The Distance

by Zoë Folbigg

  October 2018, Tromsø, Norway

  That Same Night

  ‘I’m so glad you could make it!’ Cecilie hugs Grethe carefully, while her baby sleeps curled up and snug in a sling on her chest.

  ‘Well, what difference does it make at this age? She still doesn’t know night from day yet, and we wouldn’t miss Auntie Cecilie and Uncle Espen’s party for the world!’ Grethe and Cecilie release their embrace and look down at the baby cocooned between them. They laugh. Ahyana’s lips pucker rapidly as if she’s dreaming of her mother’s milk and, like tired Grethe, she doesn’t look all that party ready.

  Cecilie on the other hand is glowing. Peacock green eyeshadow sparkles across her feline lids. Her sweep of platinum blonde hair is pinned to one cheekbone with a diamanté clip; a sparkling black ear cuff whispers up the elegant curve of her other ear. Gone are the woolly jumper, jeans and clunky DM boots. She wears a long black dress cut deep at the V of her décolletage and, underneath swathes of black silk, Cecilie stands strong in petrol green heels. Even her hands are elegant, her nails painted a sleek shade of oil slick.

  Grethe, make-up-free in her patchwork dress and stripy baby sling, looks at her friend in awe and pushes the loose strands of hair back into her crocheted hairband.

  ‘You look stunning!’

  Cecilie isn’t used to being called stunning, so she smiles and blushes.

  ‘No wonder Andreas looks like the cat who got the cream,’ Grethe nods, aiming her gaze towards Andreas and Abdi, shaking hands stiltedly by the table of devilled eggs, marinated herring and glazed trout.

  ‘Now I know Espen has been thirty for, like, nine years, but look at you! All grown up!’ Grethe laughs in admiration, as she strokes the shoulder of Cecilie’s black dress.

  ‘Shut up, you’re next,’ laughs Cecilie.

  ‘But, seriously, isn’t this lovely?’ Grethe marvels, almost in surprise, as she looks up at the ceiling. Huge white globes that look like balls of lace light the i-Scand’s party room and soften the dark circles under Grethe’s eyes.

  One wall of the room has floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the harbour, the bridge and the Arctic cathedral in the distance across the water. A ship sails past so close it gives the illusion of the room moving gently along the harbour the other way.

  ‘You know Espen, never one to do things by half. But he went to such an effort, I had to get on board. Have you had a drink? Eirik has created a signature cocktail especially, the Double Wiig.’

  ‘A Double Wiig?! Your own cocktail?’ Grethe laughs.

  ‘You must try it! Can you try it?’ Cecilie nods down to Ahyana.

  ‘One won’t hurt,’ Grethe winks. ‘Might make her sleep better later.’

  As if on cue, a waitress walks past with a tray full of Martini glasses, filled with a peachy syrupy drink.

  ‘Ah, Solveig!’ says Grethe, deftly taking a glass from the tray. ‘Any chance I can steal you back? The hours are more sociable at the ice cream parlour.’

  The waitress laughs and leans in to look at sleeping Ahyana.

  ‘She’s beautiful Grethe, congratulations,’ she replies diplomatically.

  Grethe smiles and Solveig weaves away into the crowd full of friends, family, regulars from the library, the Hjornekafé and the hotel, and Espen’s former flames. Espen and Morten look dashing in his-and-his tuxedos with thick silk bow ties, and Cecilie, happy not to be the centre of attention at her own birthday party, likes the feeling of having wandered into their wedding.

  ‘So, how’s it going with Andreas?’ Grethe asks excitedly as she raises a Double Wiig to her lips. ‘He looks smitten, Cecilie. You can tell he’s totally not listening to a word Abdi is saying; he keeps looking over here because he can’t take his eyes off you.’

  Cecilie plays with the olive in her glass. ‘Oh, it’s OK…’

  ‘I have a good feeling about him, Cecilie. He has a nice face. He’s super into you. And how amazing he came to your party, all the way up here, all the way from another country. When are you going to Copenhagen?’

  Cecilie has had a fun few months – and she’s finally had another lover since her first and last, Mr Lind – but she can’t help wishing another man had crossed borders to be here, with her now, at her birthday party. She feels an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. A feeling of doom she knows might sour the party atmosphere later.

  ‘Oh, it was coincidence, Andreas was here this week for work anyway, he just stayed an extra night.’

  ‘Yeah, but clearly he wouldn’t have missed this for the world,’ Grethe gushes, her tired face illuminating a little.

  Cecilie sighs. ‘He wants me to go to Copenhagen next weekend, to meet his kids.’

  Grethe’s blue eyes widen encouragingly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Cecilie scrunches up her nose and goes to say something, but the women are distracted by Karin’s chink chink of a glass, as she stands at a microphone on a small stage, her back to the twinkling lights of the harbour.

  Thirty-Three

  Cecilie’s sore soles teeter across the footpath of the bridge. A cold wind whips down the strait and dishevels the clean lines of her hair some more.

  ‘You should have let me call a taxi, honey,’ says Andreas as he places a suit jacket over Cecilie’s shoulders. She’s already wearing her long thick down coat and thinks to herself that his jacket won’t make any difference.

  ‘I wanted to walk,’ she says irritably.

  Cecilie is thirty years and six hours old, and although the dawn sky is still dark, she can almost hear the sun starting to wake up behind the mountain in front of her.

  The party was everything Espen expected it to be and a million times better than Cecilie had thought. She wasn’t up for a big song and dance, but boy, did she dance. She drank more Double Wiigs than she should have, but managed to hold it together by replenishing herself at the buffet, and shake it off to Taylor Swift, Gwen Stefani and A-ha.

  Karin made a polished yet touching speech before her driver whisked her off to catch a flight to Helsinki; Grethe and Ahyana managed to stay for a good few hours, and as Abdi set sail on the Hurtigruten at midnight, he made sure the captain tooted his horn right by the window of the i-Scand function room.

  At 2 a.m. the Northern Lights put on a stunning celestial show, for which Espen bowed and took the credit. It was 6 a.m. when Espen and Morten stumbled home to their apartment above Nils’ salon in town and waved Cecilie and Andreas off onto the bridge, towards the peaceful house at the foot of Mount Storsteinen.

  Cecilie tried to get Espen and Morten to join her and Andreas for a nachspiel, to prolong the night so she could put off the inevitable. She even offered to serve bacon and eggs on her home-made rye bread, toasted into little triangles the way Espen likes best, but it was all to no avail.

  Now her feet are sore and her limbs are tired. And she still doesn’t know how to say it.

  ‘Want me to give you a piggyback?’ Andreas smiles blearily, his tie undone around his neck.

  ‘No, Andreas, it’s fine, I can walk.’ Besides, Andreas isn’t much taller than Cecilie, who is pretty solid on her feet.

  ‘You’re practically hobbling. Come on, I’ll carry you. The quicker we get over this bridge, the quicker I get the birthday girl to bed.’

  Andreas leans down to lift Cecilie from under her bottom and sling her over his shoulder.

  Resistant and heavy, Cecilie protests. ‘No, Andreas, put me down.’

  Andreas continues, lifting Cecilie higher over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. ‘Ah, come on!’

  ‘I said NO!’ Cecilie hammers her fists on Andreas’s back like a Nutcracker drummer.

  Andreas stumbles in surprise, towards the edge of the bridge, as Cecilie balances perilously close to the top of the railings that were raised to prevent suicides; too late for her family. The wind makes Cecilie’s long coat flap frantically like the flag at the cafe on the top of the Fjellheisen. A feeling of fear envelopes Cecilie, like she�
�s choking under the ripping tug of synthetic fibres.

  ‘PUT ME DOWN!’

  Teetering on Andreas’s shoulder at the very edge of the bridge, Cecilie doesn’t know that she is at the exact spot her father jumped.

  Andreas is taken aback. He lowers Cecilie and gently places her on the ground, then straightens out her coat. He puts his hands on her shoulders and lowers his head a little so he can look her in the eye.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was just trying to be funny. I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t funny and I don’t want your help, OK?’ The Arctic wind fills Cecilie’s lungs with a chilly hit of boldness. ‘I don’t want to go to Copenhagen with you and I don’t want to meet your kids.’

  Andreas looks winded.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Cecilie’s lips wobble as she tries not to cry. Andreas removes his hands from Cecilie’s shoulders and looks down at his feet in dejection. ‘I really am.’ The horn of a ship passing under the bridge accentuates his silence, which in turn agitates Cecilie. ‘Why do you even want to be with me?’ she snaps. ‘I’m a barmaid. I’m a waitress. I’m a librarian. I still live in my mamma’s house. I’m like a bored teenage girl. Who’s in love with someone she’s never met. Look at me! I’m ridiculous.’

  The green eyeshadow and black mascara tearing down her cheeks do make Cecilie look somewhat ridiculous.

  ‘You’re beautiful, Cecilie. I don’t care what you do. Fish oil doesn’t make me me. I think you’re amazing. You’re the highlight of my working week. I can’t wait to see you.’

  Cecilie thinks of the highlight of her day. The messages. The conversations. The photos. The stolen moments.

  ‘Did you not hear me?’ she pleads, wiping make-up from under her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m in love with someone else.’

  Andreas nods. ‘Is it the person you’re always texting?’

  Cecilie’s silence confirms it.

  ‘I thought he was just a pen pal. Someone you’ll never meet.’

  ‘I won’t ever meet him.’

  Her heart lurches in her chest.

  ‘Then come to Copenhagen. I’m here. I’m real. I’m in love with you.’

  Cecilie bites her lip. She had felt it coming, and wanted to get out before he said it. Planning the party had been a convenient distraction.

  ‘I’m sorry, Andreas, you deserve better. I’m not for you. I’m just the first girl you fell for since Iben. You need time to heal.’

  ‘That’s bullshit. I’m in love with you.’

  ‘Oh Andreas,’ she groans. ‘You deserve to be with someone who loves you back. Someone who would appreciate your exciting life, your children, your kindness. Don’t waste any more time on me.’

  The phone deep in the pocket of Cecilie’s long down coat beeps and she instinctively pulls it out so she can read it. She counts back seven hours.

  Can you talk?

  Iridescent eyes sparkle.

  ‘Is that him?’

  Cecilie nods guiltily, then plants a kiss on Andreas’s lips. She really did enjoy spending time with him; talking to him; making love to him in his hotel room, even if she was trying not to think of Hector. So she tenderly savours the taste of him.

  He closes his eyes and inhales, wishing it weren’t the last.

  ‘Go back to the i-Scand, Andreas. Get some sleep. I’ll make it over the bridge OK.’

  Cecilie picks his suit jacket up from the floor and hands it back. ‘I’m sorry…’

  ‘I’ll see you home.’

  ‘Don’t, it’s fine. The sun’s coming up. The mountain will look after me.’

  Cecilie strokes Andreas on the cheek, belts up her coat, removes her heels and runs barefoot the rest of the way across the bridge. Through biting wind and freezing temperatures. Run, run, running, past the Arctic cathedral, along the road towards the Fjellheisen and left on the track to the grand slate and wood house lit by Mount Storsteinen’s snowy peak. As Cecilie leans on the lattice trimmed veranda to catch her breath, her feet numb, she types back furiously.

  FaceTime. Five minutes.

  Thirty-Four

  October 2018, Xalapa, Mexico

  That Same Night

  At the little desk in the cramped living room of his apartment, Hector wakens his laptop and checks the camera works. He studies his face in the monitor. Wide-apart eyes of darkest brown that crease into laughter lines like contours of the Sierra Madre. His hair looks dishevelled and his khaki T-shirt sits tightly around the tops of his arms.

  Cálmate.

  Hector clicks on a green square to start FaceTime with the only number he’s ever called. It still says Arctic Fox on the caller list of one. He smooths the waves kissing his temples and is pleased to see peace in his face. Rage has passed. The shrill dial tone only soothes him.

  A loveheart-shaped face fills the rectangle.

  ‘Gratulerer med dagen, guapa!’ Hector says sloppily.

  Cecilie’s smile fills the screen, touched by his efforts, however clumsy the pronunciation. They messaged each other throughout the day, punctuating her thirtieth birthday with good wishes and photos. Hector bought a slice of tres leches cake on his way to work at Lazaro’s and sent a photo of it to Cecilie before he ate it; Cecilie sent Hector a photo of the new harp her mother had bought her, a shining blue bow atop it; Hector sent Cecilie a message to say he wished more than anything that he could be at the party; Cecilie sent Hector options of her wearing two dresses reflected in her bedroom mirror and asked him which he preferred.

  Now, Cecilie slumps into the sofa and Hector’s favourite black dress has a dampness rising from the hem as she plunges her frozen feet in a hot bubbling foot spa next to the thick brown rug. They see each other’s faces for the first time in weeks.

  Hector leans in closer to focus on the slightly pixelated image.

  He gasps.

  ‘Wow, you look amazing!’ he says, his palm scratching the back of his head. Even with twelve-hour make-up blurring Cecilie’s bleary eyes, Hector is spellbound. He’s never seen Cecilie’s face in full make-up before. Even though green dust dances under black smudged eyes, it looks dramatic and stunning. And it suits her.

  A real-life angel.

  I look a mess.

  Seeing her face in the corner of her laptop makes Cecilie rub under her eyes.

  ‘Anyway, how was my pronunciation?’

  ‘It’s not my birthday any more, silly!’

  Cecilie has a feeling of relief: that she turned 30 and the world didn’t stop turning; that the party is over; that she said what she had to say to Andreas.

  ‘It looks like you had a good party.’

  ‘I did. We did. Espen did a great job.’

  ‘Are you home now?’ Hector asks, nervously.

  ‘Yip. Soaking my dancing feet. Heels do not suit me…’

  Cecilie lifts the laptop to pan the camera around the living room. Hector sees his Black Swan disappear in a whirl as a pile of unopened presents come into view on the long wooden dining table; sunlight starts to enchant the vast garden beyond the window, a large television sits flat against a wall; the Calder doesn’t move above the fireplace; a stationary harp, gilded and golden; then back to Cecilie’s face as she places the laptop back on the oak coffee table, above her soothed feet. Hector didn’t see any sign of anyone else in the room with her.

  ‘You?’ Cecilie says, as her face refills the screen.

  ‘Siiiii. Solo,’ Hector confirms, as he ducks his head out of the way to show the fuchsia, red and orange stripes of the wall hanging.

  She’s not there.

  Cecilie scans the screen frantically, drinking him in while she can, as Hector picks up his laptop and gives a twirl around the room. The wall hanging blurs into the kitchen, which blurs into the lime green walls, which blur into the night sky that looks into the top floor apartment, then Hector places the laptop down and returns to the wooden chair with the holy cross cut out of the back of it.

  ‘So, tell me about the party…’
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  ‘It was awesome. I had such fun!’

  I wished you were there.

  ‘Did you take pictures?’

  ‘Of course! I took them for you. I’ll send them in a second. The room looked amazing. The food was great, and I danced so much my feet hurt!’

  ‘Great,’ Hector says, feeling a pang of envy, his body pulled by longing. ‘I wish I could have danced with you; I wish I was there to rub your feet.’

  Sadness flits across Cecilie’s face, but she doesn’t say anything. Bubbles in the pedi spa provide a comforting, rhythmic hum.

  ‘Was Mister Denmark at the party?’ Hector tries to sound casual, tries to make it a joke. When Cecilie mentioned her Danish friend a few weeks back, Hector knew what it meant, and it’s played on his mind ever since. He raises one quizzical eyebrow and gives Cecilie a playful, desperate look.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he still there?’ he asks, trying to keep envy and urgency out of his voice. He knows he has no right to feel the jealousy he does.

  ‘No. He’s back at the hotel.’ Cecilie smiles at the screen, which pixelates. She can’t see the relief on Hector’s face as he shuffles on his old church chair; he can’t see how reassuring her smile is.

  He settles down so the screen can sharpen.

  ‘Did you pick up my parcel yet? Is that it on the table?’

  ‘No, I was decorating the party, and it’s Saturday. Well, Sunday now, but the post office shuts early on a Saturday. I’ll get it Monday.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now because I got you something else. Something cooler.’

  ‘What? Now?’ Cecilie starts to laugh at the screen, then looks around her living room to see what surprise Hector might have planted.

  ‘Listen closely.’

  ‘What is it?’ Cecilie puts the sparkling black cuff that runs up her left ear towards the camera on her laptop and closes her eyes. Giddiness has overcome guilt for Andreas and fatigue in her feet, and she is filled with happiness. So much so that the image of That Person They Never Talk About doesn’t even pop into her head.

  Cecilie’s ear cuff sparkles on Hector’s screen.