a bit nervous, for I just don’t know what she’s
got in mind for her clothes. I decide to visit the toilet just
before I go. So then I can take off the bra there and sneak it
back into the bag when I fetch my Fjällräv from behind the
curtain—and all should be okay. I don’t reckon she’ll spot
I’m not wearing a bra when I come out of the toilet.
After chopping and preparing for half an hour, and
smoking one of her Marlboro Lights and drinking a
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