I was distracted by the girl pulling my hand.
‘This is Cal,’ she said, introducing me to a man who was likely in his fifties, wearing a smart suit and gelled hair.
He was apparently a ‘top lawyer’ and before I knew it the girl was gone with a, ‘Look like you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘I need to look for my friend,’ I said, but the man grabbed hold of my hand, just as I caught sight of X across the room. He was nodding as if to say, ‘Go ahead,’ and that was when the penny dropped. Why we were here, why I was here. This ‘entertainment’ was another favour, similar to the one with his friend. Easy money, he’d said.
*
That night as we left, my dress and my heels felt like a burden, even though my handbag was thick with cash. I avoided Stanley’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, sensing that he knew what had happened. I was quiet all the way home while X chatted as if he’d had the best time.
‘I love you, girl,’ he said, patting me appreciatively on the leg. ‘You did great.’
Back at the apartment, I silently pulled out a bag and started packing my few belongings. I had no idea where I would go but anywhere would be better than here.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I have to leave,’ I said. ‘This isn’t me.’
‘Think you’re too good, do you? With your fancy boyfriend.’
‘We broke up,’ I reminded him.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘After everything I have done for you.’
I continued to pack but he grabbed my arms and threw me against the wall.
‘You ungrateful little whore.’
I scrambled to my feet. ‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Because you’re too good?’ He grabbed hold of my wrists, twisting them. It was pure agony. ‘Don’t make me do this,’ he said, pulling out a knife from inside his jacket. He placed the cold blade against my throat. ‘We belong together.’
Tears stung my eyes.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he told me. ‘Ever.’
Chapter 17
Frank
February & March 2017
Fuelled by anger, Frank set out to find his daughter. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to look for her. Sometimes he wondered if she enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game. It infuriated him, but he always did find her, and when he did, he would knock on her new door and say: See, I know where you are. He would try to persuade her to join him for a quick meal. Surely they could just talk? But Sofia was remarkably stubborn and loved to demonise her parents. The friends or boyfriend she was staying with would typically come charging out of the house, screaming at him.
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Leave her alone!’
‘Old bastard!’
Meekly, he would leave. He knew that it was only a matter of time before these people went from being overprotective to indifferent. She had that effect on others.
*
He started with Sofia’s neighbours, including the woman with the jacket, but they all refused to speak to him.
‘We don’t want no trouble,’ was a common response.
No one seemed to know where she was, though. He was good at reading people and they weren’t covering for her, of that he was sure. Had she gone after her husband? No one wanted to comment on him either. They all looked scared, as if she had threatened them before leaving.
‘Where the hell could she have gone this time?’
Birgitta was usually a great help with these things. She was good at networking and, although she was normally of the opinion that they should leave their children in peace, when pushed, she would find someone who could provide a lead. But this time, she was at a loss.
‘No one seems to have heard from her or seen her,’ she said.
They had already put the house up for sale. Even when Lake Michigan was innocently tranquil, it felt like a death trap. Frank hadn’t even managed his customary winter swim to boost circulation. Just as they hadn’t managed to shake the gossip. Despite the investigation into Anders’s death being officially over, people’s evil tongues liked to make their own assumptions. Had Anders been an out-of-control teenager? Had he been drunk? Taken drugs? No one wanted to accept that it had been a simple accident and, not wishing for anyone to know the truth, Birgitta and Frank kept their mouths shut. They would be moving now anyway, away from all the nonsense.
*
After a couple of weeks of searching, Frank grew frustrated. He had spoken to every old friend and boyfriend of Sofia’s that he could think of, but no one had heard from her, or they simply weren’t willing to share it with him. It was as if she were a ghost. Vanished. Birgitta had even hired a private investigator, who’d tried to draw up a trail but failed.
‘Do you think she’s hiding out with her brother?’ Frank said.
They had no way of contacting their oldest son. He was a nomad who used burner phones when he did call. Everything always had to be on his terms.
‘You never know,’ Birgitta said.
Their firstborn hadn’t even turned up for his brother’s funeral.
‘Disrespectful little shit,’ Frank had exclaimed to Birgitta.
He had felt embarrassed. Former business associates and friends had naturally asked where their children were, and he had had to pretend that attending had been too hard for them.
‘Should we look for her husband?’ Frank said. ‘Do you think that will lead her to us?’
‘Oh, dear God, no,’ Birgitta exclaimed. ‘Please don’t. Let’s be happy he’s out of the picture and hope he stays there.’
Birgitta was right. It would have to be a last resort.
‘We need to decide where to live, though,’ Birgitta said. ‘It’s only a matter of time before a buyer puts an offer in.’
‘We should downscale,’ he said. ‘Maybe a condominium for the time being?’
‘We can’t bring Sofia there when we find her,’ Birgitta rightly pointed out. ‘She will make a racket, which will guarantee a visit from the police.’
True. They would need something more secluded.
‘Let’s look at our options,’ he said.
That was when everything started to fall into place. A buyer came through who even offered to buy part of the furniture including the home-cinema equipment and recliners. But, more notably, an envelope arrived. It was addressed to both of them and, when they opened it, two grainy photos fell onto the marble kitchen table, portraying a young woman resembling Sofia.
‘What is this?’ Birgitta said.
‘Who is it from?’
Frank turned the envelope over in his hand but there was no return sender.
‘There are no stamps,’ Birgitta pointed out.
‘It must have been hand-delivered.’
Together they checked the camera footage from the feed under the stairs, but no one could be seen.
‘Maybe it was delivered during the night?’ Birgitta said. ‘We could possibly have missed it then.’
They turned the photos over and over, wondering if they were real or fake. Had Sofia delivered them herself? Was she trying to throw them off her scent?
‘There’s something familiar about the environment,’ Birgitta said, which led them to study the background as much as the young woman.
They brought the photographs to a specialist to check the authenticity, to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with, and found that they were indeed real.
Back home, they continued to obsess over the photos until Birgitta seemed to have an ‘aha’ moment. She brought out the computer and a couple of Google searches later, she showed him a few city photos.
‘I think I know why I recognise that place,’ she said.
‘You do?’
‘Yes, it’s where I grew up.’
Sofia had left the US? It shocked him but, strangely enough, it also made sense. She had often asked to go to the Swedish American Museum in Chicago to learn about their culture and had t
reasured the few holidays they had spent in Sweden. As a family, however, they had always visited his relatives in Dalarna, never Birgitta’s in the south, who were all deceased.
He immediately started to make phone calls. Trying not to sound too desperate, Frank casually asked old relatives if they had heard from his daughter, claiming she always spoke fondly of them. But no one had talked to her.
‘But why would she be in Helsingborg?’ Frank said.
‘Who knows?’
Birgitta enlisted the same PI who had already tried to locate her and now, with something to go on, he managed to locate a post box in Helsingborg to which Sofia had requested all mail to be sent.
‘The post box isn’t in her name,’ Birgitta said. ‘It belongs to a Kristin Smith.’
They couldn’t work out what this Kristin’s connection to Sofia was but they sure as hell were going to find out.
*
Frank oversaw the movers as the last champagne flutes were wrapped in tissue paper and carefully placed into a cardboard box. Soon, the boxes would be loaded into a forty-foot container, set to travel across the Atlantic to Birgitta’s hometown in Sweden.
It wasn’t difficult to say goodbye to the house, which was made of bricks and mortar like most homes, but he would miss the status that it had brought. Their new property in Sweden wouldn’t be accompanied by such a prominent address.
Birgitta had insisted that they buy a Swedish house as an investment. Although it was meant as a temporary arrangement, he had agreed and, after reviewing various websites, they had settled for a manor house in the countryside that was sold separately from the land.
‘Farming isn’t as lucrative as it used to be,’ Birgitta had explained.
Unfortunately, a cottage also belonged to the estate, which meant they would be landlords to an artist. Birgitta didn’t mind but he felt it was an inconvenience. Still, the house would serve its purpose. The six-bedroom home had labyrinth-like hallways and looked unique, not like a typical farmhouse, and it was isolated with tall, leafy trees protecting their privacy. Whether Sofia was still in Sweden or not, it was the perfect house to bring her to.
Part 2
June 2017
Now I have forgotten you forever
Now I remember you
Why should one remember
All the metals are of gold
Soon he will brush your knuckles
Soon time will pass
Here he comes
Here he comes
And you have promised to hear my pleas
One never knows who is who
By Ann Jäderlund, ‘Wellspring’
Which Once Had Been Meadow
Chapter 18
Gabriella
Gabriella is in a rush. She needs to wet the clay before her model arrives but as she steps off the bus from Helsingborg and picks up her bike, she bumps into her new neighbour, Frank. He’s just moved into the manor house up the road. Most likely, he’s in his late fifties and, although he’s clearly Swedish, there’s a definite twang when he speaks, the way Swedish actresses in the fifties used to sound after a few years in Hollywood. ‘Pretentious’ her mother would say, but Gabriella isn’t one to judge. Everyone should be allowed to be who he or she is. Frank is well put together with a starched collar, clean-shaven face and neat eyebrows. The sort of things she notices when she shapes someone’s face.
‘You should come by for a coffee some time,’ she tells him, because there’s something intriguing about him: the accent, the misplaced thin-soled loafers on the wet farm road, the dark eyes signalling… a thinker? She’s starved of new people to talk to. Living in the sticks is lonely sometimes.
‘Sure,’ Frank responds. ‘Maybe I’ll look at your sculptures.’
‘Of course. Come by any time.’
Gabriella pedals hard, the bicycle wheels skidding in the mud. Her trainers are gradually turning a dark shade of brown but, after years in the city, this countryside living is liberating. She’s determined to make her own way in life out here.
‘Hej!’
Her latest model, Peter, has already arrived. Shit. She hasn’t even brought the clay out and her place is a mess.
‘Hej,’ Gabriella says, parking her bike. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
Peter’s well-built figure is leaning against a Jaguar, which is as blue as his eyes. He takes his equally blue cap off, his fingers combing through the wavy brown hair.
‘No worries. I’ve taken the day off, so I have time.’
Peter is a jet-setter who’s lived all over the world and she’s still amazed that he’s ended up here, as her model. When the art gallery called her about the bronze sculpture commission she couldn’t believe her luck and when they offered her a model on top of that, it was fucking fantastic.
Peter currently works in Denmark but lives in Sweden. Apparently the Danish tax is even worse than the Swedish one. Who knew? Certainly not Gabriella, who’s thrilled when she’s earning enough to actually pay tax.
‘Thanks again for doing this,’ Gabriella says as they enter her humble abode where living room, bedroom and kitchen have become one big tangle of Thai take-away containers and pizza boxes.
‘I actually enjoy it,’ Peter says, stepping over the rubbish bag she meant to throw on her way out earlier. ‘I’m fascinated by your process,’ he continues seriously. ‘To not just watch the end result but to be a part of the creation.’
‘Well, I appreciate it.’
She truly is grateful for Peter. The life sculptures are what’s finally helping her pay that tax and it’s surprisingly difficult to find men or women who are willing to take their clothes off.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ she says, at once beating herself up for apologising too much, but he’s making her nervous. ‘You can change in the bathroom.’
With Peter out of the way, Gabriella quickly brings out the clay from a large container, removing the plastic and the wet rags on top, which have kept it damp. This is only their second session and, so far, she’s mainly divided the clay up according to his body proportions.
‘Did you have a party here last night?’
Peter appears barefoot, wearing a blue silk robe.
‘No, it’s much less exciting than that,’ she says. ‘I was researching bronze sculptures.’
‘I like your dedication,’ he says, nodding approvingly as he slips off the navy garment, his tanned skin warming up the room. ‘Is this the right position?’
He’s standing with his legs slightly apart, hands on his hips and his head looking into the distance. It’s supposed to symbolise attitude: I’m naked and proud of my body.
‘That’s good,’ Gabriella says. ‘But it would be much easier to remember the pose if you allowed me to photograph it.’
He doesn’t comment and she leaves it, although she really can’t understand why he refuses to have his photo taken. ‘I will do this for free,’ he said. ‘But no photos. That’s my only requirement.’
‘Maybe just move your chin up slightly,’ she says.
Gabriella’s hands move over the damp clay, connecting with it again. She starts to work on Peter’s rectus abdominis, and to assess the original her fingers stroke and gently pinch Peter’s abs, testing the elasticity, observing how the skin shapes around the muscles and bones. Peter seems unperturbed by her hands, and she traces upwards, over the pectoralis major, which is equally tight.
‘That tickles,’ he says, laughing.
‘Sorry, I just need to feel how firm these areas are.’
She feels herself blush but remains professional. Otherwise she won’t get this done and she’s working to a tight deadline.
‘Have your new neighbours moved in?’ he says. ‘I thought I saw movement over there when I drove past.’
‘Yes, I met the husband earlier.’
‘Really? What’s he like?’
She picks up a new tool; self-consciously wiping her dirty hands on the scarf hanging around her neck, only for them to look exactly
the same within seconds.
‘He’s got an interesting accent,’ she says. ‘He’s obviously lived in the US for a long time. You have too, haven’t you?’
‘On and off,’ he says. ‘Do you think you’ll get along with them?’
‘Don’t know. I’ve invited him over, so I’ll find out. I should really stay on good terms with them, shouldn’t I?’
He nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘Are you warm enough?’ she asks, realising it might be chilly. ‘I’ve bought a heater,’ she adds excitedly.
Buying the heater made her feel like a proper sculptress. ‘It’s for my models,’ she told the uninterested shop assistant.
‘I’m fine,’ Peter says. ‘So, tell me more about country living. Do the neighbours live in each other’s pockets?’
‘Not at all,’ she says, amused. ‘Are you planning to move out here as well?’
‘Not any time soon,’ he says, smiling.
Gabriella holds up her fingers, measuring the distance between Peter’s calves, transforming the clay into two shapely legs. Circling him, she studies him in detail, covering every angle. It’s obvious that he’s spent hours in the gym but he’s also exceptionally well groomed: his nails are neatly cut and he’s shaved his chest and removed all pubic hair. She hasn’t met many men who take such good care of themselves.
They work for hours, only pausing for coffee, toilet breaks, and leftover Thai food. Gabriella is consumed by the creation coming to life in her hands, but she’s also conscious of Peter not being bored. She does need to keep a conversation going.
‘How long have you lived in Helsingborg?’ she asks.
‘Less than a year. I hear it’s Sweden’s eighth largest city?’
‘Sounds about right,’ she says. Her hands hover over the tools but, rather than pick one up, she continues to work with her hands, pinching and smoothening the clay. ‘So what do you do in your spare time?’
‘Training, reading, that sort of thing.’
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