He entered his PIN, left a tip, and got up. “Nothing happened.”
Nothing important, anyway. I just ruined something I should’ve been careful with. And I’ve had it.
“I’ll send a car to the airport. Let me know the time. And Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Welcome home.”
Chapter 31
“That’s it, then,” Isobel said to the director of her clinic at the private health center. It was her last day. She had written and signed all her notes, finished off all her tasks, and sent all electronic prescriptions. She held out a hand to her boss, Veronica, a tall, gray-haired physician.
“See you when you get back,” said Veronica, giving her a firm hug instead. “Good luck in Chad.”
* * *
Isobel got on her bike and set off. The sun warmed her back, and she stopped midway to take off her thin cardigan. When she arrived at Medpax, she locked up her bike and headed in.
“Hi, Asta, how’s the pollen allergy?”
The receptionist sneezed in reply. Her eyes were red and swollen.
“Let me know if you need a prescription. Is Leila here?”
Asta sneezed again and then gestured to the meeting room.
“It’s just you and me today,” Leila said as she went in. “How was the course?”
Isobel put down a stack of papers on the desk, then reached for some water and poured herself a glass. “Theoretical. Lots of going over stuff I already know. Some of it was good, I guess, but if we don’t have much money, it probably wasn’t the best use of funds.”
She knew how much even a theoretical two-day course cost. Those who could really afford it sent their people on practical courses. A week of role-playing and exercises. Thank God she had been able to avoid that.
“How was it for you? Distressing?”
“No,” she answered curtly.
Maybe she was lying and repressing. Maybe Leila realized it.
Leila studied her, so she drank more water, looked out across the table, and steeled herself for the question she knew was coming.
“Did Alexander show up?”
“Very briefly.”
And then Leila did something Isobel hated. She waited. She had seen it before, how Leila got people to talk. She would say nothing, just watch and wait for them to continue, to go deeper. She was on the verge of starting to tap her foot, but managed to resist. It was only a week since Leila had told her to go to the wedding and have a bit of fun. As unbelievably naïve as she was, she had thought she would be able to handle what came next.
Leila gave her a searching look. “Want to talk about it?”
Isobel shook her head, violently. But she wasn’t angry at Leila; she was angry at herself. That she, despite her hurt pride, hadn’t been able to ignore how good Alexander looked. That Alexander, despite being unshaven and hungover and evidently someone who slept with every silicon-enhanced celebrity bimbo who crossed his path, was still attractive to her. It was so humiliating to realize that she was turned on by a man like that, to admit that the best sex she’d ever had was with a man who essentially stood for everything she disliked most. But he has another side, Isobel, you know that, and that’s what hurts the most.
“Not really,” she said. “There’s nothing to talk about. There’s nothing between us.”
In a way, she was glad he’d done what he had. It made it easier to get over him. When he acted like the player she knew he was.
“If you say so,” said Leila, looking deeply skeptical. “I just wondered if you knew why he’d suddenly left for New York?” Leila’s tone was easygoing, but Isobel knew she was indulging in one of her favorite pastimes: snooping.
“He’s there now?” She didn’t know why she felt hurt by the news.
“I called him, and he was in New York when he answered. He sounded down. And you look like an abandoned foal every time I mention his name. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
Isobel looked out the window. Medpax had cut back on cleaning costs, and flecks of dust danced in the sunlight.
“Aside from the fact I’m going to my mom’s for a formal dinner, everything’s under control.”
She hadn’t had time to come up with a good excuse when her mother had called the day before, not so much to invite her to dinner but to order her to come. Now it was just a case of biting the bullet.
“By the way, did you know my mom and Alexander’s know one another?”
Ugh, it was hard to say his name so nonchalantly, especially to Leila, who was practically a mind reader.
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Blanche and Ebba De la Grip move in roughly the same circles. I haven’t met Ebba, only Eugene. I didn’t even know Alexander was his nephew. You Swedes all look alike. I have trouble telling you apart.”
“Eugene is half Russian. I’m a quarter French and a quarter Danish, so I’m going to ignore that.”
“Yeah, yeah, Europeans then. Does that mean Ebba is going to your mother’s tonight?”
“No, it was just a question. My mother’s old friends are coming. I promised to help serve.”
She managed to hold back a disloyal grimace.
But she knew exactly what she would hear.
“My daughter is still trying to figure out her life.”
“She gets that frame from her father; on my side, the women are slim and dainty.”
“She used to eat meat, of course. I don’t know what’s come over her.”
“You could always say no,” said Leila.
Isobel flashed her an amused look. “Sure.”
She needed to get home and shower before she cycled up to her mother’s apartment by Karlaplan, the snobbish address where the youngest of the royal siblings used to live. If she pretended it was a complex field task she had to tackle, if she didn’t drink, held her tongue at all her mother’s digs, and didn’t allow herself to be provoked into any kind of argument about humanitarian work, feminism, or politics, then maybe she would be able to leave by ten.
After she said good-bye to Leila and a sniffling Asta, Isobel took the stairs back down. She looked up as she fastened her helmet. The trees were blooming, all cherry-pink and apple-blossom-white, the air was cool and smelled fresh. In two days, she would have swapped all this bright airiness for something entirely different. Sticky heat, the insects that came with the rainy season, and the typical red Chad landscape.
A cheap, long-haul flight, an overnight transfer in Addis Ababa, and then she would be in one of the poorest countries on Earth. Hardship, death, and near-unbearable heat awaited her there. She would work around the clock, see maybe one hundred acutely ill patients a day, armed with nothing but a stethoscope, experience everything from intense joy to bottomless sorrow, and be thankful for every minute she hadn’t been struck down by cholera.
She climbed up onto the saddle and glanced back before cycling off. She wondered what it said about her that she could hardly wait to get away.
She knew what it meant as soon as they came for her. And there were so many of them. She was alone, still a child in so many ways, with nowhere to run. The fear when they came, when they surrounded her, was the worst she’d ever known. Every bone in her body, every muscle, wanted to run. But it was a futile wish. They forced her down on a striped rug, she would never forget the feeling of the floor beneath her, the soft rug and the bumps in the floor beneath it, how they held her down. There was no one who would help her, no one to hear her cries or even to care. After all. She was just one of many girls it happened to. All the time.
Chapter 32
“And then he called to say his wife liked Louise better and that he was sorry, but he couldn’t hang out with me anymore.”
“But what did you say to him? Wasn’t he your friend? Weren’t you sad?”
“Not as sad as I thought I’d be. I guess I always expected them to take Louise’s side anyway. But I went and took a leak in his wife’s kitchen garden one night. On her basil.”
Gina
burst out laughing.
“Sounds fair,” she said.
Peter nodded. “I thought so. You’re the only one who knows. Not even my therapist got to hear about that, even though it was her idea.”
“Your therapist told you to pee on a garden bed?”
Peter shrugged. “She said I should express my feelings. It was a loose interpretation, I guess.”
Gina put her hand to her mouth and felt the laughter bubble up in her again.
She liked that Peter didn’t say a single derogatory word about his ex-wife, not even when he had the chance. Gina had met Louise many times, and she would have had plenty of sympathy for Peter if he was resentful about the way he had been shut out of their old community. But he never said anything negative about her, and Gina admired him for that.
The laughter ebbed out and left behind a warm glow in her body. She was starting to get addicted to this car and their journeys. She liked that Peter made her laugh. There had been far too many times in her life when there was nothing to laugh about. She glanced at him in profile. Peter looked happier and better rested than he had in a long while. The new clothes he wore fit him much better than the old ones. Still suits and shirts, of course, but the cut was more modern, and he usually took off the tie in the elevator when they left the office. He smelled good, too. She turned toward the window on her side and relaxed into another smile. Outside, the familiar buildings and roadworks went by. Peter swung into the lane for Tensta. It felt as though the journey went more quickly every time they did it.
“Guess what?” she said.
“What?”
“I’ve never been any farther north than this road.”
“But you’ve been to Gyllgarn Castle.”
“I mean farther away. There has to be a world beyond Gyllgarn.”
For half of her life, she had seen the road signs. Oslo. Enköping. Dreamed about what lay at the end of the road.
“Though this road, the E18, the European road number 18, doesn’t really go north,” said Peter. “More west. It would actually go straight through Norway and all the way to Northern Ireland. And then to Saint Petersburg in the other direction.” He grimaced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a know-it-all. I’ve just always liked geography.”
“You never sound like that. And besides, I like it when you teach me things.”
She fell silent, embarrassed.
He looked straight ahead, and the silence stretched out. Then he smiled.
“Want to go a little farther?”
“Now?”
“It was just a thought. I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t mean . . .”
But she nodded eagerly. “I do. I really do. I was just a little taken aback.”
He changed gear, and they sailed past the high-rises of Tensta on the left and a nature park on the right. Her father was out with a friend, Amir would be at the youth club for a few hours—there was a disco. For once, Gina had a couple of precious hours all to herself. The car sped on, along the highway. Suburbs rose up and then disappeared, gas stations and exits, and the sparkling feeling in her chest stayed put.
“Why did you have therapy?” she asked.
“It was after the divorce. I had some things to straighten out.”
“Have you done that now, then?”
“Don’t know. It depends on who you ask. There are some things I definitely haven’t finished working on.”
She waited, but when he didn’t continue she simply said, “I met with psychologists in the refugee house. I didn’t like them.” She still had trouble with that profession, to be honest. She wasn’t looking forward to the psychiatric part of her course.
“I only went once, but she was okay. Not judgmental.”
“That’s good.” If she ever met a nonjudgmental psychologist, maybe she would change her mind.
They passed a sign for Sigtuna, a small town with its roots in medieval times. And suddenly Gina knew exactly where she wanted to go. She had wanted to see it for the longest time. So when the brown road sign appeared, she pointed to it. “Can we go there?”
“Wadenstierna? Sure.”
“I love Swedish castles.”
“You know, a distant relative of mine used to own it, hundreds of years ago.” He bit his lip. “I didn’t mean to brag. Sorry if that came out wrong.”
He did that. Often. Thought about how the things he said to her might sound wrong. He’d never cared in the past.
“I suppose it’s not entirely your own fault that you’re a white man with upper-class privilege,” she said lightly, wondering if she’d ever said anything so flip before.
“But the castle is owned by the state now. Do you want to go in, or just look from the outside?”
“The outside.”
“Then I know the perfect spot.”
They drove through small communities, past fields full of sheep and horses, and increasingly smaller houses, country estates, and summer houses.
Gina studied the unfamiliar landscape. No one knew where she was. It was a strange feeling. But she wasn’t afraid; she felt safe. What a difference it made when you felt comfortable with someone, not afraid of what he might say or do. She was so often prepared for shouts and violence. Ordinary people could shout that they didn’t want the likes of her here, in Sweden, she should go back home. But Peter was so careful with her, cautious and respectful.
He turned off and they ended up on a bumpy forest road. The car bounced around, and every now and then something thudded against the chassis.
“Didn’t it say this was a private road?” she asked.
“Yeah, strictly speaking it’s not exactly legal to drive here. But just wait, you’ll see. Look.”
The forest had opened up, and they drove out onto a little hill. She looked out. On the other side of the water, the white castle came into view.
“Wow,” she breathed. She had seen pictures of the fairy-tale-beautiful Wadenstierna Castle before, but not from this angle. It was majestic, enthroned on its promontory. Flags fluttered from its turrets. “It’s so beautiful,” she almost whispered. Of all the Swedish castles, this was her favorite. “Have you been inside?”
“I went to a wedding there once. They’ve got a nice collection of portraits. What is it you like about Swedish castles?” he asked curiously.
“The feeling. The history. The pictures of everyone who lived there.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know much about Somalian history.”
She laughed. “Me neither. Dad is always moaning about that, but I’m just not interested.”
“Maybe you will be when you’re older. I do know what you mean, though. My mother has Russian heritage.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
“If I have to. It’s really rusty, though. Are there any famous Somalians? Anyone I should know about?”
“I think the most famous is a woman. Waris Dirie. She’s a model. And an author. She wrote a book about her childhood in Somalia. Have you heard of it?”
“Don’t think so. What’s it about?”
“Her childhood. And genital mutilation. It’s pretty widespread in Somalia. Nearly all women are mutilated.”
Peter flashed her a quick look, and Gina fell silent. This wasn’t a subject she was comfortable with. She had come to it by mistake, and it was much harder than she had expected. It awoke too many painful memories.
“Gina, I . . .”
“No, please. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Sorry.”
She smoothed her skirt over her knees and tried to find her way back to how she had felt earlier. This had been one of the best evenings of her life. She wanted to keep that mood, not talk about terrible things she couldn’t change. Things a person couldn’t possibly understand unless they had gone through it themselves.
But the silence spread irreparably between them as they headed back to the car.
Peter’s brow was furrowed, and he looked as though he was deeply focuse
d on driving. His hands gripped the wheel. Gina sat still.
They were silent for the rest of the journey.
As though each of them had lots to work through, and needed to do it alone.
Chapter 33
“So, what’s her name?” Romeo asked. He looked at Alexander through half-closed eyes. The music pounded around them. Far below, the Hudson River flowed by, and the roof terrace pulsed with party-seeking guests.
“Who?” Alexander asked, as his gaze swept across the bar.
“The woman you met who’s so interesting you haven’t flirted once since we got here. It’s not like you.”
Alexander shrugged. He looked at the drinks menu. The day before, he had drunk every cocktail he could think of with vodka in it. The day before that, he’d stuck to champagne. Today, he had decided to work his way through the drinks list in alphabetical order.
“What was wrong with the last one?” asked Romeo.
“She had straight hair.”
“The actress yesterday?”
“Her laugh was all wrong.”
Romeo scoffed.
“I’m just not in the mood,” Alexander snapped, downing his Cosmopolitan. What started with D?
“Dry martini,” he said to the barman. He cast a look at Romeo. “Want one?”
“I’m still on my Caipirinha. And I haven’t recovered from the Ap-pletini, either. Maybe you should slow down a little?”
“Why?”
“Because your liver needs a rest. Besides, I have to work tomorrow. I can’t afford to drink myself to death.”
He had to work too. He had mismanaged his affairs back here in the US, gotten behind while he was in Sweden. Fuck. Everything was falling.
“Her name is Isobel,” he said, rubbing his brow, beating down the hollow feeling. “I met her in Stockholm. She laid into me, and that’s that.”
Romeo smiled. “So what does she do? This angry Isobel of yours.”
“She’s a doctor.”
Romeo raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah,” said Alexander. The waiter came back with his cocktail and he drank it in systematic mouthfuls, trying not to taste it. He hated gin. But he had been thinking about Isobel constantly for a week, and alcohol was the only thing stopping his brain from running amok. He hadn’t planned to mention her to Romeo. But when had something he’d planned gone like it was supposed to these past few weeks? Plus, it actually was a relief to talk about Isobel, to say her name aloud.
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