‘Who?’ Edvard demands.
Kristian sighs tolerantly. He says, ‘All I would ask is that you look at what I have done here — I am here, in person, in Spain, to see you, today — and perhaps just admit that the information I have is true.’
The defence minister is picking nervously at the wet San Miguel label. He doesn’t say anything. The sunglasses make it difficult to tell what he’s thinking. His mouth is a hard horizontal line.
Kristian says, tenderly, ‘People know about this affair, Edvard. People are aware of it.’
And when Edvard still does not speak, he says, ‘It’s my opinion that if I don’t do this story, at least one of my sources will take this information to another newspaper. The story is out. You have to accept that now.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Edvard says at last.
‘And we have no desire at all,’ Kristian tells him, ‘to damage you, politically or otherwise. We would not want to see anything published that would damage you.’
‘Then why publish it?’
‘Edvard,’ Kristian says, ‘the story is out. It will be published. The only question is when and by whom. And as I say, we have no desire to damage you politically…’
‘This will damage me politically.’
‘Maybe not. It depends how it’s presented.’
‘Anyway, politics is one thing,’ Edvard says, angrier, ‘private life is another. I want a private life. I’m young enough to want a private life. You must be able to understand that…’
‘Of course I can.’
‘If you don’t have a private life, you don’t have anything, you have nothing. You are nothing. You’re not a person, you’re just…’
‘I understand…’
‘Do you?’
The minister’s face is flushed, and shiny with indignant sweat.
Kristian waits for a few moments. Then he says, technocratically, ‘My view is that there are some matters, some stories, that have to be dealt with.’
‘That’s your view, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What stories? Stories like this one?’ Edvard asks.
‘Like this one, yes…’
‘Why? This is my private life. I’m not married. I’ve always kept my private life private. I don’t tell other people how they should live their lives. You know I don’t. I’m entitled to a private life.’
Kristian says, ‘In an ideal world, that’s perhaps how it should be.’
An incredulous laugh from Edvard. ‘In an ideal world? Why? Why not in this world?’
Kristian says, after a few moments, ‘You are a senior minister and I don’t think you can use arguments about privacy to swat away an accusation that you have had an affair with a married woman.’
‘An accusation? That’s an interesting word.’
‘Allegation, then…’
‘I’m not married.’
‘I know that…’
‘I haven’t lied to anyone…’
‘I’m not suggesting that you have.’
‘What have I done wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why must I be punished?’
‘This isn’t about punishment.’
‘What is it about?’
‘It’s about the public’s right to know…’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Edvard mutters.
‘With respect, you are an elected public official.’
‘Does that mean I have no right to a private life?’
‘It means your right to one has to be balanced against other considerations.’
Edvard’s thumbnail has shredded part of the San Miguel label.
‘Other rights,’ Kristian says.
‘And Natasha? Is she an elected public official?’
‘No.’
‘Does she have no right to privacy then?’
Kristian frowns thoughtfully.
‘If this is published,’ Edvard says, finger jabbing, ‘it’s going to be open season on my private life and hers. You know that.’
Kristian wipes the sweat from his face again. He looks at his watch. It is quarter to five. He doesn’t have much time, if they’re to splash with this in the morning. He says, ‘I’ll tell you what. We won’t name Mrs Ohmsen. Okay? We won’t mention her name — if you work with us on this.’ He is sitting forward now. He feels his shirt adhering to his back. He says, ‘The story is out there, Edvard. It will come out. We want to help you on this. We want to do this as sympathetically as possible. So work with us. Okay?’
Edvard stands up. He looks out at the patchy lawn, his hand on one of the white pillars of the porch. ‘It’s not true that it won’t damage me politically,’ he says.
‘Why? As you say, you’re not married…’
‘And anyway,’ he says, ‘I think it’s over. With Natasha.’
Kristian feigns surprise.
‘Yes,’ Edvard says. ‘She’s ending it.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘How would you know?’ A hollow laugh. ‘Unless your source is Natasha herself.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘It’s not what I want,’ Edvard says. ‘I mean, to end it.’
‘How long has it been going on?’ Kristian asks.
‘Two years. More or less. I was hoping,’ Edvard says, still looking out to where the sprinkler has succeeded in making a muddy patch in the middle of the lawn, ‘I was hoping she’d leave her husband. No,’ he says. ‘She doesn’t want to do that.’ He sighs, pained. He is in his mid-fifties. Still in decent shape. Only a slight paunch, leathery with sunlight, with Spanish weekends. Long thin legs.
He turns to Kristian and takes off his sunglasses. His eyebrows are thick and fair. His eyes pale blue.
‘I feel like a fool, at my age, Kristian, feeling like this,’ he says. ‘About a woman.’
‘You shouldn’t.’
‘Well, I do.’ He has turned from the garden, the dry field of scraping insects, and is looking at Kristian, who is still in his seat, sweating. ‘When they said you wanted to see me, I hoped it wouldn’t be about this.’
Kristian smiles sadly. ‘C’est la guerre,’ he says.
‘You know I’ll never be prime minister now?’
‘No, I don’t know that…’
‘Oh, you do. This isn’t France, Kristian.’
‘And thank God for that.’
Ignoring the flippancy, the minister says, ‘It will make me seem unsound, won’t it. Not so much morally as emotionally…Unserious…’
Kristian says, ‘I think you should tell me what happened, from the start, just to make sure we have everything straight.’
‘You expect me to tell you everything?’
‘Not everything: just the main points. When did it start? How did you meet?’
3
In the parked Passat, with the air conditioning screaming, he phones Elin.
‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘He didn’t put up much of a fight. He’ll work with us on it. I’ll try and knock something out at the airport and send it to you. One thing,’ he says, thinking ahead, ‘see if you can’t find any photos of them together. They’ve met at social events. Her husband was there too, Søren Ohmsen. Maybe there’s a photo of them together. The three of them. That would be perfect.’
He says, ‘My plane’s at seven something. I should be in the office by elevenish. I’ll see you there.’
It is half past five. The sun is starting to leave its seat in the top of the sky, to lose some of its force. The thermometer on the dash says 37°. The steering wheel, for a few minutes, is too hot for him to hold. He has to keep moving his hands on it as the satnav directs him back through the village and towards the motorway, south to Málaga.