Falling

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  “The other is bearing witness,” she said as the desserts started to appear. She chose a small glass and picked up a spoon. It tasted heavenly, of course. Sour berries, caramelized notes. A few grains of salt. She sighed contentedly.

  “MSF doesn’t take sides in conflicts. We’re not armed, we keep away from the military. But we bear witness to what we see. We’re a voice for the weak and stand up when crimes are committed. So when I get back from a mission, one of my jobs is to talk about what I’ve seen and what I’ve heard. Some MSF doctors run blogs, others write articles or books.”

  “Yeah, I read some of those blogs and articles these past days. It’s hard not to be impressed.”

  She put down her dessert spoon. Didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Alexander had been reading up on her job.

  “What strikes you, out there, is how similar we all are. That grandparents care about their grandkids, parents worry about their children’s schooling and their future, people fall in love—it’s the same no matter where you’re from.”

  “There are no differences?”

  “Well, of course there are. The women I meet often feel sorry for me, for example.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t have a husband. It used to cause so much trouble that these days, I tell them that the minute I get home I’m going to get married and have kids. Otherwise I just can’t work, because all the focus is on the poor, unmarried, childless doctor.”

  Alexander laughed.

  “I swear. Once, a group of village women even got together to find me a husband. I only just managed to get out of it.”

  He laughed again, picked up his glass, and sipped from it. “Your surname, though, it’s not Swedish?”

  “My father was Danish.” A stern, absent man who asked about nothing but her grades on those few occasions he came home. With her father, you talked about international politics. And you didn’t disagree. “And I’ve got French heritage on my mother’s side,” she continued. “But both my grandmothers were Swedes. So I’m just one big ethnic mix of French, Danish, and Swedish.”

  He smiled. “Not a bad mix.”

  “I’ve just been going on and on about myself,” she said. “It’s your turn.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  What she really wanted to know was if Alexander was single, but she contented herself with asking: “How did your foundation end up giving money to Medpax of all organizations?”

  He shrugged. “No idea. We give money to all kinds of places. It was probably some kind of tax thing.”

  And there it was again. The superficial, self-indulgent Alexander she detested. It was almost a relief to be reminded of it.

  “I thought you were against aid work.”

  “No, not at all. Why should I be?”

  “Because you said it was pointless,” she reminded him.

  “I’m not against people trying to improve the world; I just wonder whether it’s possible. People are fundamentally selfish, and look out for their own interests.”

  “Are you talking about yourself now?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “I’ve worked hard to acquire my vices. I like them. And I think most people are like me.”

  “And yet you plan to give Medpax one hundred thousand kronor after this evening?”

  “I wanted to spend an evening with a beautiful woman. It’s a purely selfish act.”

  She remembered all the gorgeous women he had been linked to. Countless, that was the first word that came to mind. There was even a song about him, written by some pop superstar, wasn’t there? “You probably could’ve gotten more for your money, if that’s the case,” she said ironically.

  He laughed. “Ah, Isobel, now you’re just fishing. Let me pay you a compliment, my suspicious doctor. The first time I saw you, I thought you were beautiful. Tonight you look completely fucking fantastic. Your hair, your dress—you’re easily the most stunning woman in the room. Plus, I get to listen to you talk about your work. Believe me, this date has been worth every cent.”

  She shook her head. He really was good at this.

  When Isobel was twenty, back when she started her medical studies, she had begun to emerge from her cocoon of awkward adolescence. The university environment had suited her better than the claustrophobic high school atmosphere, and she felt happier, more beautiful, and more confident than ever before. For a few wonderful months, she had soared. Her studies, her newfound freedom, her new friends. Everything had just felt easier.

  And then she fell in love. Hopelessly and utterly, head over heels in love, with an older man. He was everything she had ever dreamed of, and she had been so terribly inexperienced when it came to love. Unaccustomed to men looking at her, embarrassingly naïve. And so she had made bad choices, allowed him to get much too close, and it had ended in total disaster.

  Even today, Isobel was deeply thankful she had managed to finish her studies after the affair ended. She had learned so much from the experience. About love. Men. Sex. But she was thirty now, no longer an inexperienced medical student who wore her heart on her sleeve. She could make the distinction between attraction and other feelings, and life in the field had taught her what she really needed and valued. Kindness, loyalty, and reliability were at the top of her list. She gave Alexander a searching look, and surmised that his list probably looked quite different.

  He leaned forward over the table. “This wasn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for. Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, I just got caught up thinking about something else. Thanks for the compliment.”

  “What was it? What caught you?”

  She peered down into the jet-black coffee in her espresso cup. “Nothing,” she said. Because it was nothing. Even if it defined her entire being.

  * * *

  When they stepped out onto Västmannagatan, it was close to midnight.

  “Can you walk in those?” Alexander asked, with a glance at her high heels.

  “Yes, I’d like to walk a little.”

  “I transferred the money,” he said, and held up his phone as they passed the bustling Odenplan. A night bus passed.

  “Thanks.” How she appreciated that he had done it immediately, that he didn’t leave her to wonder. She should feel relieved, she thought as they continued down toward Sveavägen, one of the wide boulevards that cut across the city. Should be happy it was over. Shouldn’t care that he was clearly done with the flirting for the evening. She took a misstep and wobbled on an uneven patch of asphalt. Alexander’s hand shot out, lightning quick, to catch her.

  “Careful,” he said, letting go of her just as quickly.

  Isobel couldn’t help it; her mood was plunging. Stupid. But maybe she had hoped Alexander would suggest a drink. She might even have done it herself if she hadn’t sat on a too high horse; now she would have trouble getting down. She glanced around. Not that there were many places to grab a drink where they were right now. She shivered a little. When she’d left home, it was warm and sunny, a balmy spring evening. But now she could feel just how thin her clothing really was. She would have to take a taxi. In silence, they turned onto Sveavägen. She would go home, she decided. Drink tea and get on with her real life. What had she expected? She was hardly his type; she hadn’t given him any reason to believe she was interested in anything beyond this one dinner. And she wasn’t interested, she reminded herself.

  “I think I’m going to . . .” she began.

  “Have you been here before?” he asked at the same time.

  Isobel glanced up at the façade, glowing in neon. “La Habana,” she read as a door opened and music flowed out onto the street. A woman with long hair and a tight dress came out with a man in an unbuttoned shirt. They were laughing. The man pulled the woman to him and kissed her.

  Isobel averted her eyes. “What is it?” She had never even seen the place before; the lettering on the neon sign looked like something from the fifties.r />
  “A Cuban nightclub. Have you ever been to Cuba?”

  “No. But I suppose you have?”

  She could just see it: Alexander and his golden beauty, sitting beneath a palm tree with a cigar in his mouth; sweaty, suntanned.

  There was laughter in his eyes when he looked at her.

  “They have dengue fever there,” she pointed out.

  A glint of humor warmed his eyes. “You would know, of course. But they also have the best drinks and the best music in the world.” Loud music came pouring out toward them as the doors opened again.

  “Salsa,” he continued with the air of a connoisseur, and grabbed the door before it closed. He held it open. The suggestive tones beckoned them in.

  “Shall we?” he asked. There was something dangerous in his eyes. As though he was testing whether she dared follow him in, challenging her to try something out of her comfort zone. She hesitated. It was stupid, really. Her entire life was about being able to perform far from safety and comfort. But still. Going to a nightclub with Alexander De la Grip? She was about to say no, completely out of reflex. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced. And salsa. Didn’t you need to know the steps? Have at least some kind of sense of rhythm?

  But then Alexander raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her. And there and then, on the street outside the slightly faded, old nightclub, Isobel suddenly felt that more than anything in the world, she wanted to stop being sensible, to do something crazy and impulsive. Wanted to unbalance him a little.

  Just once, she thought. No one needs to find out.

  She held her head high and met his eye.

  “Just what I was about to suggest,” she said.

  And with that, she swept past him, as though she did nothing other than spend time in sweaty nightclubs accompanied by men with dangerous eyes.

  Alexander’s hand shot out just as she passed. It caught her upper arm, and Isobel blinked. As her shoulder brushed up against his chest, she caught the scent of his aftershave. He leaned in to her until his mouth grazed her hair and her ear. She held very still, a low shiver spreading beneath her skin.

  “Bravo, Isobel,” he murmured, letting go of the door and following her in.

  Chapter 10

  Alexander’s gaze was fixed on Isobel’s softly swaying hips. He liked to see her in that racy red dress, her hair cascading around her shoulders. She looked like a film star from the old days, one of those quick and witty women. And he loved that she had allowed herself to be provoked into going to a nightclub. The struggle on her face had been fascinating to follow

  The music was loud, and the floor was tightly packed with warm, dancing bodies. He hadn’t wanted to take her to Stureplan, the glittering playground of the wealthy and spoiled, where he was sure he would be recognized; he wanted Isobel all to himself, and when he heard the music, he’d known it was the perfect place for them. Still, he hadn’t expected a live band, and he felt the suggestive music course through his body. With a smile, he held out a hand to her. She took it and allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor.

  He grabbed both of her hands and pulled her close to him. “Just follow me,” he shouted into her ear over the music.

  She said something that sounded like “Oh, Jesus” and then did as he said, cautiously and focused at first, like she was studying some complicated procedure, but then with increasing self-confidence. Salsa was the world’s most intuitive dance, and Cuban salsa encouraged physical contact. Alexander knew he was a proficient dancer. The club was warm, and when Alexander took off his jacket, he saw her eyes move over his body. He noticed how her décolletage glistened. Isobel was smoking hot, but she was also an unexpectedly fun dance partner. Not self-conscious, once her initial uncertainty passed, but fearless, bold, and laughing.

  The music grew in intensity. It was a quick salsa, hot, almost electrifying. The lights dimmed, hips rolled, hands clapped. Alexander held out his hand and she took it, warm and sweaty but steady. She allowed herself to be drawn in, spun to and from him. He pulled her close once more, pressed her warm body to his again and again. Occasionally she lost track of what she was doing, but he caught her each time, and the more songs they danced, the more often they ended up in perfect rhythm, drawing closer and closer, moving apart and then coming together again with the trumpets, guitars, drums. Over and over, quicker and quicker, until both were breathing heavily, chest to chest. Isobel’s hair was damp and heavy, and it snaked over her throat and her arms. One last burst of energy and the music fell silent. Applause broke out.

  When the musicians announced they would take a break, Alexander pulled her over to the bar.

  “Just water, please,” she said, as she wiped the sweat from her forehead and flashed him a brilliant smile. He wanted to lean forward and kiss her lips, lick the sweat from her neck, pull her sensational curves toward him . . .

  He was interrupted by a hand on his arm. He turned and saw Gina.

  “Well, hello there,” he said cheerfully, and gave her a quick hug. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m just here with some friends. What are you doing here; is this really your kind of place?”

  “Of course it is. This is Gina, my friend,” he said, turning to Isobel.

  Gina grinned and practically forced her way past Alexander.

  “I know who you are,” she said eagerly to Isobel. “I saw you dancing and had to come over to say hi. I’m studying to become a doctor—I was at your lecture on refugee medicine.”

  Alexander wasn’t sure he had ever heard the usually taciturn Gina talk so much.

  “I remember you,” Isobel said kindly, as she shook Gina’s hand. “You were at the front, and you came up to me afterward. How do you two know one another?” she asked, with a questioning look at Alexander.

  “Gina’s part of the family,” Alexander quickly replied, not wanting to give Isobel the wrong impression. He turned to Gina. She was essentially ignoring him, gazing at Isobel with worship in her eyes.

  A thought struck him. “Gina, you don’t work here too, do you?”

  She gestured toward a table of young people. “We’re celebrating an exam. It’s, like, the first time I’ve been out in a couple of years. But it was a big exam.”

  “Which one?” asked Isobel.

  “The Healthy Human.”

  “I remember it, lots of chemistry and biology. Tough stuff. Did it go well?”

  Gina nodded, and Alexander thought it looked like she was blushing. Serious Gina Adan starstruck, it seemed almost inconceivable. “Really well. But I don’t want to bother you,” Gina said, giving Alexander a look that clearly communicated she’s-much-too-good-for-you before she disappeared.

  When the music started back up again, Alexander glanced at Isobel.

  “Enough for me,” she said. “My muscles are going to hurt tomorrow.”

  “How are you getting home?” he asked once they were back out on the street. Fuck, he didn’t want to say good-bye. Not yet. But it was late and she was a working woman.

  “I’ll take a cab.”

  “Okay,” he said softly. He raised a hand and brushed a strand of hair from her face. She looked at him, and he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. He hadn’t planned on anything more than a peck, but somehow he couldn’t quite tear himself away from her smooth skin, and so when she didn’t move, they remained standing like that until she started to shiver.

  “You’re cold.”

  He started to take off his jacket, but she moved away from him.

  “No, Alexander, I need to go home now.”

  He knew that she didn’t just mean that it was late and she was tired. It was clear that the statement was an attempt to distance herself from him.

  “Thanks for a great evening,” she continued. There was nothing but politeness in her voice now—no flirtation, no laughter, no invitation to more kissing or to more intimate dancing. She waved to a cab that was coming down the near-empty Sveavägen. Alexander opened the
door to the backseat and she climbed in, said good night, and he closed it.

  He watched her drive away, stood like that until the car was gone.

  He buttoned up his jacket, shoved his hands into the pockets. Headed toward his hotel. Something had scared Isobel and she had run. She probably thought it was over between them, but Alexander knew better. He wasn’t done with Isobel. Not by a long shot.

  * * *

  When Alexander woke the next morning, he had come up with the next steps in his plan. He spent the whole of Saturday on the couch in his hotel room, watching TV, surfing the web, and reading simultaneously. He often found it hard to be still for long periods, had always been easily distracted, but he found it easier to concentrate when the TV was on. After a quick trip to a couple of bookstores, he lay on the sofa and read until long after midnight.

  He spent Sunday with his real estate agent, who had broken off his golf plans (“No problem, Alexander, you can call me day or night”) to show him some of the apartments he had listed. In each of them, Alexander paused on the threshold of the biggest bedroom. He couldn’t help it. He peered into these rooms and fantasized about an extra-large bed, made up with the finest Egyptian cotton, and Isobel naked in it, dressed only in her red hair. Long legs, thousands of freckles, tantalizing curves. He didn’t want to take her to his hotel suite—she was worth more than that—but having said that, he wanted her in his bed. And soon.

  “I’ll take it,” he told the real estate agent in the third apartment. The rooms were in a line, the ceilings high and the kitchen modern.

  “I have more we can look at.”

  “I want this one. And I want access immediately. Can you arrange it?”

  On Monday morning, he signed the contract and was handed the keys, and by the afternoon he’d contacted the interior design company his sister’s best friend, Åsa Bjelke, had recommended. When he set his mind to it, he could make things happen pretty damn fast.

  * * *

  When Alexander stepped into the private health clinic on Valhallavägen on Tuesday morning, he was in an excellent mood. He’d been for a jog, had a shower, and had a clear goal; he felt practically invincible.