A distinguished gentleman with white hair and a well-groomed mustache let his gaze linger on Kerstin for slightly too long. Faye kicked her under the table.
“Over there. At two o’clock. The guy who looks like he’s stepped straight out of colonial times. He can’t take his eyes off you. Have you started bathing in some kind of musk oil? What’s it all about?”
Faye wagged a finger at Kerstin, who blushed all the way up to her ears.
“I’m not even going to answer that. Order me a glass of Chardonnay, then we can go over the plan for tomorrow.”
Faye waved the waiter over and ordered what Kerstin had asked for. The man with the mustache smiled at Kerstin, who did her best to try to ignore him.
“You’ll have to set aside some time to prepare for your appearance on Skavlan, so we won’t be able to get started until you’re back from the TV studios. In the meantime I’ll get busy drawing up a list of shareholders who haven’t sold their shares yet. Soon as you’re free, we’ll divvy them up and speak to as many as possible.”
Faye took a prawn from the large silver platter. “Whatever we do, we can’t let on that trouble is brewing. We don’t want everyone to know that the company is under attack.”
“I get that, but our top priority must be to prevent any more women from selling.”
“From the gentleman over there.”
The waiter set down a bucket containing a bottle of champagne beside their table and placed a long, elegant champagne flute in front of each of them before opening the bottle with a pop.
Faye raised her eyebrows meaningfully. Kerstin snorted.
“I knew it,” said Faye. “Musk oil.”
She guessed it was the happiness Kerstin had felt since she had met Bengt that made her so irresistible to men.
Faye nodded toward the colonial grandpa, who raised his glass in a toast, a wide smile stretching from ear to ear. She kicked Kerstin under the table again.
“Behave yourself. Raise your glass and thank him. You never know what it might lead to.”
“Faye!”
Kerstin blushed again. But she raised her glass in an obedient toast.
The studio lights were blinding. Faye had lost track of time. She had no idea how long the interview had been going on for or how long was left. The audience was seated in rows on banked seating—a hungry, amorphous mass, on the alert for every word, every shift in her facial expression.
Usually, she thrived in these situations. There was a little diva inside her who liked sitting in front of an audience, feeling the nerves of recording for TV. But today she felt strained and anxious.
Thinking about the shares being bought had kept her awake most of the night, tossing and turning. She had gone over the conversations in advance—conversations with women she would need to persuade to keep their shares without revealing in any way that something was happening. No easy task—it would take both tact and finesse.
A slightly too long silence wrenched her away from her thoughts. She had been asked a question and was expected to answer.
“The plan is to expand in the USA,” she heard herself say. “I’m here in Stockholm for a month or so to meet potential investors and put together the final details. And I want to personally oversee the new issue of stock.”
It was horribly warm. A trickle of sweat ran down the small of her back.
Fredrik Skavlan, the Norwegian talk show host, sat up straight.
“But this hunger…What is it that drives you? You’re already a billionaire. A feminist icon.”
Faye strung out the silence. The other guests were an American Hollywood actor, a female professor of linguistics who had just published a nonfiction best seller, and a woman who had climbed Mount Everest with prosthetic legs. The Hollywood star had been flirting ceaselessly with Faye ever since she had arrived at the studio.
“Before my best friend Chris died, I promised her I would live life for both of us. I want to see how far I can get, what I can build. My biggest fear is dying without achieving my full potential.”
“And Julienne, your daughter, who was murdered by your ex-husband. What does her memory mean to you?”
Fredrik Skavlan leaned forward and the tension in the studio increased.
She didn’t answer right away, letting the temperature rise even further. Reach boiling point. The answer was learned by heart, but it was important it sounded natural.
“She’s with me in everything I do. When the longing and pain get too much, I bury myself in my work. I’m running Revenge, trying to make it grow, so that I don’t lie down and die myself. So that I don’t end up as just another woman silenced in the shadows of a man’s actions. So that he—the man I once loved but who killed our daughter—doesn’t succeed in killing me too.”
Faye pursed her lips as a tear slowly ran down her cheek and fell toward the glossy black studio floor. It wasn’t hard. Her pain was always so close to the surface that it was easy to visit it.
“Thank you, Faye Adelheim, for coming here today to tell us your story. I know you’re needed elsewhere and have to leave us.”
The audience rose to their feet and the applause rattled the rafters. It was seemingly never-ending. It continued as she stumbled across the studio floor, past the seating, and into the backstage area.
On the way to her dressing room, she summoned a young woman with an earpiece and asked her to call a taxi. A little way down the corridor she heard the Hollywood star calling out her name. She ignored him and shut the door behind her. There was a fan whirring in the dressing room. A shabby, mustard-yellow couch stood neglected in one corner. Faye stopped. She leaned against the wall and tried to smile at her own reflection. Mission accomplished. Everything had gone well. The jigsaw pieces of lies, truths, and half-truths had come together into the picture of herself she had wanted to share. Yet she was still missing the adrenaline rush she usually got after a good TV appearance. She couldn’t shake off the anxiety that was enveloping her like a wet blanket. She had made the mistake of taking the future for granted. She had been afflicted by the same pride that had made Icarus fly too close to the sun with his waxen wings. Now she was paying the price as the wax melted and her wings fell apart.
FJÄLLBACKA—THEN
I was raped for the first time on my thirteenth birthday. It was a day like any other, really. It was mostly chance that it happened on my birthday. There hadn’t been any celebrations. Dad always said that kind of thing was a waste of money and what was more, he had no interest in getting up before work to sing.
We also sat in silence at dinner, which was fish gratin. Me, Sebastian, Mom, and Dad. Mom attempted small talk—a couple of run-of-the-mill questions to start a conversation, to create a few seconds of something akin to normality. But after Dad had roared at her to shut it, she too had sat there in silence, poking her food. I still appreciated her trying. Maybe it wasn’t true, but I believed that she had made a little extra effort because it was my birthday. Beneath the table, I briefly caressed her hand in a soundless thank-you, but I don’t know whether she noticed it.
When Dad was finished, he got up and disappeared, leaving his plate on the table. Sebastian put his on the drainboard. Mom and I had no problems dealing with the washing up. Quite the contrary. Mom would usually mess around as much as she could in the kitchen while cooking and clearing up dinner to make sure the time we got to ourselves would last for as long as possible.
The TV in the living room was switched on and we smiled at each other, relieved to be alone. Protected by the clatter of dishes and the running tap, we began to tell each other about our day in whispers. I usually invented and added things—things that sounded fun—so that she wouldn’t get upset. I think she did the same thing. That time in the kitchen was our breathing space. Why ruin it with something as depressing as reality?
“Come with me.”
Mom took my hand and left the water running so that Dad would think we were still doing the dishes. I crept after her into the hallway. She put her hand in her coat pocket—carefully, so that the rustle wouldn’t be audible—and handed over a small package with a ribbon around it and a rosette on top.
“Happy birthday, darling,” she whispered.
I carefully removed the rosette, pulled off the paper, and quietly removed the lid of the box inside. Within it was a silver necklace with a charm in the shape of silver tears. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I hugged Mom. I put my arms tight around her, drawing in her scent, feeling her heart beating anxiously in her breast. When we separated from our embrace, she took the necklace out of the box and put it around my neck. Then she patted my cheek tenderly and went back to the dishes. I touched the tears. They seemed fragile between my fingers.
Dad coughed in the living room. I let go of the tears, quickly tucked the necklace inside my top, and went to help Mom with the washing up.
* * *
—
When we were done, I went up to my room, which was next door to Sebastian’s. I quickly did some homework. Even though I was in sixth grade, I was already using the eighth grade math book. I had tried to protest—I knew it would only antagonize my classmates, ramp up the war against me. But my teacher insisted and said it was important to make an effort if you wanted to get anywhere in this world.
My desk was old, wonky, and crooked—and it was covered in marks from when my pen had missed the page. I had to adjust the folded piece of paper under one of the legs at regular intervals so that the table didn’t wobble.
I put down my pen and craned my neck. As it so often was, my gaze was caught by the bookcases. Thumbed, well-read books. Sometimes I had to sort through it with a heavy heart to make space for new books I had picked up at rummage sales or been given by Ella, the kind librarian, whenever the public library in Fjällbacka was clearing old stock.
Some of the books were ones I’d never get rid of. Little Women. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Lace. The Life and Loves of a She-Devil. Kristin Lavransdatter. The Thorn Birds. Wuthering Heights. Not only were they books I had inherited from Mom, they were memories. They were moments when I had been able to climb into another world. To escape my own. To become someone else.
Where the walls weren’t covered in bookcases, I had put up pictures of my favorite authors. While the other girls in class had Take That, Bon Jovi, Blur, and Boyzone, I had Selma Lagerlöf, Sidney Sheldon, Arthur Conan Doyle, Stephen King, and Jackie Collins. Once upon a time they had been my mom’s idols. Now they were mine. My heroes. They lifted me out of my own reality and transported me somewhere else. I knew it was nerdy. But no one ever came around, so who would see them?
I moved to the bed, skipping brushing my teeth. I could hear Sebastian moving back and forth across the floor in his room. Downstairs, Dad was yelling at Mom. She was silent, no doubt gritting her teeth. I assumed she would promise to mend her ways, hoping that would be enough to avoid being beaten to a pulp today. So far this year, she had been to see the doctor four times. They must surely have seen through her excuses about doors she had walked into, stairs she had fallen down. The interior fixtures and fittings of a whole house seemed to have it in for her, like some mighty enemy made from wood. No one could have believed it. Yet no one did anything. In this little community, they let people keep their secrets to themselves. It was easier that way when everyone was tied to one another, dependent on one another, like a gigantic spiderweb.
I lay down on my side with my head in my hands. My face was toward the wall. When we had been younger, Sebastian and I had communicated with knocks through the wall. Especially when Mom was taking a beating. The last time we had done it had been about a year or so back. Sometimes Sebastian had slept in my bed when Mom and Dad fought, looking to his little sister to keep him safe. But most often we knocked. One evening he simply stopped answering. I tried, for weeks, until the day I frenetically knocked with increasing desperation for a reply, and he rushed into my room and roared at me to stop hitting the wall.
“Fucking whore,” he shouted.
I stammered an apology, shocked at his words.
It was at the same time that he stopped being bullied. He had started hanging out with two boys who were a bit older than him—two of the popular kids. Tomas and Roger.
Tomas always caught my eye when we saw each other at school. There was something engaging about him, something brittle yet charming, that always made me slow down a little when I met him in the corridor. Part of me hoped he’d come home with Sebastian. Part of me hoped he wouldn’t.
I switched off the main light, my bed becoming a small island of light in all the darkness. Since I’d finished the Agatha Christie novel while waiting for dinner and hadn’t been to the library to borrow anything new, I picked out The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It was one of the books I would never get rid of, and that I was reading for what must have been at least the tenth time.
My eyes were gritty with tiredness, but I had a lot to forget, so I read to avoid a confrontation with my thoughts. The more tired I was, the quicker I fell asleep and the less time I spent lying there awake.
It must have been just before midnight when a door suddenly opened. I expected to hear the creaking of the stairs as someone crept down to the toilet. But they didn’t. Instead, my bedroom door glided open. To begin with, I was happy, because I thought this meant Sebastian and I were finally going to start talking to each other. I had missed him so much lately.
The Cadier Bar was half full. Tourists and businessmen were scattered across the sofas, holding drinks in their hands. Swift-footed waiters dashed back and forth. Faye pushed away the plate that had been picked clean and a waiter speedily appeared and asked whether she wanted anything else. Faye shook her head, leaned back, and looked at the illuminated royal palace across the water. A group of Americans in the party next to her were put out by the Swedes’ idea of what a palace was and were talking loudly about their disappointment. According to them, the palace looked more like a prison. She guessed that all the Disney castles had given them unreasonable expectations.
She was completely shattered after an intense day. First Skavlan, then several conversations with shareholders—some by phone, some face-to-face. But it had gone well. Her assessment was that she’d gotten her message across—they had to keep their shares—without creating any suspicion. She and Kerstin had come up with a strategy that seemed to work, hinting that there were big things on the horizon due to the American expansion and that it would be wise to hang on to their holdings.
A voice that was getting increasingly loud made her turn around. A table or two away from her there was a man in his fifties sitting opposite a woman in her twenties. They might have been father and daughter, but it slowly dawned on Faye that it was a job interview. The young woman was trying to keep the conversation professional and present her work-related skills. The man was countering by asking her in an increasingly inebriated way whether she had a boyfriend and whether she liked to party, harping on about how she should have a drink and “relax.”
Faye shook her head. She felt the rage growing inside her.
“Are you sure you don’t want a G&T?” the man asked. “Or maybe you prefer sweet drinks? Perhaps you’d like one of those mojitos?”
The young woman sighed.
“No thanks, I’m fine,” she said.
Faye felt sorry for her. It was clear that the man, who judging by the discussion owned a public relations company, was distracted by thoughts of something other than a potential new hire.
Faye got up and carried her wineglass across to their table. The man had been in the middle of a monologue about his boat and had just invited the woman to it. He fell silent.
“I couldn’t help overhearing the fascinating account of how you built your company. W
ell done.”
It was obvious that he recognized Faye. He licked his lips and nodded.
“Hard work pays off,” he said.
“What’s your name?”
Faye reached out with her hand.
“Patrik Ullman.”
“Faye. Faye Adelheim.”
She smiled at him.
“But there’s one thing that’s bothering me, Patrik. So I’ll just come out and ask it: Do you hold all your job interviews in hotel bars at this time of night, or only when they’re with young women?”
Patrik Ullman opened his mouth and then shut it again. He reminded her of a perch gasping for air on a sun-warmed jetty.
“Because it doesn’t feel like a sensible way to find out about a person’s skills—filling her up with alcohol and asking her about boyfriends and then in the next breath inviting her to your boat. But then, what do I know?”
The young woman’s lips twitched. Patrik Ullman’s face grew even redder. A whimper began a long way down in his throat, but Faye beat him to it.
“What was it you had again? A Galeon 560? Sweetheart…I wouldn’t even go out fishing in a plastic tub like that.”
The woman could no longer contain a laugh.
“You fucking wh—”
Faye raised a finger in the air and leaned forward so that their noses were almost grazing each other.
“You what?” she said in a low voice. “What was it you were going to say, Patrik?”
The man pursed his lips. Faye straightened her back.
“I thought so.”
She smiled at him, took a swallow of her wine, and turned to the woman. She pulled a business card out of her clutch bag and placed it on the table in front of her.
“If you want a real job—or a trip on a proper boat—get in touch.”
Silver Tears Page 5