Then I hear a voice say, politely but firmly: “Just a moment.” I look around and see the waiter heading toward me with what seems to be our order, he glances at the rockers and smiles as he passes their table, then turns to me. He’s so cute. With his long blue-black hair, tanned face, and clean-cut features he’s the spitting image of the comic-book hero Silver Arrow. Which reminds me: I had a terrible crush on Silver Arrow when I was young, or so Mom says.
“One Greek salad and one hamburger,” the waiter says, flashing me a smile, a smile that makes me melt.
“The hamburger’s for me and the salad there,” I say, smiling back at him and motioning toward Mette’s place.
“Here you are,” he says and I catch a faint whiff of aftershave as he bends down and sets the food on the table. “Enjoy.”
“Oh, and another one of these, please,” I say, pointing to the wine bottle. There’s a good couple of glasses left in it, but still. Mette would probably say no if I ask whether we should order another bottle so I might as well do it while she’s at the bathroom. The waiter looks at me and smiles, says nothing, merely nods and walks away and I follow him with my eyes. One of the rockers raises a hand and calls out to him. “Six beers,” he says as the waiter passes their table, but Silver Arrow pays the guy no more attention than the job requires him to do. “With you in a minute,” he says coolly and walks on by. Mmm, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, that’s for sure, he’s so cute. I drain my glass, pick up the wine bottle, and refill it.
Minutes later he’s back with a second bottle.
“One bottle of white wine,” he says, giving me that smile again. Oh, that smile, it blows me away.
“Thanks,” I say. I try to meet and hold his gaze, just for a second or two, then I have to drop my eyes. It’s almost like being a teenager again.
He puts the bottle on the table and walks off. Then Mette appears.
“Another bottle?” she says, exactly as I expected her to. I glance up at her, smile, and try to look a little surprised.
“Yes, well, I thought … or didn’t you want any more?” I ask, stealing a peek at the waiter’s retreating back, then turning to Mette again.
“Oh, I suppose I could have a little more,” she says. “But I have to be a bit sensible. Tomorrow’s another day, and all that.”
“Well, you know, sometimes it’s sensible not to be sensible.”
She doesn’t say anything, just smiles at me. I turn to look at the waiter again, he has just finished taking an order from the aging rockers, I manage to catch a glimpse of him before he leaves their table and disappears around the corner.
“What are you looking at?” Mette asks. I turn to her, she looks me straight in the eye and smiles slyly as if to say she knows very well what I was looking at. I lean across the table, raise my eyebrows, and give her a big grin.
“He’s just so … he’s just so cute,” I say.
“D’you think so?”
“Yes, don’t you?”
“Uh, he’s a little too … how can I put it … ethnic for me,” Mette says. “And I have this thing about men with long hair so … nope! Not my type.”
“Well, I think he’s gorgeous. Maybe we should move through to the bar once we’re done here.”
We look at each other and laugh, then Mette bends her head over her plate and starts to pick at her food. I pull the little condiments basket toward me, take out the ketchup bottle, squirt a small puddle of red sauce onto my plate, and dig in as well.
“I simply don’t get it, why do they insist on drowning the salad in dressing?” Mette pipes up suddenly. She turns up her nose as she takes her fork and scrapes the dressing out to the side of her plate. I inspect her food, there isn’t too much dressing on her salad, not for my taste anyway, more like the opposite in fact. “They ruin the food when they do that,” she goes on. “It makes it so greasy … yuck.”
I consider her while I finish what’s in my mouth, am I supposed to compliment her on being so fit and healthy, is that why she’s overdoing it, acting slightly more dismayed by the amount of salad dressing than she probably is. I know how much effort she puts into living healthily, I don’t know anyone who works out as much or is as conscious of eating right as Mette, and now she seems to be angling for me to say something that will make her feel virtuous, yeah, I’m sure that’s it, she’s always been the same, Mette. I look at her as I swallow the last chunk of burger. I’m about to say that someone as slim as she is certainly doesn’t need to worry about counting calories, but I don’t get the chance.
“The portions are big enough, though, I’ll give them that,” she says, laughing at the supposedly enormous portion she’s been served. I glance at her plate again. It’s not that big a portion, pretty average, I’d say, but she giggles as she shows me how much food she feels she’s been given, as if trying to tell me that she’s always careful not to eat more than necessary, I know that’s what she’s doing.
“And you’ve got enough there for two, at least,” she says, nodding at my plate and giggling again. I glance down at my own food, that too a perfectly normal portion, then look up at Mette again. She used to go on like this all the time in the days when we had more to do with each other and it used to make me so mad, it’s starting to get to me now too, but I smile and don’t let on, don’t want to start a fight now, not when we’re getting along so well. I hope she’s not going to carry on with this crap, though, I hate it, she must know that I feel pressured into eating less than I might want to eat when she talks like that. If I clean my plate now, I’ll feel like a proper glutton, which is what she wants, of course, even though she may not realize it herself, she wants to punish me, I know how much effort she puts into living healthily and how much she denies herself, and when she sees me digging into a juicy hamburger, which I’m sure she’d love to have but can’t in all conscience allow herself to indulge in, she feels an unconscious need to punish me, that’s why she’s carrying on like this.
“How’s your burger—good?” she asks.
“Delicious,” I say. Actually it’s no more than okay, but I tell her it’s delicious anyway, to show her that I can eat a juicy burger without feeling guilty, to show her I don’t care about all the health and fitness rules she lives by and tries to impose on everyone else, although I do actually care about these rules, I mean I am a member of this society and this culture and I care just as much about these rules as every other woman does, I wish I didn’t but I can’t help it. My hamburger doesn’t even taste as good now that Mette has succeeded in reminding me of how unhealthy I am. I know I should have followed her lead and ordered a salad instead of a burger, I know that would be better for me, but I can’t resist the temptation, I’m not as strong willed as she is. I’m not going to let her see that, though, not as long as she’s using me to make her feel better about herself. Because that’s what she’s doing when she goes on like this, the more unhealthy she makes me feel, the healthier she feels and the guiltier she makes me feel, the more virtuous she feels.
“You should order one of these next time we come here,” I say, nodding at my burger.
“I’m not that keen on burgers,” Mette says.
“Oh, I love a good burger,” I say.
“We eat hardly any meat at all now,” she says. “Not red meat anyway.”
“Really? But don’t you run the risk of not getting enough protein?” I ask.
“No, there are plenty of other healthy sources of protein,” she says. “Beans, for example. And lentils.”
“Yeah, but beans and lentils, they’re no good,” I say.
She stares at me for a moment, then she bursts out laughing.
“Oh, Susanne, really,” she says, as if she’s talking to a little kid, and she gives another, rather condescending, laugh. This is her way of pooh-poohing this last remark of mine, I know it is, that little laugh and that “Oh, Susanne, really” are an attempt to dismiss my words as charming, but childish, the sort of thing that only I could say. I look
at her and smile, but I’m growing more and more annoyed, I don’t want to get annoyed, but I am.
“No, I mean it,” I continue. “I love meat and I’d never dream of replacing it with beans or lentils or soy or any of the other healthy alternatives,” I say, knowing full well that this isn’t what she wants to hear, she makes a lot of sacrifices in order to live as healthily as possible and works so hard at it, so for me to say straight out that I’d rather eat unhealthy food I enjoy than healthy food I don’t enjoy is like saying I have no respect for her ideals, and that in turn makes her feel less virtuous than she would like, I know. And not only that: it reminds her of everything she’s missing by forcing herself to live the way she does. I smile at her as I pick up my burger and take another bite.
“No, well,” she says, sipping her wine. “You only have yourself to think of, so you can afford to be less careful about what you eat.”
“Just because I eat meat every now and again doesn’t mean I’m not careful about what I eat,” I say, still smiling and speaking as pleasantly as I can, but I’m getting more and more annoyed. Okay, so maybe I don’t give as much thought to what I eat as I should, but it’s not so much a matter of how much red meat I eat, it has more to do with the fact that I tend to eat too many TV dinners and don’t eat as regularly as I should. Mette doesn’t know that, though, and anyway TV dinners aren’t as bad for you as people say, not the ones I usually buy anyway.
“No, but you know what I mean,” she says, smiling as she pushes a lettuce leaf and half a cherry tomato onto her fork. “You have to take your diet more seriously when you have two young children to consider.”
I send her a look, point to my mouth to show that I have to finish eating before I can answer. I feel like saying that I think she and Göran’s kids might have been better off if she had given a little less thought to all the rules for health and fitness she wants them to live by, it can’t be particularly healthy to keep denying yourself all the things you’d like to have. I can’t think of a better way to make yourself miserable. I feel like saying this too, but I won’t, I have to try to get a grip on myself before the mood turns sour. I finish chewing, swallow.
“Oh, of course, I realize that,” I say and leave it at that. I grit my teeth and smile as I pick up my glass. “Cheers,” I say.
“Cheers.”
I take one drink, then another, concentrate on my food for a little while without saying anything, keep my eyes fixed on my plate, on the white bread of the bun, the glistening meat between the two halves, the french fries and the tiny beads of grease dotted around the china and suddenly I feel a twinge of disgust, that sneaking sense of being unclean, of being dirty. I look up at Mette again. Mette, sitting there picking at her salad—tomato, cucumber, and red pepper, olives, and lettuce. She’s achieved her objective, she’s managed to make me feel every bit as fat and unhealthy as she always does, I don’t want to feel like this, but I do, suddenly here I am feeling dirty. I did consider having a salad when I saw Mette ordering one, but my body wanted a hamburger and french fries and I couldn’t fight it. I’m too weak to resist temptation and I’m too weak to defend my weakness. This last, that I find it impossible to resist when Mette tries to make me live by the same rules as she forces herself to live by, that I find it impossible to eat and drink whatever I like without suffering pangs of remorse and inadequacy, that I don’t stand up for myself and say what I think, that’s almost the worst of it. I get so angry with myself for not doing so. I hate myself for being so spineless that I simply put up with it, no matter what I do I always end up feeling like such a wimp. I finish chewing and swallow, go to spear a french fry with my fork, but stop myself and nudge it to the side of my plate instead.
“You’re right,” I say, “that was a big portion.” Don’t want to say it, but I do.
“Mm,” Mette says, regarding me as she eats.
“I’m full,” I say. I’m not completely full, but I say it anyway, pick up my napkin, and dab my lips, eye the half-eaten burger and the rest of the french fries. I’d like to have some more, and I don’t, I’m not full, but I’ve had enough, the more I eat the dirtier I feel, I can’t help it, that’s just how I am. I despise myself for being like this, I feel like stuffing the rest of the burger into my mouth just to prove to myself and to Mette that I’m capable of eating with relish and not feeling guilty, but I can’t do it. I drop my napkin onto my plate to indicate that dinner is over as far as I’m concerned. I’m allowing myself to be browbeaten by the women-bashing tyranny of a fitness and diet culture that I cannot abide and I hate myself for doing it, I’m such a wimp, I like to see myself as a strong, independent, liberated woman, but the truth is I’m weak.
“Yes, me too,” Mette says, pushing her plate aside. Just then one of the rockers yells for chili nuts, drowning out Bo Kaspers Orkester and the chatter of the other café guests. I turn to look at him, a pale guy in a Def Leppard T-shirt with long, straggly hair falling from a receding hairline. Why can’t he summon the waiter a little more discreetly, the way anyone else would do? And if that didn’t work, he could always get off his ass, go over to the bar, and give his order there. Arrogant prick, how rude can you be? Only a man of his age would ever behave like that.
“Oh, by the way,” Mette says. “I’m getting married.” Just like that, out of the blue. I turn and look at her. She raises her glass to her lips, beaming so broadly it’s all she can do to drink from it. I stare at her, I have to share her joy, I have to be happy for her, but I can’t, my good mood from before has evaporated and I’m not as happy as I ought to be, I’m not happy at all, but I open my mouth and try to look surprised and delighted.
“Really?”
“Mm,” she says. “Göran proposed three weeks ago.”
“Oh, my God, Mette. Congratulations. I mean … wow, that’s wonderful,” I say, trying to sound as thrilled as I can.
“I know, some good news for once. But please, don’t tell Mom. It doesn’t seem right to make an announcement like this to the rest of the family at the moment, not with Agnes in a coma and all that. Okay … I know I’ve just told you, I don’t really know why I did that, I wasn’t planning to, but … well, anyway, just don’t tell Mom, please, I’d rather wait with that,” she says.
It takes a moment but then it dawns on me why she’s telling me that she’s getting married even though she hasn’t said anything to Mom. She says she doesn’t know why she told me, and that may be so, it may have been an unconscious impulse, but there’s no doubt it sprang from her need to show that she’s so much more successful than me. She had made up her mind not to tell me or anyone else in the family her news just now when everyone is so devastated about Agnes, but she simply can’t help herself, she has to advertise the fact that she’s done so much better than I have.
“No, of course not, I won’t say a word,” I say, struggling to keep my smile in place.
“Oh, it was so romantic, you’ve no idea. He’d been planning it for ages, he’d bought the ring and flowers and champagne, and he went down on one knee and everything.”
“Oh, wow,” I say.
“Yeah, I know,” she says. “I felt so … oh … so loved! Can I say that?” she asks, and then she gives a happy, rippling laugh. I don’t say anything, just look at her with a big smile on my face and slowly shake my head as if it’s just too wonderful for words. “He’d even organized a baby sitter and booked a table at Credo for later,” she goes on. “And we had dinner there, just the two of us.”
“God, talk about the perfect man,” I say.
“Oh, he is,” she trills. “He really is the perfect man.”
“Well, here’s to you and Göran,” I say, picking up my wine glass, still with that artificial smile on my face.
“Here’s to us,” she says.
I drain my glass in one gulp and put it down, am on the verge of asking her about the wedding, but I don’t, I know I should, but I simply can’t bring myself to do it.
“Well,” I say,
“I fancy a cigarette.” I don’t know what makes me say this, I haven’t smoked in ages but all of a sudden here I am announcing that I fancy a cigarette, even though I don’t, I don’t fancy a cigarette, not at all, but I say it anyway, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Oh … have you started smoking again?” Mette asks.
I give a little laugh.
“I never really stopped,” I say, lying in her face. I don’t know why I say that, maybe as a sort of protest against her for being so pure and healthy and perfect, I could never be like Mette and so I need to tell her and myself that I have no ambition to be like her either. Is that what I’m doing when I say I feel like having a smoke, am I trying to say that I want something different from life, that I want to enjoy life without my conscience always pricking me? I place my hands on the arms of my chair, smile at her as I push it back. “You don’t feel like coming out for a quick puff?” I ask, this too just slipping out. Mette would never dream of smoking a cigarette, I don’t think she’s ever smoked, apart from the odd cigarette at parties when she was a twenty-year-old student, but I ask her anyway, take some delight in doing so, asking her if she wants to have a smoke makes her seem not quite so perfect, it makes her think that I see her as a potential smoker, and she doesn’t like that, she doesn’t like anyone seeing her as less perfect than she wishes to appear and I get a little kick out of that, it’s petty and mean of me, I know, but I can’t help it. She doesn’t answer straightaway, stares at me in confusion for a moment, then gives a surprised little laugh, a laugh meant to underscore the inconceivability of her ever smoking a cigarette.
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