Isobel didn’t really want to drive to a far away place to have lunch; she wanted to lie on the couch at home and eat ice cream. A late-night 7-Eleven and a comfortable couch were all a woman really needed. Plus, she didn’t want to be in a car with Leila. Who would have thought that the woman drove like a car thief on crack?
“No. You can sit at a table. Why so grumpy?”
“I’ve got a natural aversion to dying. I’ve been to some of the most dangerous countries in the world and never been in a car crash yet. Please don’t kill me on the way to the suburbs.”
She pulled at the seatbelt to check it was fastened properly, while Leila took a curve well above the speed limit.
“We’re almost there,” said Leila. “As soon as we’re on the freeway, I’ll really get this beauty going.”
Isobel squeezed her eyes shut. If she survived this, she would become a better person, she promised.
* * *
“Do you want to talk about how it was?” Leila asked once they sat down. The restaurant was brightly colored, the chairs were red, and the scent coming from the kitchen made Isobel’s mouth water. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to eat something other than sugar and trans fats.
“It was like always, really.”
She scooped up some eggplant purée with freshly baked bread and put it into her mouth. Leila had ordered a table full of small en-trées, and Isobel suddenly felt famished.
“Other than the fact that war broke out and you were evacuated,” Leila pointed out. She flashed her patented psychologist look at Isobel over the table.
“You know it’s not the first time. I’ve been through worse things.”
Leila gave her another long look, and Isobel avoided making eye contact.
“How does it feel to be home, then? I know it can be tough.”
People often assumed it was nothing but nice to come home. That it was a relief to return to a functioning society. But the truth was much more complicated. You left home with so many ideas about making a difference. Come back and feel like you’d barely scraped the surface. True, she hadn’t been away from Sweden for so long this time. Still, it took a while to find your feet. To get used to the fact that the children you saw on the street were healthy, clean, and safe and that people counted shopping and spending money as a pleasant hobby. That people wouldn’t hesitate to pay fifty kronor for a paper cup of coffee, an amount that could mean the difference between life and death in another part of our shared world. That people moaned about the weather and other meaningless things on social media while children died because no one had time to care.
“I’m trying to take care of myself,” she said, though she wished she was better at it. Doctors who didn’t became cynical and blunt. That was her nightmare, becoming a fieldwork cliché who’d lost her belief in the possibility of changing things, even in a small way, for the better.
“Alexander was worried about you. Did you talk?”
“Mmm.” Isobel reached for a bowl of yogurt, scrupulously avoiding Leila’s sharp look.
We talked. And other things.
“Isobel? What is it? You know you can tell me if something happened.”
Leila’s voice was so confidence-inspiring that Isobel could feel herself falter. Would it be so bad to ask? To get advice about how to escape the turmoil bubbling away inside her? She didn’t believe in talking about her feelings. Or rather: She believed in it when it came to other people, people who were normal. She didn’t talk about her feelings, because she was a freak. She’d known that since she was a teen. It had been like a growing insight, that she had fantasies and thoughts the other girls didn’t seem to share. But she was a highly functioning freak. She didn’t burden anyone else. She saved lives and did no one any harm. As long as she didn’t say or do anything wrong, it made no difference what she was like on the inside.
“How are things at the hospital?” she asked instead, although she had spoken to Idris that morning. He had a horrible cold but everything else was under control.
“It’s stable. You know it’s my responsibility to keep an eye on how you’re doing?”
That was the downside to brilliant psychologists—they weren’t easy to throw off.
“I’m fine, you don’t need to worry.”
Leila took off her glasses, breathed onto them, and wiped them with a napkin.
“But it’s my job to worry.”
Did she never blink, or was that just Isobel’s imagination? Surely everyone blinked. Fifteen times a minute, on average, if she remembered correctly.
“I know you have trouble trusting people,” Leila continued once their main meal had arrived. Bowls and plates of steaming food and cool side dishes.
“That’s not true,” Isobel said as she filled her plate with saffron rice, spinach stew, chickpeas, and garlic-scented yogurt sauce. “I trust people all the time. It’s not my fault most people are so unreliable.”
“I only want the best for you. You know that, right?”
Isobel nodded.
“And I promise, you can’t shock me, not even if you try. There’s nothing you can say that’ll make me think less of you.”
“Not even if I turn out to be a bad person?”
“But you’re not a bad person.”
Isobel shook her head. She hated declarations like that. They didn’t mean anything.
“We’ve known each other for only two years. There’s plenty you don’t know about me.”
“I probably know more than you think. But why do we have to be good or bad, kind or evil? People are complex. Most of us are both. It’s impossible to be just one of them.”
“I don’t agree. There’s a line between being good and bad, and there’s always a choice.”
Leila smiled. “Now you’re talking about how things should be, not how things are. Do you think you’re a bad person? Really?”
“You just said everyone was good and bad.”
“Why do you think you’re bad?”
Leila’s jet-black eyes were fixed on her.
Isobel stuffed more food into her mouth. Leila waited. Isobel swallowed, wiped her mouth.
“You’re right, I don’t like to expose myself,” she said reluctantly.
“That’s an interesting choice of words.”
“If you tell people things, they can use them against you. Don’t you want more?”
“I eat until I’m seventy-five percent full. How does it feel when I question what you say? When I say that people don’t automatically want to use your secrets and weaknesses against you?”
“Like you’ve taken a course in how to deal with difficult doctors.”
“Yeah, it was pretty useful.” Leila smiled. “What are you worried might happen?”
People might realize how bad I actually am.
The thought came to her automatically. She was a woman who fantasized about things no woman should like. What normal, modern woman got turned on by that kind of thing? Not playful kink, but real pain and submission. No, there was something wrong with her, and if Leila knew she would agree. Maybe not openly—she was much too professional for that—but quietly, to herself. And then Isobel would be left. Exposed. Defenseless. Ashamed.
“I’m not afraid, Leila. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Is dessert included? If I die on the way back, I at least want some sugar and caffeine in me.”
* * *
When Leila dropped her off outside her door, Isobel paused with the key in her hand. The conversation had woken her from some kind of trance. She was an independent woman, a competent doctor, and a reliable coworker. She was all that. But she was also a walking cliché. A good girl with a sense of self based on performance. A grown woman who, at the age of almost thirty-one, still thought she was good enough only when her mother gave her confirmation.
Which she never did.
Isobel looked around. All about her, early summer was in full swing. Stockholm was in glorious bloom, and the first tourists were already arriving. St
reets and sidewalk cafés were full of people late into the evening. Enough with the self-pity now. She had made up her mind. She would go out tonight. Not wallow at home. So what if Alexander had dumped her? Again. Life in the field had taught her to appreciate people who kept their promises. Kindness, loyalty, and stability were the best things she knew. Not men who ran away when things got complicated. Screw him. And the horse he rode in on. She would get dressed up, drink alcohol, and meet men, loads of men. If her body wanted to live, well then it was time she lived a little. She opened the door and ran lightly up the stairs.
A damn good plan if she said so herself.
Chapter 40
Alexander had done plenty of things in his life he wasn’t proud of. Far too many. But he had never hurt a woman physically.
He was not a man who hurt women.
Didn’t want to be.
Only the worst of the worst went for women. And he had never been one to intimidate. Never been turned on by being aggressive or dominant. Never.
Right?
He swung his feet up onto the desk in his newly furnished office. Stared at the empty walls. A memory of what had happened between him and Isobel flashed by. It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked what they had done. He remembered how he had pounded into her soft, yielding body, selfish and oblivious to anything else.
It was that he had. Had been turned on by her whimpering, by his own power.
What the hell did that say about him?
He’d pushed her down against the bed, taken her like an animal. Had the best sex of his life.
He tipped the chair back and stared up at the ceiling.
The whole thing was so fucking . . . confusing? Scary?
His phone rang. Romeo. He had been dwelling on this for almost three days. Maybe it was time for someone else to have a say.
“You disappeared from New York,” Romeo greeted him. “Where are you?”
Alexander hadn’t told him about the latest troubles in Chad, had just acted on impulse and taken off without saying a word.
“Stockholm. Sorry I disappeared. How are you?”
“I spent the weekend with the family, so I’m a little worn out.”
Romeo was the youngest of five brothers. His parents were devout Catholics, his brothers burly, heterosexual firemen. Romeo usually came back from family gatherings with a haunted look on his face, his shoulders stooped.
“Oh, man.”
“Yeah. Did you know there’s a special circle of hell for sodomites?”
“If religious people spent a little more time being tolerant, they’d have less time to obsess about other people’s private lives.”
“I get to talk shit about my family, but you don’t, capisce?
“Sorry. I need to brainstorm something, alright?”
“Shoot, I have a little time before Satan comes to collect my soul.”
“Did you ever have kinky sex with any of your partners?”
“Define kinky.”
“Anything that isn’t vanilla.”
“You are aware I sleep with men, right? Nothing about that’s vanilla.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Are we talking whips and bondage?”
“Maybe. Yeah, I guess so.”
“Why are you asking me? Haven’t you? No offense, but you’re the sluttiest person I ever met.”
“Yeah, don’t hold back.”
“I’m just surprised. I thought you’d done everything.”
“It’s never come up. Or maybe I wasn’t receptive. But most women aren’t as interested in being whipped or tied up when they have sex as you seem to think.”
“If you say so. I mean, I’ve never slept with a woman, so I have no idea.”
Alexander hadn’t had any idea either. So he had done what he always did when he wanted to understand something. He had studied the subject. All weekend he had read, all kinds of stuff, browsed chat rooms, read articles, followed discussion threads.
“So what exactly do you want to know? Because I’m guessing it’s not a theoretical discussion you’re after. We’re talking about your Isobel, aren’t we? The doctor?”
“She’s not my Isobel.”
Romeo was silent, as though he was thinking.
“This isn’t like you,” he eventually said. “You sound different. Worried. But that can’t be right. You’re never insecure when it comes to women. What happened?”
“She told me things. What she likes. In bed. And I freaked out.”
“How?”
“We had sex last weekend. Rough sex. And then I panicked and left.”
“Left?”
“Went home.”
“Aha. And what did she think about that?”
“We haven’t spoken since.”
“I don’t get it. Don’t you like this woman?”
“Yeah.”
“So it probably would’ve been better if you hadn’t run off.”
“Sounds about right. Fuck, man, I don’t know if I can deal with this.”
“It would be simpler if it was just sex?”
“Yeah.”
“But it isn’t?”
“No.”
He liked Isobel. More than liked. He had feelings for her. The air in his apartment was cool, but Alexander suddenly began to sweat.
“You straight guys, you always have to make things complicated.” The amusement in Romeo’s voice held a touch of schadenfreude.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not just straight people who make things complicated.”
“Maybe not, but listen, Alessandro, I’ve waited ten years for you to fall for someone. You can be a bit of a jerk when you talk about other people’s lives like it’s some kind of entertainment. If you like Isobel, I’m sure you’ll find a way to give her what she wants. Or are you opposed to kinkiness? If that’s the case, I’m gonna have to sit down. I can’t take any more surprises today.”
He wanted to believe Romeo. That it was nothing strange. But still . . .
“But doing something like that to a woman . . .”
“Yeah, it’s gotta be complicated, feelings-wise. But do you mean you’d do it against her will?”
“Are you crazy? Never.”
“So that’s what I mean. This is something she wants. That’s what you’ve gotta sort out in your head.”
If Alexander was really honest with himself, there was a dark part of him that was turned on by the thought of a submissive Isobel who let him do what he wanted with her. But what if he made a mistake—went too far and hurt her? What if he lost control? The fear was almost paralyzing.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can trust your intuition. And your . . . let’s say wide experience of women. Alex, you’re one of the best guys I’ve ever met. You know that, right?”
Alexander laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“Don’t laugh it off. I’ve met plenty of bad people. You aren’t one of them. If there was anyone I’d trust with my life, it’s you.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted anyone’s life in his hands.
“But Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“You can’t get kinky with me. To me you’ve gotta be nice.”
“Go to hell.”
* * *
By dinner, Alexander had made up his mind. With one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, he sent a text to Isobel.
Hey, sorry I disappeared. Be great to hear from you. Busy?
He waited.
And waited.
Not his greatest skill.
He drummed his fingers. Sent another message.
Are you okay?
Two in a row was fine. More than that was pathetic.
Right? He’d never wondered about stuff like that before. He normally just initiated contact, and either got a reply or didn’t. For the most part, he got the response he wanted. Sometimes he didn’t. Then he just moved on. Without giving it a second thought.
But now . . .
He
waited.
And waited.
Shit.
He had deserted Isobel after she’d told him her deepest secret. He had slept with her right after she came home from a war zone. He hadn’t said a word afterward, just disappeared as if she were some kind of meaningless trophy.
She must be furious. And justifiably so. He was an ass, a . . .
His cell phone buzzed.
Message from her. He held his breath. Read.
All vital signs normal. You?
He breathed out, a long sigh of relief that could stretch all the way to her, wherever she was. If she was willing to communicate with him, maybe she didn’t hate him. Even though she’d replied using cool clinical medical jargon. He quickly replied:
Be great to see you.
God, he was longing for her.
No reply.
Silence.
He paced restlessly around the apartment. Was just about to let his dignity go to hell and give her a call when her answer arrived with a bleep.
Want to see you too.
He had never sweated so much waiting for a message. He would need to take a shower after this. He asked:
Tonight?
Her answer was immediate this time.
Sorry. Going out.
What the hell? He wanted to see her now. And he didn’t want her to go out. Who was she going out with anyway? Why hadn’t he stayed with her? But even though this whole jealousy thing was new to Alexander, he wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t know he had absolutely nothing to do with where Isobel went, or with whom. He wrote:
Okay, talk tomorrow?
She sent a thumbs-up in reply. That was all. Still, an emoji was more than he deserved.
He looked at the screen. Scrolled through their old messages. Hoped, against his better judgment, that she would text something more. When his phone buzzed, the noise went through him like a shock, but it was just a picture from Åsa. She and Michel were on their honeymoon in Mauritius, looking annoyingly happy. He closed the picture and opened his computer instead. He buried himself in his work for a while, read through a couple of business plans his accountant in New York had sent over, wrote down his response in an e-mail, and then moved on to the darker side of the Internet. For those who wanted to delve into the world of kink, the Internet was a cornucopia.
At ten, his phone buzzed again. He finished the article on ten beginner’s tips for tying up your partner before he glanced at the screen.
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