Steph raises her eyebrows, but her forehead remains smooth.
‘Hedda wasn’t rich.’
‘No? I thought you said you were her sole heir?’
‘I had an email from her solicitor this morning. Hedda was more or less broke. There’s a piece of heavily mortgaged land, but that’s all.’
‘I stand corrected. You have a poor aunt that you’ve never mentioned before. Why not?’
Because I’ve put all that behind me, Laura wants to say. But of course it’s not true. Instead, she simply shrugs.
‘You know we moved around a lot when I was growing up. Dad worked all over south-east Asia, so I started in a new school virtually every year.’
Steph nods.
‘During the longer breaks I stayed with my aunt at her holiday village in Skåne. Hedda didn’t have any children of her own, so she was like a second mother to me. I had friends there; I loved the place.’
‘Oh yes?’
The perfect eyebrows are raised. Laura takes a deep breath.
‘There was an accident one winter, when I was fifteen. A fire . . .’
Steph leans forward, interested to hear more.
‘My friends and I had a Lucia party in the dance hall, which was closed for the winter. A typical teenage idea. Suddenly a fire started.’
She stops, wondering how much to tell. Settles on the official version.
‘The dance hall was burned to the ground. There was so much smoke, so much confusion with everyone trying to get out. One of my friends didn’t make it.’
The colour drains from Steph’s face. Her eyes shine with unshed tears.
‘How terrible!’ She places a hand on Laura’s arm, which is quite touching. Steph can be as hard as nails in business, and she swears like a trooper, but that’s all superficial.
‘Her name was Iben,’ Laura adds. ‘She was my best friend.’
Steph squeezes her arm, and they both sit in silence for a little while.
‘What . . .’ Steph clears her throat. ‘What happened next?’
Laura braces herself. The rest is easier to talk about, but it’s still challenging.
‘My parents took me back to Hong Kong a few days later. I got sick almost right away. I was struck down by a virus – meningitis – and I was in hospital for months. When I got back on my feet, Mum and Dad refused to talk about the fire, or Aunt Hedda. There was no question of my being allowed to go back there.’ I call the virus the winter fire, it fucked up my inner thermostat, among other things, which is why I’m almost always cold.
She keeps this to herself, along with the fact that she has been on medication ever since in order to keep the nightmares at bay. Instead, she underlines her story with a melancholy smile, which isn’t difficult to produce. Steph looks badly shaken.
‘Jesus, what a story. You must have felt like shit.’
Laura shrugs again, for want of a better reaction.
‘It’s a long time ago. I haven’t thought about it for years.’
A lie, but in her present mood, Steph doesn’t notice.
‘And your aunt never tried to contact you?’
Laura shakes her head.
‘We used to exchange letters, but I didn’t hear a thing from Hedda during all those months in hospital. I was upset, of course, but I kept writing to her even though I never got a reply. I must have stuck at it for a year before I gave up. Not a letter, not so much as a postcard – and like I said, I’d thought of her as my second mother.’
‘And when you grew up?’
Laura’s jawline is tense.
‘I haven’t heard a word from Hedda since the winter of 1987. I have no idea why she chose to leave the holiday village to me, but then Hedda was always different . . .’
‘In what way?’
‘She was into pottery, painting, she made her own clothes, that whole ’68 vibe. My dad used to call her a superannuated hippie.’
‘Sounds charming, if you ask me.’
‘It was, at least when I was a child. I loved staying with her. There were no rules, no . . .’
Laura realises she’s smiling, quickly adjusts her expression.
‘But Hedda was also incredibly stubborn. And she knew how to bear a grudge.’
She thinks about all the times she checked the neat pile of post on the hall stand. About her mother’s irritated little shake of the head when she asked if there really wasn’t a letter for her. How can you do that to a fifteen-year-old? To someone you treated like your own child? She rubs her fingertips together. The cold won’t go away.
‘And now it’s too late for a reconciliation. All that’s left is a final farewell. So sad.’
Steph picks up her juice and pensively chews her straw.
‘Will your brother be at the funeral?’
‘No. Hedda and Marcus never met. He’s seven years younger than me, and Mum didn’t want to send both of us away for the holidays.’
‘You mean she didn’t want to send Marcus away.’ Steph pouts, puts on a babyish voice. ‘Couldn’t bear to be parted from her little prince for all those weeks.’
Laura can’t help smiling this time.
‘Mum and Hedda never really got along.’
‘I’m liking your aunt even more.’
‘There’s another reason why I want to go.’
She hadn’t intended to say anything, but Steph always has the ability to put her in a good mood.
‘Aha. The plot thickens.’
‘There was a boy . . . We also lost touch after . . .’ Laura searches for the right words. ‘Everything that went on.’
Steph lifts her chin a fraction, studies her face, which makes Laura nervous for some reason. Steph’s eyes seem to burn right through her skull, into her mind. There’s so much she hasn’t shared, so much that she’s kept to herself, suppressed.
Steph suddenly laughs.
‘And now you’re hoping that Prince Charming will turn up at the funeral? So you can revive a romance from thirty years ago?’
‘Maybe.’ Laura sighs quietly to herself.
‘So when are you going?’
‘After work on Thursday. Back Sunday evening.’
Steph takes another sip of her juice.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘Thanks, but I know you hate funerals.’
She really appreciates the offer, but Laura can’t let her come along under any circumstances. What if Steph finds out the truth about what really happened on that Lucia night? About what Laura did?
4
Aulin Consulting is in a beautiful old building in Östermalm. Stucco on the ceilings, dark wood, crystal chandeliers and Persian rugs. Laura would have preferred something more modern, more functional and less expensive. She makes the suggestion at the beginning of every financial year, but her mother flatly refuses to change a single thing from the way it was when Laura’s father was still around, and Marcus always backs her up.
The company has nineteen employees, eleven of them part-time: law and journalism students who check registers, request various documents in the public domain, and go through CVs. In addition there are four risk consultants and an actuary on the payroll, plus Gunvor, who was taken on by Laura’s father as his secretary when they returned from Asia in the mid-Nineties. Laura knows that her mother and Gunvor speak virtually every day, and that if she so much as changes the brand of coffee in the staff room, the information will be passed on.
Changing direction and concentrating on risk assessing people rather than buildings and vehicles was Laura’s idea. Her father reluctantly agreed the year before he died. She knows that her mother blames her, believes that it was the restructuring that broke him rather than the cancer. In fact, they had no choice. Her father had lost his grip, and the company that is now flourishing and supporting both her mother and Pierre, Laura and Marcus, was about to go under. However, that particular aspect is never discussed. Dad was perfect, a saint. Saint Jacob. End of story.