by Zoë Folbigg
Amber Barrie sidles up to rescue them both and Kate doesn’t see the knowing look dash between mother and daughter.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Amber nods at Kate, not sounding in the least bit sorry. ‘Marta has managed to get Alistair and Bertie down, Clarissa has just gone over to Meadow’s house.’
‘Meadow’s house? At this time? What could possibly be more exciting at Meadow’s house?’ laughs Antonia, in high-pitched outrage. ‘Meadow ought to have come here.’ She strokes her daughter’s long golden mane. ‘Thank you, sweetpea. Oh, have you met? Darling this is, er, Kate, Kate Wheeler, from the WI, she’s very talented with a spreadsheet.’
Kate tries not to look offended, but this time she does notice a loaded look between Antonia and Amber, right about the point when Antonia said ‘Wheeler’.
You thought my Battenberg was the best in the blind tasting.
‘Kate, this goddess of a girl is my daughter Amber.’
‘Yes, Mummy, we’ve met…’ the goddess glows.
Kate is both fascinated and intimidated. How does a woman as fragrant and floaty as Antonia Barrie have two grown-up daughters and two young boys – who would be in the same school as Jack and Izzy if they weren’t at the private school in the next village? Antonia must have been well into her forties when she had Bertie, but she doesn’t look like a woman who’s harangued with homework and sticker charts and cricket practice. And now her daughter is standing next to her, like Antonia v.2. A younger, more charming, more attractive clone, with swishier hair and peach-perfect skin.
‘Nice to see you again,’ Kate bumbles, trying not to spill anything else from her flute. ‘Looking forward to the new term next week?’ she adds keenly.
‘Can’t wait.’ Amber smiles.
‘It’s Amber’s first teaching job – and in a state school! It’ll be quite a different environment to what you experienced at school, darling.’
‘Oh, it’s OK,’ Amber diffuses, slightly flustered that her mother might not know that Kate’s son will be in her class; preoccupied by a secret she’s trying to conceal. ‘I trained in East London, Mummy, I’m ready for anything!’
The quiet lioness in Kate feels slightly riled by the implicit criticism, and emboldened by champagne.
‘Well Jack is raring to get back to school. And Claresham might not have the facilities of Saint Felix’s, but it’s a really lovely school. My eldest daughter Chloe was sad to leave this summer, she’s had a marvellous time there.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,’ Amber smiles without using her eyes.
There is a lingering pause in the conversation and Kate feels scrutinised by the two polished women, looking her up and down with pitying smiles. Suddenly Kate’s Weight Watchers success doesn’t seem like such a triumph, and she shuffles from one foot to the other before deciding she ought to move along now, to make it easier for Antonia to mingle. She knows when she’s not interesting enough.
‘I wonder where George has got to,’ Kate says, looking back over her shoulder to the guests behind her on the terrace.
‘He’s in the kitchen,’ Amber replies in a flash.
‘Oh. Thanks. Excuse me…’ Kate smiles meekly as she walks away with uncomfortably damp nipples.
*
In the vast expanse of the beige and black kitchen, guests mingle around a huge granite island, while Chen, and Antonia’s other minions, glide around with platters full of manchego tartlets and quince.
Nigel Pickover walks towards Kate, standing in the wide doorway as she surveys the room looking for George, and raises a hand as if he has something important to say to her. He looks sozzled and sweaty, with a plump red face. Kate pauses to see what Nigel wants to talk to her about.
‘Where’s the big white telephone?’ he stumbles, putting an unwieldy hand on Kate’s shoulder to steady himself, desperate to find one of the seven bathrooms.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ shrugs Kate. ‘Where’s my husband?’
Nigel walks past without answering, and Kate wonders if she really might be invisible after all. In the kitchen, she is horrified to see George, hanging off one of the double doors to the fridge, leaning in and helping himself to a beer. He looks quite at home for someone who usually eschews such parties.
‘George!’ Kate scolds, embarrassed by his overfamiliarity but relieved that she can’t see Archibald, Antonia or Amber anywhere in the vicinity. ‘What are you doing?’
George rummages before he finds a brand he likes. One of the waiting staff rush over with a bottle opener.
‘You can’t just help yourself to beer in someone else’s home!’ Kate says, as she studies George’s flushed face.
‘Why not?’ he shrugs.
‘I think we’d better start making a move, I told Susannah we wouldn’t be late.’
‘She’s all right,’ George says, with a cavalier gleam in his eyes.
‘Well I’m not, and you look like you’ve had enough already.’
‘Party’s only just getting started,’ he slurs, looking out the kitchen window onto the terrace outside.
Kate can’t put her finger on it, but after hankering for an invitation to Archibald and Antonia Barrie’s annual cheese and wine party for years, she doesn’t like being in Claresham Hall, or Barrie Manor as everyone in the village calls it. She just wants to get home.
Twenty-Nine
November 2016, Day 1,232
Are you OK Hector?
Yeah I’m fine. You?
Where are you?
DF.
DF?
Mexico City. My friend Efrain had a birthday party here last night.
Ah, happy birthday Efrain.
I’ll tell him. Thirty-five yesterday. An old bastard like me. We’re about to go get some breakfast. You OK?
It was a cold Sunday afternoon in November. The library was closed, Karin was in Geneva and Espen and Morten were huddled on the sofa, legs stretched out and entwined in front of them, drinking a bottle of red and watching a movie on a rare day off. Cecilie sat at the long wooden table in a silent conversation with someone on the other side of the world, her own glass of red perched proudly next to her own new MacBook. She didn’t have to use her brother’s any more. Espen and Morten punctuated her quiet conversation with chuckles at the television.
Cecilie lingered on Hector’s words.
I’ll tell him.
That would mean that she was an acknowledged friend of Hector’s. In his life.
As Cecilie looked out of the window onto the snowy expanse of their garden at the foot of Mount Storsteinen, she floated through the howling wind and grey clouds to a sunny November morning over Mexico City. She paused for breath atop mighty Aztec pyramids before continuing until she could see the green, white and red of the giant flag rippling in the Zócalo and smell the tamales and tacos from the street vendors around the vast plaza.
Ceci?
She didn’t reply.
Ceci, you OK? Wanna FaceTime? Efrain’s brother has wiffy here.
The sun burst through slats in the window and warmed Hector’s face – the thought of seeing Cecilie’s while he was hungover already felt like something of a tonic, so he lingered on the sofa in Efrain’s brother’s apartment.
A squeeze of fresh lime from a street food vendor burst into the sky and Cecilie snapped out of her dreamy state and back into the warm toasty living room within the safe confines of the Arctic Circle.
Oh no, it’s OK, you get going, sorry. I forgot it was the boys’ night out. I just wanted to check you were OK, I was worried. But you’re OK.
Worried?
About something I just read on the news. Nine severed heads, thirty-two bodies…
Hector leaned back into the sun-dappled sofa and looked up at Efrain, his brother Raymundo, and their friends, all heading out of the apartment door. Efrain gesticulated at him to vamos.
Hang on, Ceci…
He typed.
‘Guys, I’ll catch you up, I need to make a call.’
‘Checking your mamá’s porn hub out again, Hector?’ laughed Efrain’s brother, Raymundo. Efrain winced. Hector ignored them both and looked back at his phone.
‘Order me huevos al abañil and a nopal juice. I’ll be right there,’ he lied.
Efrain felt bad for his brother’s careless comment to a motherless son, so he smiled and nodded compliantly.
The door slammed. The air smelled stagnant under the vaulted ceiling of the Centro Historico apartment, but it was silent, he could talk. Hector lit a cigarette and messaged Cecilie back.
OK I’m here. What’s up? I can call you…?
Cecilie didn’t want to say it out loud in front of Espen and Morten.
It’s just, I’m scared for you
She typed furiously.
I keep reading horrific stories. Things happening in Mexico.
OK so where did these things happen?
Hector wrote, putting his feet up on the coffee table in front of him and inhaling as he looked at his phone. Perhaps it was best this conversation wasn’t voice to voice or face to face, Hector didn’t know how to be calming about something that fizzed away murkily in the back of his mind like a constant feeling of impending doom. Like the thwack, whack, whack of Benny’s rolled-up comics on the back of his head in the bottom bunk.
Somewhere called Zitlala?
OK well Zitlala is nowhere near Xalapa.
He typed speedily, reassuringly.
It’s like, seven hours away, that shit doesn’t go down near me.
Again Hector was lying. Two weeks ago, a taxi driver was decapitated and his severed head left on the dashboard of his abandoned car, right near the city centre. Hector thought of the nopal juice he had ordered, and his mouth went dry with thirst and fear. But Cecilie was reassured, and took heart as she looked across the room at Espen and Morten, laughing on the sofa.
Ah OK. I just seem to be reading more and more stories about violence and massacres and mass graves, I just wanted to check you were OK, that none of this world touches you.
Hector felt relieved that she hadn’t read the story about the taxi driver, just 200 metres from his grandfather’s home.
Hector thought of the axe.
I hear about this shit all the time at the paper, but trust me, these guys keep among themselves, I don’t mix with them, no amount of money is worth that.
Hector thought of the deliveries he used to make for Benny. Of the times Benny knocked at his door, or let himself into Hector’s apartment, sitting, waiting in the dark, asking for a pair of helping hands.
‘It’s good money, Zapata. You’ll get you a proper place to live, a ranch like me.’ When he said this, Hector wondered where Benny had moved to, since where he lived had become a closely guarded secret. But Hector didn’t actually want to know. He didn’t want to sully his visits to Sister Miriam at the Villa Infantil with chit-chat about Benny, which grand hacienda he had bought, or what his latest business venture might be. And Benny’s unannounced visits to Alejandro’s house on Calle Bremont, or to his apartment in the tall building on Benito Juárez, had got less frequent as the years went on. He couldn’t remember the last time Benny Trujillo let himself into the apartment and sat waiting in the dark. It hadn’t happened since Pilar had moved in anyway. Hector knew that every time he said, ‘Thanks man, but I’m OK…’ and turned down Benny’s offers of work, he was making himself more of a foe. But saying no to Benny put Hector in less danger than saying yes to Benny. And their relationship had always been about survival.
Hector leaned his head back against the sofa and looked up at the fan on the high ceiling of the Mexico City apartment.
Don’t worry princesa, I’m fine. Hungry and hungover, but fine.
Cecilie let a sigh of relief out at the screen of her laptop. Relieved that this was a world Hector didn’t inhabit, relieved that he had been on a boys’ night out and his girlfriend must be miles away back at home.
Phew, well that’s OK
Cecilie typed, and took a large sip from her glass. Calmness flooding her as Merlot travelled to her bloodstream.
You go get breakfast, nourish yourself Hector!
OK, me voy.
Hector?
Siiiiii…
I love you.
I love you too.
Thirty
August 2018, Tromsø, Norway
Andreas inhales the view as the cable car rises.
‘Amazing, my boys would love this!’ His face is that of an enchanted little boy himself, although his minky hair is greying at his temples.
Cecilie smiles. She finds other people’s smiles infectious.
‘You’ll have to bring them!’
They marvel at the rising view of the green slopes, the blue fjord, and the bridge connecting the mainland to the town. Despite the dark secrets the bridge keeps, it surges majestically out of the water. Cecilie is glad she agreed to this date, the view is breath-taking, and living at the foot of the mountain means she takes it for granted and doesn’t summit the peak nearly as often as she should.
‘Look!’ she points, to the white roof of the library, a tiny wave across the water. ‘It’s easier to spot it in summer, come December everything looks white over there!’ Andreas leans into Cecilie so he can look down the length of her arm, her finger. Their sides touch.
‘Wow, you’re so lucky to live in such a magical place.’
At the top of Mount Storsteinen they sit on metal chairs at a table at the cafe on the terrace, crisp thin air filling their lungs with feelings of newness, of excitement.
‘Ready to order?’ asks a stout woman wearing sunglasses and earmuffs.
‘What would you like?’ Andreas asks, looking down at his menu and stroking his nose.
Cecilie, still exhausted from not having slept the night before last, needs comfort food. ‘Burger for me please,’ she smiles.
‘Bacon and cheese?’ asks the waitress, smoothing down her pinny.
‘Yes please.’
‘Potatoes and coleslaw?’
‘Yes please,’ Cecilie laughs, and closes her menu.
‘And I’ll have the fish gratin please,’ says Andreas, handing the menu back to the waitress and lifting his sunglasses onto his head. In the lunchtime light of day-and-night brightness, Cecilie can see white glasses tracks wrapped around Andreas’s crow’s feet, highlighted by a summer tan. His eyes are blue and kind.
‘Anything to drink?’ asks the waitress.
‘How about a bottle of white? Cecilie?’
‘Sounds great, thanks.’
Andreas turns to the woman wobbling at their table. ‘Whatever your best bottle of white is please.’
Fresh air and fatigue make Cecilie feel happy to be looked after today. And there’s something very comfortable about Andreas that doesn’t make her want to ruin the moment with chit-chat. But he is intrigued by the beauty in front of him and wants to know more.
‘So, your brother. Wow, he’s quite a whirlwind. You seem very different; much more…’ he makes a gesture with his hand to indicate a calm, steady line. Cecilie looks calm, but Andreas doesn’t know how she can rage internally while she delicately plays the harp.
‘We are – I am!’ Cecilie laughs, her cheeks rising playfully. ‘He’s very driven, like our mother. She’s a politician, she works harder than any woman – any man – I’ve ever met.’
‘You work pretty hard! Three jobs?’
‘Keeps me out of trouble.’
‘So, what do you do when you’re getting into trouble?’
‘I come up here,’ Cecilie lies. She hasn’t been up in ages. ‘I read. A lot. I play my harp.’
‘I’ve never met anyone who plays the harp. How does one learn to play the harp?’
Cecilie remembers Mr Lind and smiles fondly.
‘With patience. Which is another difference between me and Espen – he never sat still long enough to learn a musical instrume
nt.’ Cecilie always finds it easier to talk about Espen than herself; he is the easier half of her to talk about. ‘My mother isn’t very musical either, she is always so super busy, so… away.’
‘So, do you take after your father?’
Cecilie looks down at the bridge taunting her and lowers her own sunglasses over her eyes. She feels a tug inside her chest, for a man she doesn’t know.
‘I guess. Anyway, what about you?’ Cecilie swerves. ‘What exactly is this business that brings you to the Arctic from cool Copenhagen?’
‘Well, I’m no brain surgeon as your brother seems to think, however many times I tell him. I import fish oil. And up here, in these waters, it’s the purest in the world.’
‘Fish oil?’ Cecilie curls her delicate nose as she remembers being spoon-fed the stuff as a child by her mother. Espen made an even bigger fuss than she did, and insisted on putting a clothes peg on his nose before Karin went near him. ‘Is it really worth it? I stopped taking it as soon as I could.’
Andreas laughs. ‘Totally worth it!’
‘Why?’
‘Heart health, brain function, kidney function, lower cholesterol, healthy skin, hair, eyes…’ Even as he’s saying it Andreas’s eyes sparkle and Cecilie suspects that Andreas is a man who practises what he preaches. ‘The results are unbelievable. Recent research has shown fish oil can even help ease symptoms of certain genetic disorders, the benefits are just incredible.’
As Andreas extols the virtues of his virtuous business, Cecilie closes her eyes and listens. As she listens to his measured, comforting voice, she drifts, over the bridge towards a faraway land, to another fatherless child, an orphan, who she can’t locate right now. She can’t see through the haze and clouds; Popocatépetl’s mighty peak obscures her view. She can’t see Hector sleeping alone in his marital bed, she can’t see his eyelids flicker as he dreams about her.