Falling

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  “It’s possible to try too hard.”

  “You know that I trust you and your judgment.” Her father shook his head. “But this time, I think you’ve made a mistake.” He walked away from her.

  Chapter 49

  “Bonjour, Maman.”

  Isobel kissed her mother’s smooth, powdered cheek.

  “You’re sweaty,” said Blanche.

  “Sorry,” Isobel meekly murmured before they walked in through the wide entrance to Nordiska Kompaniet together. They moved through the luxurious department store, between well-kept Östermalm youths, upper-class men and women weighed down with bags, and affluent tourists, toward Café Entré on the street level.

  “Blanche, wait!”

  A man around Blanche’s age stopped them. Isobel recognized him from the tabloids as a count and friend of the king. Blanche’s face lit up. They launched into a conversation in French, and Isobel waited impatiently. Blanche Sørensen was still a well-known face, and people often wanted to get her attention to talk. Sometimes Isobel wondered whether it was her mother’s way of keeping her anxieties about growing old at bay—allowing herself to be admired by men. Blanche held out her hand and the gray-haired aristocrat kissed it elegantly before he dipped his head to Isobel and disappeared.

  “He called on me when your father died. Now he’s married to a woman thirty years younger than he.” Blanche shook her head. “Men.”

  Isobel laid her jacket over the back of her chair.

  “What would you like, Maman?”

  She had thought about canceling their coffee date at the last minute, but she hadn’t dared. What did that say about her? A grown woman who didn’t dare say no to her mother.

  “Just a coffee,” said Blanche. “I’m not hungry, though I haven’t eaten since breakfast. But I’m not much of one for food, as you know.”

  Ordinarily, Isobel would have pointed out that her mother needed to eat, following which Blanche would say something about how little and seldom she ate, how uninterested she was in food, before she went ahead and ordered a sandwich that she would then devour. But Isobel didn’t have all the time in the world today, so she simply fetched coffee for both of them. She cast a glance at the clock behind the counter. She was meeting Alexander in three hours, and she had one last thing to pick up. Had she ever felt more expectant or terrified? Felt more alive and reckless, like an exciting, sexy, attractive woman? Stupid question, of course. She knew the answer was no, no, and no. She set down the coffee cups on the table. She didn’t really need any caffeine, if she was honest; her body was jittery enough already.

  “It’s been a while. What’s so important that you don’t even have time to see your mother for days?”

  “I called,” Isobel pointed out.

  “If you think that’s enough, then . . .”

  Isobel weighed her words as she studied Blanche’s pale green dress. An item of clothing like that probably cost enough to pay many of Medpax’s bills. “I was at your dinner,” she reminded her. “And since that, I’ve barely been at home. I don’t know if you heard about Chad, but it was tough. I ended up in the middle. . . .”

  “This coffee is cold,” Blanche interrupted her, putting down the spoon. “I like my coffee scalding hot, you know that. Can’t they even manage to make a decent coffee anymore? What’s wrong with people?”

  “I’ll get another.”

  Isobel got up, fetched a new cup, and sat back down. She cast another glance at the clock.

  “Can’t you make it five minutes without looking at the clock? Do you do this with everyone, or is it just me? It’s very impolite.”

  “Sorry. Is the coffee better?”

  But now she had managed to annoy her mother.

  “I don’t know why it always has to be so difficult to spend any time with you. All of my friends have such fun with their daughters. Anne af Scheele goes on vacation with her daughter. Nina Bengtzén’s daughter is so kind and considerate. Why do I have to have a daughter who can’t even sit still and drink a cup of coffee?”

  “Maman, I . . .”

  “And what have you done with your hair? Aren’t you too old for that hairstyle? It’s nicer when you have it up, more classic. It’s all over the place now. Considering your big bone structure, you should think about things like this.”

  She refused to get into a discussion about her appearance. She loved her curls, loved wearing them loose and free.

  “Please, Maman. Could we talk about something else? We never agree on these things anyway.” She smiled as accommodatingly as she could. “I’ve just been in Chad. Don’t you want to hear about the hospital?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize this conversation was only going to be about you.”

  Isobel blinked. Even for her mom, that was unusually spiteful. But she couldn’t win, because Blanche was never consistent in her criticism. If she went to Chad, it was the wrong thing to do. If she traveled with Doctors Without Borders, it wasn’t right either. The whole point of most of their conversations was that she could never make her mother happy.

  “Your dinner was really nice,” she said quickly.

  Please, God, if we don’t start to argue, I’ll never ask for anything ever again.

  “I suppose so. It wasn’t anything special.”

  Blanche sipped her coffee.

  “I met a man I think you know a while ago,” said Isobel, well aware that men were the topic of conversation Blanche loved most after talking about herself. “Eugene Tolstoy. He knew Grandmother, he said. Do you know him?”

  “I think we met. I know who he is. Ebba De la Grip’s brother, n’est-ce pas? That woman is something of a goose, but Eugene is handsome, if I remember correctly.”

  “I know his nephew, Alexander De la Grip,” she said quietly, holding her breath, and regretting the words almost instantly. But she had to say something about Alexander before she burst.

  “The playboy? Why on earth?”

  “We get on rather well actually.”

  Blanche furrowed her smooth brow. “But I don’t understand. Why does he want to spend time with you?”

  And here I thought it would be a bad idea to tell Mom about Alexander. Hah!

  “Isobel, I’m only saying this for your own good. Don’t be stupid and think a man like him is interested in you. Men can’t be trusted, and certainly not that one.”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  Way to go, Isobel.

  “He only wants one thing, you know that, don’t you? Men aren’t like us women—they do what they want. Just be careful.”

  Keep quiet now. Just. Be. Quiet.

  “Things aren’t always black and white,” she said. Apparently she was entirely incapable of keeping her mouth shut today.

  “You’re naïve if you believe that. And you’ll get hurt. Unfortunately, I can promise you that.”

  “Don’t you think there are men you can trust?”

  “No. Say what you like, but life has taught me that.”

  Isobel knew that in some way that barb was aimed at her. Because Blanche had been careless enough to get pregnant with Isobel. Because Blanche, as a Catholic, hadn’t been able to have an abortion and married Isobel’s father instead. There was only one picture from the ceremony; Isobel had found it at her grandmother’s house and kept it. A stiff-looking Hans Sørensen and a three-months-pregnant Blanche. Unhappy faces, unhappy marriage. And a daughter who would be dumped with her grandmother as soon as possible. A child who would always long for her mother, the beautiful creature who swept in every now and then, with French expressions and exciting scents, and for her father, who barely turned up at all. She had heard them fight about it once, her mom and her grandmother. About whose responsibility Isobel was.

  “You don’t need to care about what I say,” Maman continued, and Isobel shook off her old sorrows, brushed them away like dust from her shoulder. They were old wounds, and they didn’t actually hurt as much as they used to. “But I know what I’m talking
about. I’ve been around longer than you, and you’ve never understood men, not like I do.”

  Isobel looked down at her cup. She had to leave soon, otherwise she would end up saying something she really regretted.

  “I know I said I could stay, but I have to go,” she said quickly. “I have a meeting. With a seamstress.”

  “I should do that too. Once, I only needed to enter a room and all the men would look at me. You can’t understand how that felt. How difficult it is to grow old.”

  “Everyone grows old, Maman,” said Isobel. “And you’re still beautiful,” she pointed out, because despite everything, it was true. “There isn’t a man in here who hasn’t looked over this way at you.”

  “It’s hard to have had something and then lose it. I wonder if it won’t be easier for you. I’m your mother, and in my eyes you’ll always be beautiful. But you know what I mean.”

  Isobel had to stand up. If she didn’t leave right now, her mother would manage to destroy all of her self-confidence.

  “I’m sorry, but I really need to go.”

  “Go on, then. It’s not my place to have opinions on that.”

  “Maybe we can do something next week?”

  “Call me. I’ll just be at home,” Blanche said, as she always did, though it wasn’t at all true. Her mother had a packed social schedule. If Isobel had been in a more quarrelsome mood, she would have pointed that out, but she had faced enough criticism and digs for today. Surely she couldn’t be expected to tolerate more than this per meeting?

  “Are you going to stay here?” she asked.

  Her mother adjusted her scarf, touched her earrings. They were her grandmother’s, Isobel realized, the diamond ones, antique and glittering—the ones her grandmother had promised her.

  “I’m staying. A friend is coming by, if you’re leaving anyway.”

  So, she had arranged to meet someone else. Isobel never learned, always got sucked into her mother’s guilt trips. Isobel leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, I’ll call you.”

  She left the café. When she turned around to wave one last time, her mother had already been joined by the gray-haired count. She didn’t look up.

  Isobel rushed down the steps and out of the store. She paused to take a few deep breaths outside. She had survived. She hailed a cab and used the short car journey from Hamngatan to calm herself down. She closed her eyes and thankfully felt some kind of equilibrium start to return. Her anticipation about what she and Alexander were about to do was, despite everything, stronger than the pain of a bruised ego. She stepped out of the car. Lollo opened the door and let her in with a wide smile.

  She looked at the garment Lollo held out.

  “It’s perfect,” she breathed.

  “Do you plan on telling me what it’s for?” Lollo asked as she carefully zipped up the protective cover and handed Isobel the hanger.

  Isobel shook her head. She raised her arm so the hem wouldn’t drag on the ground. She would take another cab and change when she got there.

  “My God, I’d kill to know what you’re up to,” Lollo said, envy in her voice.

  Isobel said good-bye. Maybe her mother was right, she thought as she waited on the sidewalk.

  Maybe she was naïve and reading more into her relationship with Alexander than she ought to. And maybe all men were unreliable. But that wasn’t something she planned on worrying about right now. Maybe later, but definitely not now.

  She smiled as she climbed into the taxi. Soon she would be playing with Alexander. And there was no room for any doubts.

  It would be a memorable fight for dominance.

  She planned to enjoy the battle. And she had every intention to win.

  Chapter 50

  Alexander had received directions from Isobel to get into a cab and wait for her to send the address, so here he was in the car, driving around aimlessly. Stockholm passed by outside, but he had a hard time dealing with the uncertainty of not knowing what was about to happen. On the surface, it might look like he moved through life taking things as they came, but until now he had never understood just how much control he exerted over his own life, how accustomed he was to controlling his world.

  His cell phone beeped.

  Bastugatan 16.

  Alexander gave the driver the rather posh Södermalm address, leaned back in his seat, and ran his hands down his thighs. He had dressed completely in black, as she had told him to. Narrow black chinos, black T-shirt. Black socks, black shoes. No underwear. Not as sexy a feeling as you might think, but Isobel was in charge, and he obeyed. On one side of him was a bag full of the toys they had bought, on the other a bouquet wrapped in cellophane.

  The cab pulled up outside a red building from the late nineteenth century.

  Alexander walked through the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The place smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.

  “Alexander De la Grip?” he heard, and an elderly woman with a furrowed face and a checked apron appeared. She looked like a concierge from an old film, and it suddenly felt as if he had stepped back in time.

  “Please,” she said.

  She opened the door to an elevator covered with ornate iron dragons and red, velvet-clad walls. From the ceiling of the elevator, a golden lamp shone faintly. She pressed a button, closed the barrier, and shut him in. The elevator rattled upward.

  When it stopped, he stepped out.

  Isobel was standing in the doorway to an apartment, and Alexander’s heart almost stopped.

  “Hi,” she said quietly, and a shiver coursed through his entire body. In her white dress, she looked like a goddess, momentarily come down from Olympus to amuse herself, unconcerned by whether her pleasures would be too much for an ordinary mortal partner to handle. She had one hand on her hip.

  “Come in.”

  “Where are we?” he asked when he stepped into the apartment. He put down the bag and glanced around. “Whose place is this?”

  The décor was extravagant, all dark colors, full of gold and oriental patterns. So far from what he would have expected of her.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Isobel . . .”

  “No, I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

  She raised an eyebrow and asked: “Are those for me?”

  He held out the bouquet. It was the first time he had given her flowers, and he had spent a long time in the store before he caught sight of the orchids. Wild, exotic, luxurious flowers in a vibrant lime green color. She took the bouquet and let her eyes move over him. She nodded approvingly, went away, and returned with a heavy vase. She placed the orchids in it and then set it down on a table in what had to be one of the most overcrowded rooms he had ever seen. Golden frames and mirrors, dark furniture, masses of paintings and other little trinkets. Heavy velvet framing the windows. Stunning views out toward the glittering water of Lake Mälaren, the inlets of Kungsholmen and Norrmalm—the entire city, actually. The place looked familiar somehow. He knew he had never been here before, yet he recognized the style. He took a step toward her but she shook her head so he stopped.

  “Take off your shirt,” she ordered.

  Without a word, he did so, dropped it to the floor and stood still, letting her eyes have their fill. He had good genes, was strong and toned from boxing, and he had nothing against the avid way Isobel was staring at him. As he started to unbutton his pants, she gave him a quick shake of the head.

  “No. I’ll tell you when. I want to talk first.” Her voice was steady, but he could see the change in the color of her face, see the blood making her cheeks flush, clearly make out her pert nipples through the silky material. She was naked beneath her thin, billowing dress—there wasn’t a sign of panties or a bra.

  “There’s champagne,” she said with a gesture toward a silver bucket. “Pour half a glass for me. And a whole one for you. Drink it and then pour another.”

  “Are you planning to get me drunk?” he asked, amused.

&nb
sp; “No. But I plan to lower your inhibitions.”

  “Babe, I have no inhibitions,” he said. But he did as she said—pulled off the foil, unwound the metal wire, twisted the cork free, and poured one glass for her, one for himself. Raised the glass to her, looked her in the eyes, and sipped the ice-cold liquid.

  “Drink,” she ordered.

  He emptied the glass and poured another.

  She smiled. “Good boy.”

  But there were limits, even for him. He did not like to be called a boy. He took a step toward her, an automatic attempt to restore the balance between them and regain the control he hadn’t realized he would miss so much.

  “No,” she said, and he paused again. “Sit there.” Isobel pointed to a leather-clad chair with a high back and no armrests.

  Alexander reluctantly obeyed. He put down the glass and sat, leaned back against the ornate leather backrest.

  Isobel came toward him. As her dress billowed around her body, he caught a glimpse of pale curves through a slit in it, and then she was in front of him. Alexander’s hands went up. He wrapped them around her waist, spread his legs, and pulled her toward him. He buried his face against her stomach, inhaled the intoxicating smell of her. Isobel placed a hand on his head. At first she caressed him, but then she grabbed a fistful of his hair. She pulled his head back, looking him directly in the eyes.

  “From now on, you don’t do anything I haven’t told you to. Not with your hands, not with your legs, nothing.”

  He squared his shoulders.

  “I’m going to give you a safe word,” she said.

  “I don’t need one.”

  She pulled slightly, and he resisted the temptation to move away from her.

  “I’m going to give you one,” she repeated calmly. “Your safety is my responsibility, and you have no idea what’s going to happen today. So if you say gold, I’ll stop. Okay?”

  “Okay then,” he said.

  “Are you going to obey me? No matter what I say?”

  He met her gaze, had trouble bringing himself to answer. Define obey, he wanted to say.

  “Say: Yes, Isobel,” she urged him, pulling slightly at his hair.