I fucked your husband but I have a feeling you don’t care, so I will make you care. My final words to you by Emily Dickinson: “Mine Enemy is growing old, I have at last Revenge.” Revenge, such a sweet word.
Iris looked at Anna. ‘You’re different’, she wanted to say. Instead, she stood up and squeezed herself into Anna’s chair. Anna was larger and so she had to make do with resting one buttock cheek on Anna’s thigh. She just needed to be as physically close to Anna as possible.
“Anna,” she started. “I feel as if you’re going to question me over and over. I can’t change my past but you need to know this.” She fiddled with the silver pendant around her neck. “Anna. The way I feel about you, this is new for me. In fact, it’s astonishingly complex and incredible and absolutely terrifyingly wonderful.” She hesitated before saying the crucial words: “I have fallen in love with you.”
Right then, Anna looked like she gave in. Her shoulders relaxed, her face looked almost sad, as if she had lost an internal battle.
“What about your husband?” she asked.
“I’m going to leave Rolf.”
Chapter 45 – Anna
January 2016
When Anna woke up in the morning she felt a stab of excitement at the thought of the previous evening, the intense moments with Iris in the small kitchen; their conversation trailing off, the physical taking over. She felt guilty however as she lifted her body off the mattress – the very body that Iris had caressed and nurtured with her touch – and turned to the other side.
Erik’s face was squashed on the pillow, his mouth partly open, a gentle snore escaping his throat. It was surreal. This was her life. This was reality. It was as if she had been airlifted into another world the night before, into a delicious vacuum where she had been allowed to just be ‘Anna’. What she shared with Iris couldn’t be real. Despite Iris’s declaration of love, their relationship felt fake as soon as she was back home.
Yet Erik looked like a foreign object in her bed. She always woke up before him and when they had first got together, she would lay quietly, stroking his cheeks, his bare arms, his chest. A feeling of being truly happy made a momentary comeback. The way she felt with Iris, could she once again feel like that with Erik? She lifted up her hand, ready to touch him, to make the memories real, but put it back down again. She couldn’t face the rejection. If she touched him, he would probably flick her hand away.
The house was quiet, the boys were either still sleeping or they had switched the TV on, making sure the volume was on mute. They were smart.
She let Erik sleep while she went downstairs to organise breakfast and sure enough, the boys were submerged into their beanbags in front of Pippi Longstocking.
“Let’s leave Pippi for now and have some breakfast. Otherwise we will be late for day care and I’m sure you want to see Sophie?”
Sebastian was up and out of his beanbag within a second, on his way into the kitchen. She could hear him opening the fridge.
“Lukas, cheese or ham?” he yelled.
Lukas was grumpy when she switched the TV off.
“Come on,” she said and kissed his head. “Cheese or ham?”
“Ham.”
While they were making open sandwiches for breakfast, Sebastian asked about her evening meeting. “Did you bring cake?”
Her stomach clenched. “Not this time,” she said. “But I will bake another one with you soon. I promise.”
Lukas stopped drinking his milk. “Chocolate cake?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” she said.
She did treasure their time in the kitchen. It was important to teach your sons to cook and bake. Erik wasn’t too bad as long as it was basics he had learnt from domestic science at school.
“Did the others like the last one we made?” Sebastian asked thoughtfully.
“They loved it.”
He nodded, obviously happy about this, wiping his mouth on the back of his pyjama sleeve. Guilt held her back from reprimanding him, aware that she needed to create good memories.
“Is Daddy driving us?”
“No, we will let Daddy sleep.”
“Will he pick us up?”
“No, I will.”
It wasn’t just good memories that she needed to create. She needed to take back control of her life. Only then, would she decide what to do about Iris.
*
That evening Anna was relieved that Erik had gone out. Unless the band was playing, which seemed to be less frequently these days, he tended to stay at home in front of the TV. She cherished having the house to herself. The children were sleeping after a precious moment of bedtime stories. Reading to Sebastian and Lukas had always been her job and every time she did, she thought ‘I must do this more often’.
The tranquillity of the silent house was liberating. She poured a glass of red wine and sat on the couch with the latest book on her lap. Iris had opened up about her own private library, full of English titles that she was campaigning to have translated into Swedish. The collection was stored in a room behind the library reception.
“I haven’t been too successful,” Iris had explained. “I think the publishers are tired of my emails and phone calls, but at least I can share these books with people who are comfortable enough reading in English.”
Anna opened the book: Loving her by Ann Allen Shockley. The title wasn’t lost on her and she found herself reading until she fell asleep, the book resting on her stomach, her glass empty on the coffee table.
She woke up when Erik came home, banging into the railing like he was drunk. Instinctively, she looked at her watch: 4.30 a.m. That was late even for him. He went straight to the bathroom and showered, which she found odd. Had he party-smoked? He knew that she hated that. She would find out the next morning. These days, bars didn’t allow smoking so clothes no longer shrieked of smoke after a night out, unless you had actually smoked yourself.
She went upstairs and decided to go straight to bed instead of popping into the bathroom to ask about his evening. If he were drunk, he would be argumentative.
When he came to bed he kept to his side, wrapping his duvet tightly around his body, as if he were upset. Perhaps he had had a fight with Rob?
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Had a bit too much to drink,” he said.
“Fun night?”
“Not bad. Really need to sleep. G’night.”
He didn’t turn to her for a goodnight kiss. Was he trying to hide his nicotine breath?
The next morning, she pulled out his clothes from the wash basket. They smelled of grimy bar and stale beer, but not smoke. His shirt, a black short-sleeved one from a medium-range clothing chain, had a stain on the collar however, which she tried to brush off with her thumb. Greasy red paint, or… lipstick?
A million thoughts went through her head. Did he know about Iris? Was he trying to get her back? But how could he possibly know? They had been so careful, there was no way he would know, she reasoned.
“Erik?” She went into the bedroom where he was still nursing his hangover. “Erik? I was just going to do the laundry and found this.”
He squinted as she held the shirt up to his face.
“It seems to have a lipstick stain on it. Kind of clichéd, don’t you think?”
“Oh,” he said, looking away. “Yeah, well I bumped into what’s-her-name… a teacher from day care. She gave me a hug. That must be it.”
“Kerstin?” Anna asked even though she couldn’t imagine the fifty-plus teacher in a bar with red lipstick.
“No, oh… I can’t remember her name. Starts with a P, I think.”
“Pernilla?”
“That’s the one.”
“So you had a good time?”
“Yeah, I mean. With Rob. Not with her. Felt a bit awkward chatting to her, you know. She’s young and hip and must think I’m like ancient.”
“So you chatted to her?”
“She really likes Lukas and Sebastian. Had lot of nic
e things to say about them.”
“I heard that she is the daughter of what’s-his-name, the owner of that big coffee company. Apparently she only got the job as a favour, she’s not even a trained teacher.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Right. “So you’re sure that’s it?”
“Of course.” A pained look on his face. “Actually, Anna… honey, please can you get me some Ibuprofen. My head is killing me.”
Honey? As she went down to fetch the painkillers, she thought about Iris’s suggestion to go away for a couple of days. Perhaps she shouldn’t feel too guilty after all?
Chapter 46 – Rolf
February 2016
Rolf wanted to paint Frida; a bottle of vodka in one hand, legs spread to the wind. The cross around her neck prominent above the small tits. She was raw and unpolished and not like his other objects. Hair and red nails didn’t have a place in this painting. Instead he would sample drool out of her mouth, skin off of her heels, and pubic hair. Lots of it, protruding through the smooth acrylic paint. It would be a large canvas, his central piece in the next collection.
“Dan’s teacher is married with two children,” she said, visibly excited to have some new information. “She’s known for being a fucking Mother Teresa who’s generous with her time. She’s strict though, doesn’t take any shit from her students.”
He sat up, not bothering to cover himself with the blanket. The kid wasn’t there.
“Want a drink?”
He shook his head but she got up, pulled out a large packet of washing powder from a cupboard and fished out two beers.
“Keeping the beer clean?” he joked.
“It’s my son. He keeps confiscating everything.”
She was drama. That could be good or it could be bad.
“So, who did you ask?” he said. “People at work? Other parents? Your kid?”
She took a gulp of the beer, then another. Lost in another world, she started dancing even though there was no music. He needed to reel her back in. Did she need another round of the Rolf gun? He laughed. Iris had found that funny once. His Rolf gun.
“Frida? I’m talking to you.”
“I just know,” she said.
At that moment, he had enough. Forget the painting. Fucking and leaving was better than this pretending to have a relationship shit.
“That’s not fucking good enough,” he said. “I’m off.”
Loneliness was her enemy and he shamelessly abused it.
“Please don’t go,” she predictably begged him.
Her beer breath was upon him, her wet lips on his.
“You just don’t take me seriously,” he sulked.
Violence didn’t seem to work on her, guilt worked better.
“I do,” she said but he didn’t budge, and so she sat down and lit a cigarette. “I read about it… in Dan’s story.”
“Right.”
“He’s deep,” she said. “Writes all kinds of shit. Poems, stories, even comics that he draws pictures for.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve told me already. But maybe what he wrote about his teacher is just fiction.”
“It’s not a story. He also writes in a special notebook.”
“And he just left that out for you to read?”
“Of course not! He keeps notes and shit in a box under his bed but this notebook is always in that stupid backpack. Someone gave it to him, way back. It’s got holes and everything but he won’t give it up. Anyway, he was sleeping when I snuck into his bedroom. I didn’t have time to read the whole thing, he started stirring, but I think he wants me to be like her. So whatever you can do to get her off my back, do it.”
Chapter 47 – Daniel
January 2016
Dan was exhilarated. Excited. Pumped. He wrote the adjectives down in his notebook, wanting to remember this moment. Lying on his bed, a big fat grin on his face, he closed his eyes and imagined Anna. Her lips on his, holding him just the way she had held that woman, in a tight I-will-never-let-you-go grip. She smelt of summer, freshly cut grass and yellow buttercups. “Oh, Dan,” she would whisper and hand herself over, her large breasts pushed into his face, his erection hard. Her expert hands would undress him, one layer at a time, until he was completely naked. She would view his body, impressed by his biceps, the almost six-pack and how hard he was. Then she would dig her nails into his back, spread her legs and ask him to fill her up.
He wanked. And instead of the usual guilt that followed his release, he felt happier than in a long time.
“Where have you been?”
Frida had opened the door and was standing at the foot of his bed. He looked at his hand, covered in a sticky white liquid.
“Get out!” he shouted. He quickly pulled a blanket over himself.
“Thinking about your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have one.” He got off the bed, drying his hand on the rough fabric before he pushed her out of the room. “Get out, I said.”
Frida fell backwards but she was quickly back up on her feet.
“Get the fuck away from me!” He shoved her hard.
This time, she slipped on the rug and hit her head on the wall. Her body descended to the floor. A sad pile of bones.
“Leave me alone,” she cried.
He was too worked up and had no intention of listening to her pleas. He raised his leg and kicked her, his bare foot hitting the sharp outline of a rib. It hurt but he lifted his foot up again. This time he aimed at her stomach and his foot sank into the fat, the elasticity of her skin accommodating. No one would see the bruises apart from the Nissan dude and he didn’t seem like someone who would care.
When Dan grew tired of her whimpering, he stepped over her and went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out a snack. The selection was fantastic: plain yoghurt, a dried piece of cheese and half a leftover sausage. He felt hungry and ate all of it, draining it with Coke Zero, which he drank straight from the bottle. Then he returned to his room. Frida was crying on the floor outside.
“You need to go food shopping,” he told her. “I want bananas.”
All sports people seemed to eat bananas to keep their energy levels up. He would need that.
He slammed the door shut and pulled out his book and wrote a to-do list:
Step 1 – blackmail
Step 2 – move in to Anna’s house
Step 3 – become best mate with her kids
Step 4 – fuck her/she dumps the husband
Her husband was clearly not man enough for her. This would be easy.
*
Outside, in the corridor, Frida was quieting down. All he could hear was a muffled groan as she tried to stand up. She would be heading straight for a bottle, if there was one – he’d done a raid earlier in the week and had confiscated three six-packs of beer and two bottles of home brew. If she had been to Systembolaget since then, she would soon be passed out on her bed, her limbs floppy and unresponsive, drool trickling out of her mouth. For once, he didn’t mind. It would mean peace and quiet and he needed that for two important reasons: to create a detailed plan and to write about his new life. He needed to visualise it. That way he wouldn’t lose faith.
I’m really happy that you have expressed yourself in writing.
In his last assignment, Anna had told him he had a poetic streak. He had circled her observation with a red pen and he now kept the paper in the box with his other sacred stuff.
Bang!
He sat up and faced the door. Frida had swung it open and was swiftly taking the key from the inside lock. What the…? He got to his feet to stop her but she had already shut it. He grabbed the handle but the door wouldn’t open. It was already locked.
“Gotcha!” Frida shouted gleefully outside.
Fuck. The key was meant to block her out, not the other way around.
He banged on the door as hard as he could.
“Open it right now or I will beat the crap out of you!”
“Haven’t you done
that already?” she said, her words acidic.
He went over to the window but it was jammed. The owners had painted the house before they moved in and the window had been stuck ever since. The small panes wouldn’t be able to let him out, even if he crashed them one by one. He was stuck. Shit, shit, shit.
“Frida… I’m sorry,” he said, changing tactic. “I don’t know why I did that. Are you okay?”
He leaned on the door and stroked its wooden surface, imagining it was Anna’s skin. Soft and cool.
“I’m not fucking okay,” Frida said.
She hit the door which made his head bounce. He hit it back.
“Let me the fuck out of here!”
“No. Game over, son.”
Chapter 48 – Anna
February 2016
Anna was going to spend the afternoon talking about family, war and death, with War and Peace featuring at the centre of the class discussion. But to quote her late grandmother, ‘the young are not how they used to be’. Her grandmother had had a point: the students’ attention span was limited. The use of multiple electronic devices was partly to blame and they wouldn’t read an extensive piece of work such as Tolstoy’s classic masterpiece. She had therefore decided to bring Shakespeare into the mix. Although it had been four hundred years since his death, his work still seemed to resonate with her students.
“Othello is about love and revenge,” she said and that immediately got their attention. The drama of teenage life meant that everyone could relate. Young love, whether seemingly true or unrequited, was something they all had experienced. Except perhaps Daniel, who didn’t seem interested even though there were plenty of girls mooning over the ‘bad boy’.
Daniel hadn’t turned up for school that morning. She had received no emails from him and no one had picked up the phone when she had tried to call his house. It didn’t exactly worry her, it just seemed unusual. He didn’t ordinarily skip school. So where was he? If he was ill then why hadn’t the school been notified? Lately he had appeared to be a better listener in class and he was causing less drama. There were still fights outside of the classroom from time to time, but he seemed to have settled in. Apart from his obsessive messages, which she ignored for the most part, things were looking up.
When I Wake Up Page 19