The buzz of conversation in the background.
‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. Are you busy?’
‘Pierre and I have guests.’
‘From Sweden?’
‘Yes. Some old acquaintances.’
Laura immediately sees through the slight change in tone.
‘Is Marcus there?’
The brief pause gives her the answer.
‘They arrived yesterday – a last-minute decision. He’s been so stressed, and the au pair will take care of the girls until the Christmas holidays begin.’
Laura clamps her lips together in a thin line. Technically she is Marcus’s boss, but needless to say her little brother hasn’t said a word about his plans to take some time off. Or that he was going to join their mother and Pierre in Majorca.
Madeleine draws her own conclusions from Laura’s silence.
‘We thought you couldn’t come. Marcus said you were very busy. But of course you’re welcome any time – you know that.’
Laura moves her jaw from side to side in an attempt to release the tension. She can’t say yes, partly because the invitation was forced out, but mainly because she can’t think of anything worse than celebrating Christmas in Mum and Pierre’s flashy Spanish villa with Marcus’s noisy kids. But if she refuses – blames work as she usually does when it’s time for a family gathering – she’ll prove that they were right to exclude her.
‘By the way, have you spoken to Andreas?’ her mother says before Laura has worked out what to say.
‘Why?’
The question surprises her, and yet it doesn’t.
‘Marcus bumped into him near Stureplan the other day, with a woman. He seemed a little embarrassed?’
Mum manages to make the last sentence sound like a question, as if she’s expecting some kind of explanation.
‘It’s over a year since we divorced. Andreas can see whoever he wants.’
A brief noise on the other end of the line, possibly a snort.
‘Hmm. Not even his patience lasts forever.’
Laura has been expecting the comment ever since Andreas’s name came up. The acidic little remark, reminding her that she’s being ridiculous, that she ought to stop messing around and beg Andreas to take her back, before it’s too late.
‘Did you know that Aunt Hedda has passed away?’
The click of a cigarette lighter. Her mother still smokes, even though Laura’s father died of lung cancer. A long exhalation, a sigh filled with nicotine as Laura’s brain automatically computes the risk of disease after fifty-five years of smoking.
‘Yes, I heard something about that. Such a shame.’
‘Why didn’t you call and tell me?’
Silence, another exhalation.
‘It didn’t occur to me. Pierre and I have had a lot to do in the house, and you always have your hands full with work. How did you find out?’
‘A solicitor contacted me last night. Hedda’s left Gärdsnäset to me in her will.’
‘I see.’
Laura can sense unease in the neutral words.
‘Why do you think she did that?’ she asks.
‘I’ve no idea. Hedda’s always been a little . . . different. As I’m sure you recall, she didn’t even have the decency to get in touch when your father died. Her own brother. After everything we’ve done for her. What on earth are you going to do with a rundown holiday village?’
The sharpness was back, the implication that Laura has done something wrong. She chooses to ignore it.
‘I thought I’d go to the funeral. It’s next Saturday.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘I’m Hedda’s closest relative.’
‘So that’s the only reason you’re going? Because you’re so kind-hearted?’
Laura clamps her lips together again.
‘It’s because of him, isn’t it?’ her mother continues. ‘The orphan.’
The feeling of being caught out makes Laura’s cheeks flush red.
‘His name is Jack.’
Another snort. ‘He disappeared, don’t you remember? Left you when you were at rock bottom.’
Her mother’s words slice through her, mainly because they’re true.
‘I remember.’
‘You were only just sixteen, it was a stupid teenage crush. And yet you still can’t stop thinking about him. No doubt you’re hoping he’ll turn up at the funeral.’
Laura forces herself not to respond.
‘If I were you, I’d stay away. Gärdsnäset is a terrible place, and after everything that’s happened I can’t imagine why you’re even—’
Her mother breaks off, takes two quick drags.
‘What I’m trying to say, Laura . . .’ Her tone has softened, there is even a hint of sorrow. ‘Is that you shouldn’t dig up the past. It rarely leads to anything good, believe me.’
Laura stands in the bedroom in front of the full-length mirror. Hesitates for a moment before opening her robe and letting it fall to the floor. The last of the warmth from the shower fades away, and she shivers.
The room is in darkness, with only a small amount of light filtering in and making her skin look whiter than usual. She unties her hair, lets it fall over her shoulders, then folds her arms over her breasts. Without taking her eyes off the mirror, she slowly turns her upper body. The mark begins halfway down her left shoulder blade. She keeps moving, watching it grow into a large patch of rough scar tissue, spreading diagonally downwards across her spine. She shivers again.
For a few brief moments, she remembers it all. The roar of the flames, the smell of soot, burned hair and flesh so intense that she can taste it.
The pain in her back that is both heat and cold at the same time.
Then the floating sensation as someone carries her over the ice, closer and closer to the black, cold water out there. And finally the screams. Her own and someone else’s.
3
The juice bar is on Birger Jarlsgatan, right next to Steph’s gym, and is full of women who could have been cloned. Padded jackets over workout clothes, perfect haircuts, a glass of juice in one hand, phone in the other. Conversations that are more like monologues, because no one looks anyone else in the eye.
Steph differs from the other customers in one important way. She has actually been working out; this is clear from both her clothes and the sheen of perspiration lingering on her forehead. She doesn’t do anything by half measures, which is one of the things Laura likes about her. Go big or go home, that’s Steph’s mantra. Laura never goes to the gym. Sweaty machines, communal changing rooms, open showers and curious eyes.
‘So to summarise: you’re thinking of travelling to some backwater in Skåne to bury an aunt you haven’t seen for years and years, just to annoy your mother, whom you hardly ever see either?’
Steph takes a swig of her juice, which has so many ingredients that it took the man behind the counter four minutes to blend it.
Laura doesn’t answer, partly because Steph has a point, partly because she can’t tell her friend the whole story. She rubs her hands together, trying to warm her fingertips. It’s below freezing outside, and even though it’s not yet December, the piles of snow at the side of the road have already turned a dirty brownish-grey.
‘How long have we known each other?’ Steph goes on. ‘Didn’t we meet the year I came here?’
‘The following year. You moved to Sweden in September 2015, we met in January 2016.’
‘So almost two years. It feels like longer. Anyway, you’ve listened to me droning on about my ex-husbands and the difference between Americans and Swedes until your ears bleed. I know all about your peculiar relationship with your mother and your useless kid brother. I also know about your divorce and Andreas the stalker. But you haven’t said a single word about a rich aunt in Skåne.’