“See you then,” he said. It wasn’t until she was on the metro that it struck Gina that Peter would clearly be working even though the First of May was a big spring holiday in Sweden.
* * *
They ended up in the kitchen the next day, too. Peter finished working at the same time as she switched off the vacuum, and again they sat down together. He poured her some water while she grabbed the napkins and warmed her food. She had a small plate of dumplings today, Dad’s samosas, and she debated whether to offer him one. But he had another sandwich, and she decided to keep her food for herself.
“Are you headed home after this?” he asked. “Or are you going out? It’s Friday.”
She almost laughed.
“No, I’m going home. I don’t go out much.” She wiped a deep-fried crumb from the corner of her mouth. Her father made delicious samosas. He helped out, when he could, in the cafeteria at the cultural center, and his dumplings had always been a big hit. “What about you? You going out?”
She glanced at him. He was smartly dressed and clean shaven, and he smelled faintly of aftershave. He looked better than she’d seen him for a long time. She had actually been surprised he even turned up today. A holiday on a Friday meant a long weekend, and not even the most junior of careerists had turned up; she and Peter were the only ones in the entire office. He had to be going out later, to Stureplan, or somewhere like that. On her way home from work, she was often shouted at by rich, drunk Stureplan guys who looked just like Peter and his colleagues. Sometimes they just made lewd comments, talked about her various body parts, which was bad enough. But sometimes they shouted for what seemed like an eternity about how they’d never been with a black girl. Gina would tell herself she didn’t care, but it got under her skin, all the years of comments and glances, and she avoided places where she was 100 hundred percent certain she’d get at least one comment about her appearance. It was enough that she was often the only non-white person at work.
Peter shook his head. He had eaten the whole sandwich today. “I’m not going anywhere. I can give you a ride home if you like. It’s a holiday. The trains surely aren’t running like normal.”
“That’s nice, but you don’t have to. I’ve used public transport my entire life. I like it.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he said calmly. “But I’d like to, that’s why I’m asking. If you want, of course.”
She thought of the comfortable car, the quick journey home. Once was nothing, but twice? That was stupid.
She hesitated.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
* * *
“I kept the radio station you chose last time,” Peter said as he steered the car out of town. He was a good driver, calm and patient. It had surprised her last time. She looked out of the window. This part of the journey was her favorite, when they had just gotten into the car and her entire body could relax, when the city passed them by and she could watch it from the outside.
“Are they waiting for you at home?”
“Yes.”
“How is that?”
“Good. We’re really close.”
Dad, Amir, and she—they were a little unit, they completed one another. But she was the strong one, the one who moved out in the big, wide world. They relied on her.
“Sounds nice.”
“I worry about my brother sometimes.”
She said the words quietly, didn’t know where they came from. Why had she said it?
“You do?”
She looked away from Peter, out through the window. “He’s not sick or anything like that, but he never goes out. He just sits at home. In his room. Playing video games.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
“Then he’s much younger than you?”
“Yes, he was only two when we left Somalia.”
“So your father, he came alone with two small children? All the way from Somalia? It must’ve been tough.”
“Yeah.”
“Your mother?”
“Dead.”
Peter was silent as if he sensed she didn’t want to talk about her mother. “Doesn’t he go to school?” he asked after a moment. “Your little brother, I mean.”
Gina pulled at her purse. She had no one to talk to about this, didn’t want to worry her father. Peter was unexpectedly easy to confide in. “Yeah, but he doesn’t have any friends. I don’t know. He gets mad when I try to talk to him about it.”
“Maybe it’s too much like a performance,” Peter suggested. “Having friends.”
She hadn’t thought of it like that. Her brother’s loneliness always felt like a lump in her chest, and she just wanted to help him. To get him out more.
Peter changed gears. They were already approaching Tensta. “Does he want friends?”
“Don’t know. He says he doesn’t, but I have no idea.”
“Maybe he had a bad experience. Makes it easier to be alone.”
Gina was silent, her interlocked hands resting on top of her bag. She twisted the simple ring on her index finger. Amir had given it to her, when he was five or six; bought it at the market in Tensta, with his own money. Why hadn’t she realized before? That she was only making things worse by nagging him about needing friends. Was it the same for Peter? She rarely saw him talk to anyone. Not at work and not in other social situations, either. The fact was, Peter seemed lonely. So lonely that he might give a cleaning lady a ride home just to have someone to talk to.
“Relationships are tough,” he said, his eyes on the road. They sat in silence, listening to the radio. “Are there any Somalian bands?” he asked after a while. “Ones that are famous abroad, I mean?” He had smoothly changed the subject, and she was grateful for that.
“Not really. I’m actually not all that interested in my cultural heritage.”
He gave her a surprised glance. “Why not?”
“I see my future in Sweden.”
“But you like Somalian food?”
She laughed. “Yeah, a lot.”
He pulled up outside her door. “Here we are,” he said quietly.
“Thank you. I’ll see you at the wedding tomorrow, I guess? I’m working the reception.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She had said yes when the wedding organizer called; the pay was good, and it was nothing she hadn’t done before. But now she wondered if it would be awkward. Would Peter say hello, or would he pretend he didn’t know her at Åsa Bjelke’s super-wedding?
“How are you getting there?” he asked.
She blinked. He couldn’t be serious. “You know you can’t give me a ride, right? You’re a guest. I’m staff. It would be weird.”
“But . . .”
“They’re paying for cabs,” she quickly interrupted him. Her voice was curt, but she couldn’t help it. She felt so exposed, and as usual she reacted by lashing out. She hadn’t taken the psychiatric class yet, but she knew it was a classic defense mechanism against feelings of inferiority and she hated it.
But Peter was a close friend of Åsa Bjelke’s; they both grew up in Djursholm, the most expensive and elitist community in the entire country, and they belonged to the upper class, moved effortlessly in the highest of social circles. Just what did she think she was doing, exactly?
“You know that’s what I am, right? Staff. A cleaning lady, a maid.”
“But you said . . . I didn’t mean . . . I thought you liked your work?” He sounded confused. “Gina, did I say something wrong?”
She stepped out of the car, got tangled in the seatbelt, struggled free.
“Bye,” she said, slamming the door and heading quickly indoors without looking back.
She had only herself to blame, she thought as she waited for the elevator. She almost hoped he would pretend not to know her tomorrow. She leaned her head against the elevator wall. She was an idiot.
Chapter 22
Isobel looked down at the note with the address on it, and then
up at the doors on the street. The signage was practically nonexistent, as though the people who lived here already knew where everything was and had no desire to make things easier for strangers. She had never been to this part of town before, on the edge of Djurgården and near all the embassies. She passed the correct door twice before she realized that the anonymous doorway, next to the big window with nothing but a chair in it, was the atelier. She had Googled it but found nothing. When was the last time she’d heard of a business that didn’t exist online?
“Hello?” she called in through a crack in the door.
A curtain moved to one side, and a slim woman in her twenties appeared. Behind her, Isobel could see an unexpectedly large room full of fabric, mannequins, magazines, and changing rooms. Soft music and a scent she identified as fruit tea drifted out toward her.
“Hi!” The woman, who had a pincushion at her wrist and a measuring tape around her neck, held out a hand. “Isobel, right? I’m Lollo Chanel. Come in.”
She took a needle from the corner of her mouth and studied Isobel. It was a look that measured and calculated; Isobel could practically feel herself being divided up into centimeters and dimensions.
“Chanel? Really?”
Lollo shrugged. “I guess I couldn’t be anything other than a fashion designer with that name. You’re a size ten, right? Aside from your bust, I mean. I worked from the measurements you sent, so we can do the final adjustments now.”
Isobel had sent her every measurement conceivable, including her shoe size. She saw the color photo Lollo had requested pinned up on a board. So far, this was one of the most surreal experiences she’d ever had.
Lollo’s eyes continued their work, moving assessingly over Isobel’s hips. “Curves, I like that. Most of my customers haven’t eaten since 1970. Did you bring the underwear I suggested? I can’t believe that’s your natural hair color. And those freckles—I’m so happy the dress shows off so much flesh. Stand there.”
Isobel, slightly bewildered by Lollo’s rapid-fire monologue, found herself in front of a huge full-length mirror. She peered at herself, straightened her back, and pulled in her stomach as far as she could.
“Do you know Åsa Bjelke? Turn around.”
Isobel shook her head. “No, only Alexander. They are childhood friends, right?”
Lollo pulled a face. “Åsa’s one of my regulars. I’ve been bending to her will for ages, wanting to do her wedding dress for years. But now that she’s actually getting married and everyone is going, she suddenly wants a Valentino. I just couldn’t believe it. An Italian botcher instead of me.”
“But didn’t Valentino do the princess’s wedding dress?” Isobel had actually thought the fairy-tale lace dress was magical.
“Yeah, but I’m better; Åsa should know that. What do you think about a really stunning dress? I’m only asking to be polite. You’ll have a dress that’s better than anything Valentino could even dream of.”
“Is this some kind of fabric throwdown? Because if it is, I don’t think I . . .”
And with that, Lollo pulled out a hanger holding a bronze-colored dress, and Isobel fell silent midsentence. Not that she knew anything about haute couture, but she had never seen anything like it.
“Wow,” she eventually managed.
“Right?” Lollo replied, smugly.
She swung the hanger slightly, and the dress came to life, throwing energy out into the room, flaming color, like a barely tamed spirit.
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever made, and it’s perfect for you. No one else will ever be able to wear it like you can. I found some shoes, so it’s best you take them. They’re Italian. Handmade. You’re going to be so tall.”
Lollo grinned widely, verging on the maniacal. Her hair was wild, flying in all directions, and she was covered in thread. She looked like some kind of mad, sewing genius.
“I’m not too used to walking in heels,” said Isobel.
“Doesn’t matter. Take your clothes off,” Lollo demanded, pointing to a folding screen. “There’s a slip in there.”
Isobel went behind the screen, dutifully undressed, and started to open the packaging of the delicate slip. She held it up.
“What’s it made of? Air?”
“The best silk in the world. You can’t wear pantyhose, or every single seam will be visible,” Lollo replied from the other side of the screen. “You should be wearing stockings and a garter belt, of course. It goes with the style,” she continued. Isobel could hear the pure desire in her voice. “But it just won’t work. Did you put on the underwear already?”
Isobel glanced at the thin bra and the even thinner panties she’d bought. They were silk and Lycra, practically seam-free, and they’d cost a fortune.
“I’m going to freeze,” Isobel protested. True, it was a sunny second day of May, but the temperature wasn’t much above sixty degrees.
“Probably, but it can’t be helped. This is art—you have to suffer a little. Plus, it will look good if your nipples are pert. It’s sexy.”
Isobel quickly pulled on the thin pieces of underwear and wondered when she’d last worn a G-string. It was the single most idiotic piece of clothing she knew of, but Lollo had demanded a silk thong, and Isobel had done as she said, because she was enough of a woman to want to look good in the most expensive clothing she’d ever wear.
She pulled on the thin slip. “I’m done,” she said hesitantly. She felt more naked now that she was wearing the new underwear.
“Come out,” Lollo ordered.
“I’m going into the field in two weeks,” she said apologetically as she came out from behind the screen’s blessed protection. She held a hand over her stomach, feeling more like a teenager with body issues than a cosmopolitan doctor. “I always bulk up a little. And haven’t been working out as much as I should.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re magnificent, and you’re going to look like a goddess in my dress. Every woman deserves to recognize that side of herself at least once. You just have to go with the flow, my pretty.” Lollo took down the dress, and Isobel felt a rush of something close to desire. How was it possible to feel that for a bit of fabric? She held out a hand, brushed the bronze-colored silk. She let Lollo help her into the dress.
Lollo took a step back. “My God, I’m about to start wailing, woman.”
Isobel looked in the mirror. The dress did something to her body. There were no visible imperfections, just her best assets being shown off. Her skin glowed like white silk, her freckles were gorgeous and unique, her eyes enormous, and her stomach vanished; she was nothing but breasts, legs, and a phenomenal waist. “Pass me the shoes too,” she said, suddenly greedy. She was going to a society wedding, and she was going to have a fabulous time.
Lollo helped her to carefully spray her hair and shape the curls into a film-star style. Isobel touched up her lips and checked that her makeup was still as it should be. Lollo handed her a shawl to put around her shoulders. “But only in the church,” she instructed. “This isn’t the kind of dress you wear with some modest shawl, understood?”
Isobel nodded obediently.
“What do you think of these?” she then asked. She had, on a complete whim, brought a collection of cheap, beautiful bracelets she’d once bought in the field, shining and Amazonesque in their golden and bronzed tones. They gleamed like a sunset over an African desert. With a single look, Lollo gave her approval.
“Good luck, beautiful. Your car’s here. You show ’em!”
* * *
Isobel took a taxi to Stockholm Cathedral in the Old Town. The surrounding water glittered as the car passed the Royal Castle before it pulled up right outside the cathedral. The Great Church was one of Stockholm’s oldest, built in the thirteenth century. The ceremony would take place at three, and the guests had already started to stream in. She paid the taxi and stepped out, cautious on her sky-high heels. The cobblestones were ancient and uneven, and she took a couple of careful steps. This was historical ground
, the site of coronations, royal weddings, and royal funerals. People in formal attire were gathering, blue carpets had been laid out, and huge urns with flower arrangements framed the entrance to the church.
Cars were constantly arriving; she saw people she vaguely recognized from the gossip rags. Actors, musicians, and sports stars.
“Hi, Isobel.”
She turned toward the voice and saw a familiar face. She smiled at Natalia De la Grip—or Natalia Hammar, these days—and took a few steps forward.
“Great you could come,” said Natalia. It sounded like she really meant it.
“Thanks,” said Isobel, pulling the shawl up over her shoulders.
“Did you come with Alexander?”
“No.”
He had offered to pick her up, but the rebellious part of her had refused. She wasn’t a birdbrain. She could make her way to a church on her own. But now, as she glanced around, Isobel wondered whether she shouldn’t have said yes after all. No matter where she looked, she saw couples, couples, couples. Maybe there were no single people in the upper classes? “Jesus, so many celebrities,” she said.
“Yeah, Åsa and Michel have a huge network,” Natalia said, gesturing discreetly to a man Isobel recognized as a former president of the United States. Impressive.
“He was friends with Åsa’s father. And her, over there . . .” Natalia nodded her head toward a woman dressed in blue. She looked distinctly British, in a royal kind of way. “She was a close friend of her mother’s. Both of Åsa’s parents are dead.” Natalia waved to a large bearded man who had arrived with a stunning blonde dressed in a body-hugging dress. Even Isobel, completely uninterested in sports, knew he was a famous ice hockey player. “Friend of Michel’s,” said Natalia. And so it continued.
The elite of the elite poured in, along with those Isobel didn’t recognize, whom Natalia identified on her behalf. When one of the royals arrived with their partner, the press photographers practically started a riot. A couple of super-rich financiers. “Åsa and Michel pretty much know everyone who’s rich, famous, and in their thirties,” Natalia said laconically as yet another blond corporate princess turned up with her husband. Natalia named a few more counts and countesses. Funnily enough, Isobel recognized some of them from Skåne, but these were a younger, even more glamorous group, if that was possible.
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