All In

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  10

  Sunday, June 29

  The next morning Åsa woke up full of dread. Thank heavens it was Sunday, and thank heavens there was no one next to her in the bed. She was really enormously grateful for that. On far too many mornings she had been forced to kick out a strange man who didn’t get that she was serious that sex was okay, but not spending the night.

  Nausea washed over her. And then the dread, of course. Oh, how she hated this hangover dread. It was worse than ever today. She couldn’t remember how much she’d drunk, and that was never a good sign. She stubbornly tried to keep the thoughts of Michel Chamoun at bay, but it was futile. That man had always found his way into nooks where no one, least of all him, had any business. She flung an arm over her face, fought it as well as she could. She wasn’t angry at him, if she were being honest, and she tried to be honest with herself since she lied so much to everyone else. No, she wasn’t angry at Michel. She was angry at herself. She groaned into her arm.

  Her behavior at the bar had been completely nuts. But she’d been so caught off guard by the effect he had on her—her, Åsa Bjelke, who never let anyone get to her. She hadn’t had any idea that she still cared. Unbelievable. But he had really hurt her, and when she was at her most fragile. It was over a decade ago; they’d been so young, but it felt like it had just happened. She remembered every look, every word. Every single one . . .

  And then Åsa permitted herself to do something she normally never would: to wallow in what never was.

  Michel had changed.

  The gangly student with the serious eyes and the soft black hair was gone. Åsa had thought Michel was gorgeous back then when they had met at school. But he was much better-looking now, with his shaved head and his grown-up eyes. He didn’t wear a wedding ring—she’d checked—but that didn’t necessarily mean anything; so many of the finance guys she’d dragged home had a wife and kids in some villa in Djursholm.

  Although Michel isn’t like that; you know that, Åsa, a voice whispered.

  Michel was old-fashioned, proper, and loyal. If he was married to some lovely Lebanese girl and had eight children with her, then he was faithful. That was Michel Chamoun. It was inconceivable that he’d done so well for himself in an industry that was built on deceit and backstabbing

  She sat up, flung her legs over the edge of the bed, and groaned. She had to make it through this day. One more day—she ought to be able to handle that. But she hated Sundays with nothing scheduled, and this Sunday she was actually supposed to have been out in the archipelago at that weekend-long party. Surrounded by people who were divinely superficial and didn’t try to see into her.

  She glanced at her phone with sleep in her eyes. One text message. From Natalia.

  Hope you’re doing well.

  Call if you need to talk.

  No more messages.

  Åsa set down the phone, irritated at Natalia for no reason.

  But if Natalia hadn’t gotten those tickets from that arrogant David Hammar, then this would never have happened. She should have been out on an island surrounded by distant friends and even more distant acquaintances, who would help to chat away the Sunday dread and fill the emptiness and silence with sound.

  Thank goodness, she had her whole summer vacation ahead of her. A few weeks until she would be with people practically around the clock. There would be parties and sunshine, which would keep away this awful empty feeling that attacked her so quickly when she was alone. And she wouldn’t think about Michel even once, she promised herself. Starting now, it would be as if he never existed, as if they’d never seen each other last night in Stockholm, and as if their mutual story had ended, for real, more than ten years before.

  She pushed out two headache pills, filled a glass with water, and dropped two rehydration pills into it. She looked at the fizzy, murky liquid.

  Suddenly and without warning, she started to cry.

  Natalia glanced at the text she eventually got back from Åsa. It was brief, almost dismissive, but she was still relieved that her friend seemed safe and sound.

  She and Åsa didn’t usually get together on weekends unless they’d scheduled something in particular. They’d been friends since they were kids; their mothers had been friends. They went to the same schools, and after the tragedy, Åsa had lived with them, of course, but they still conducted very different lives. Åsa was an extrovert and kept tabs on everything pertaining to fashion and lifestyle. She had gobs of friends and acquaintances, knew practically everyone who was anyone, was always—almost obsessively—booked up with lunches and parties and drinking, while Natalia worked all the time and was uncomfortable with that circle.

  Most of the women Natalia had grown up with lived typical upper-class lives, and very few of them financed their own lifestyle. Many of them were stay-at-home moms with nannies and housecleaners and catered dinners; others took a few fashion or design courses abroad and let their parents provide for them while they waited for a rich husband to turn up.

  More than once, this had struck Natalia as a suffocating holdover from another era, from before women’s rights. But then she’d always been an odd bird. Not even Åsa, who, to say the least, did a spectacular job at Investum, shared her passion for working. Åsa worked office hours, took long lunches and vacations, and spent her free time doing activities that focused on mingling, shopping, and glamour. It was different for Natalia. Her social life had never really recovered after her separation from Jonas. She and Jonas had socialized mostly with mutual friends, and it was clear now that a single woman simply doesn’t get invited to many intimate couples dinners or cozy barbecues. As a matter of fact, none of her and Jonas’s friends had invited her over this past year.

  At first it stung a lot more than she’d thought, being excluded. But soon she’d gotten used to it. She’d never had many female friends, and now she mostly spent her time working.

  Natalia figured she probably shouldn’t be anywhere near as satisfied with solitude, but when it got right down to it, she had very little in common with most of the women she knew. Surely life had to be about something more than living at the right address and keeping tabs on who didn’t have as much money as they were trying to make it seem they did, right?

  Her phone chimed. She glanced at the display, sure that the text was from Åsa again.

  Are you awake?—David Hammar

  She squeezed the phone hard. He’d asked if he could call and she’d said yes—sure. And yes, maybe she’d hoped he would get in touch at some point during the day. But already, just a few hours after they’d parted, here it was. As if he didn’t care at all whether he seemed too eager.

  She wrote: Yes. Smiled, sent it off, and waited.

  Two seconds later the phone rang.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  She smiled so hard her face hurt. “Good. Thanks for calling.”

  “Did Åsa make it home alright?”

  Oh. She melted a little.

  “Yes, she just texted me. Thanks.”

  He didn’t say anything, and Natalia thought she ought to say something more. Something that sounded cool and yet charming. Jeez, she was really pitiful at this.

  “Do you want to have breakfast with me?” he asked.

  Yes! I’d love to! Love, love, love to.

  “When?” she asked.

  “I’ll send a car ’round to pick you up. In about half an hour?”

  Natalia exhaled, slowly. She hadn’t expected that.

  But then, as if what else would a guy do besides send ’round cars to pick her up for breakfast dates, she said, “How nice. Thank you. Then I’ll see you soon.”

  Exactly half an hour later, Natalia saw a dark car with the Grand Hôtel logo in one of its windows pull onto her street and stop in front of her door. She hadn’t given David her address. It hadn’t occurred to her. But he’d known where she lived. A young, androgynous person in jeans, a shirt, and vest opened the back door and then shut it again after she’d clim
bed in. Natalia didn’t have time to do anything more than sink down into the soft leather seat before they stopped outside the Grand Hôtel.

  One of the doormen came over to her. “Natalia De la Grip?” She nodded, feeling a little like this was straight out of a fairy tale or a movie. “Can you find your way to the Cadier Bar?” he inquired politely.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, ascending the carpeted stairs into the hotel, into the realm of the Grand Hôtel’s understated opulence.

  David was sitting at the far end of the bar, which had been named for the hotel’s founder. Sunlight poured in, and the view of the Royal castle and the water were amazing. David stood up, and Natalia was uncertain how to greet him. He gave her a quick smile and held out his hand. She shook it, thinking that she just couldn’t figure him out. On the one hand, he was so proper and professional that it was ludicrous to think he had any interest in her. On the other hand, tickets to private performances, Sunday breakfast, and a car to pick her up. If he was trying to confuse her, he’d succeeded.

  “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ordered everything,” he said, gesturing at the table, which was weighed down with bread baskets, cheeses, cereal, yogurts, marmalades, juices, fruit, and pots of both tea and coffee. “Aside from oatmeal. I can’t imagine anyone actually liking oatmeal.”

  She took a seat and allowed him to pour her a white cup of steaming coffee. “This looks wonderful,” she said candidly, setting a heavy cloth napkin on her lap. She buttered a croissant and drizzled raspberry jam over it. She bit into the pastry. Flaky golden crumbs fell onto her plate, and she almost licked her lips. Heaven.

  David’s gray-blue eyes twinkled. “Good?” he asked.

  “I didn’t have any food at home, and I was so hungry. Thank you.”

  He waited while she ate, tossing in a few polite phrases, but letting her eat in peace and quiet. When she glanced over at the newspaper, he handed it to her. “Go ahead and read it,” he said. “I’m the same way.”

  As she scanned through the headlines, he drank his coffee and seemed completely content with their quiet companionship. She closed the newspaper. He poured her more coffee, and she wondered what he actually wanted from her, what he was after.

  He wasn’t the first venture capitalist she’d had lunch with. Not even the first she’d shared a hotel breakfast with, actually. A big part of her job involved wining and dining potential clients. She was good at it, used to keeping confidences, and an expert at giving concrete advice in complex financial contexts. Natalia knew her famous last name had contributed to J-O recruiting her. Powerful CEOs and influential fund managers were way more impressed than they cared to admit by her high-society name. But she also knew that the reason she was considered one of Sweden’s—maybe one of Scandinavia’s—best talents now was thanks to her own expertise.

  She knew all this about herself.

  But it didn’t seem as if David wanted to talk business.

  “So, what is Sweden’s most notorious venture capitalist up to this summer?” she asked casually.

  He gave her an impenetrable look. “I’ll be working.”

  “No vacation?”

  He set down his coffee cup. He was casually dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and dark jeans. No other man in the restaurant came anywhere close to his charisma. The servers kept their eye on him the whole time; pretty much every single patron had checked them out at some point. David was a force to be reckoned with. And he seemed completely oblivious about it. “I never take a vacation,” he said, and she knew he was neither lying nor bragging.

  She’d never met anyone like him. Most of the big-finance guys were all cast in the same mold: sunburned and boastful, suave and superficial. David wasn’t the least bit sunburned, and it struck her that he wasn’t putting on airs. He wasn’t a man who lounged around by the Mediterranean or on a Caribbean island. In the pictures she’d seen of him, it was easy to take him for a completely normal, albeit an unusually attractive, finance guy. But here like this, in his immediate presence, there was nothing commonplace about him. He radiated hardness and energy, drawing her in while at the same time putting her on her guard. Imagine having a man like this as your enemy. She shivered.

  “You really mean that,” she said, resolutely pushing aside her very sinister thoughts. He was just a person, not some evil super villain.

  She stabbed a strawberry with her fork and realized he’d probably been sitting here since early this morning working, even though it was Sunday. She glanced at the bag hanging over his chair. Yup, she could see a computer, folders, and several newspapers.

  “I work straight through, but I don’t have any problem with that,” he said.

  She smiled into her coffee cup.

  “What?”

  “I’m just the same,” she admitted.

  “I know,” he said. “I can tell. Aren’t you going to take any time off at all?”

  “My family is going to Båstad soon, and I’ll go down there for a bit too. You know my brother, I think? Peter? You studied together, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said David. “At Skogbacka.” His voice was so neutral when he said the name of the boarding school that Natalia could tell that he and Peter hadn’t gotten along. She wasn’t very surprised. Peter could be a real snob. And she’d never heard anyone in her family say a good word about venture capitalists in general or David Hammar in specific. It was the same old, same old: newbies, nouveau riches, blah blah blah.

  She set down her fork, leaving the last of the fruit. She was stuffed. It was now or never.

  “I have to ask . . . ,” she began.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well, if you must . . .”

  But she didn’t let him frighten her. “I don’t really understand why you contacted me.” She smiled quickly to take the edge off of how suspicious she sounded. “Not that it hasn’t been lovely, but I’ve really been puzzling over this. I wonder if you have a connection to one of my clients that I missed or some deal you need help with, but honestly I can’t think of it. Is this business or—uh—well, something else?”

  David sized Natalia up. She was watching him attentively, straightforwardly, not backing down. Her direct question hadn’t surprised him, not really. Because Natalia didn’t seem like a woman playing a game, and she had every right to wonder.

  He was the first to admit that his behavior toward her was inconsistent. And now, in hindsight, sending a car for her had been a little excessive. But the hotel had a chauffeured car service, and it had felt good to send one for her. Maybe as compensation for how last night had ended.

  And maybe he was lying to himself, acting as if this were all just professional courtesy. He had never sent a car to pick a woman up before.

  “Honestly?” he asked.

  Natalia nodded. If she had any ulterior motives she hid them well. He didn’t see any trace of hostility in her face or her body language, and he was extremely good at reading people.

  “I don’t know,” he said completely genuinely. “It started out purely as a business meeting. I know your boss, and I try to keep tabs on the most important players in the business. That’s what the lunch was about.” That was both the truth and a colossal lie. “But then . . .” He fell silent.

  Then he had started to behave illogically, and now he was sitting here looking into her intelligent eyes and eating breakfast with a woman who, he had to remind himself over and over again, was extremely off-limits.

  “I don’t know,” he said again. “But it is stimulating to chat with you. Is that enough?”

  She blushed a little but didn’t break the eye contact. “I was glad you called,” she said simply. She glanced at the table, where the remainder of their breakfast was being cleared away. “And I was really hungry.”

  She smiled broadly.

  This was a woman born straight into the uppermost elite, he thought. But what was funny was that when he looked at her, sitting there with her hand around her coffee cup and a little smile on he
r lips, David knew without a doubt that she was every bit as much of an outsider as he was.

  He knew all there was to know about being different, about not fitting in, but it had never occurred to him that someone like Natalia could be an outsider. But she was. He saw it.

  Small giveaways and the odd word here or there told him that this was a person who’d had to fight for every single one of her choices and that it had made her both stronger and more sensitive.

  He shook his head. She sounded like she’d just woken up when he’d called and he suspected that he might have woken her even though it was so late. And yet here she sat, perfectly dressed and with tasteful makeup and a spotless linen dress. Her hair was up in a glossy bun; not a lock of hair was loose. You could probably wake Natalia De la Grip up in the middle of the night and she would sit up, bright-eyed, collected, not a crack in her façade, and give a presentation.

  “Did you always know you wanted to be a venture capitalist?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested.

  “I wanted to be rich, as I said the other day,” he replied.

  And I wanted revenge on the people who ruined my life. Which happens to be your family.

  “And you’ve really succeeded,” she said.

  He didn’t hear any insinuations in her voice, no veiled disdain. Just a statement of fact, one that she was mulling over without judgment.

  He nodded. But he hadn’t actually given her the whole truth, just what he always said.

  “I want power,” he suddenly heard himself say. He’d never said that out loud before. But it was true. He had wanted the power to control his own life. And only the truly wealthy had that.

  She nodded slowly, as if she actually understood. “My family has always had money,” she said thoughtfully. “I can’t even imagine anything else.”