‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ she says.
Henning finds two glasses, pours and gestures towards the living room where they sit down on separate sofas. Their glasses find the table at the same time. Then everything falls quiet again. Henning looks at her, waiting for her to begin.
‘So,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
Before Henning has time to answer, she says: ‘And I don’t mean what are you up to, because I think I probably know that. But how are you, Henning? Really?’
Henning is tempted to ask why she wants to know, but he can’t make himself.
‘Well, I guess I… function,’ he replies. ‘I’m busy at the moment with Trine and with… with—’
‘Tore Pulli?’
Henning looks up at her.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Or rather, there’s not much going on with him, or at least not right now, but—’
Henning realises he is on the verge of telling her about Indicia and murdered dogs, and manages to stop himself. It’s too soon.
‘I understand,’ is all she says and sips her wine; she smacks her lips and makes a contented, wordless sound. Henning lets his glass stay where it is, untouched. He is pleased that the music is keeping them company, but even with Zimmer’s violins, there is something claustrophobic and weird about sitting so close to Nora again. She takes another sip from her wine glass, leans back in the sofa and crosses one leg over the other. Then she changes her mind and leans forward again.
‘Sorry,’ Henning says. ‘It’s a rotten sofa.’
‘Oh,’ Nora says and smiles awkwardly.
Once again there is silence between them. Henning watches her.
‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to… talk to me about, Nora?’
She looks up at him suddenly as if he had caught her red-handed.
‘No, I was just—’
Nora casts down her gaze again. Henning waits. She takes another mouthful of wine.
‘Last week or whenever it was,’ she begins. ‘When you were lying in that grave, I—’
She looks up hoping the rosette in the ceiling will come to her rescue. ‘I thought you were dead,’ she says at last without meeting his eyes. ‘I thought that – that I would have to bury you too.’
She is still not looking at him.
‘And—’
Then she sighs and shakes her head.
‘Why do you live here, Henning?’
Her question takes him by surprise.
‘What made you choose this place?’
Nora throws up her hands, taking in the room.
‘I mean, from your bedroom you have a view of – if that is your bedroom in there,’ she says, pointing to a white painted door. ‘You can look right out at…’
Nora doesn’t complete the sentence.
‘You even have a balcony exactly like the one we had in the old flat.’
Nora doesn’t continue; she simply looks at him. It’s Henning’s turn to stare at the floor.
‘Well, I—’
‘Why do you do this terrible thing to yourself?’ she asks. ‘To torment yourself? Is it a form of punishment because—’
Henning holds up his hand.
‘Don’t say it,’ he begs her. ‘Please don’t say his name.’
Nora’s eyes start to moisten. As do his.
‘Please don’t say his name,’ he repeats in a voice close to breaking. The moment expands, there is a pause between two tracks and for a few seconds the flat is very quiet. Henning can hear his own heavy breathing. He sees the pulse beat in Nora’s neck, her necklace against her thin, white jumper. He doesn’t remember seeing that necklace before.
Then another song begins and it’s as if they are both roused from their nightmare. Nora doesn’t say anything else, but knocks back her wine with an uncharacteristic urgency.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she says and gets up. Henning follows her back to the kitchen, out into the hallway where she puts on her shoes and her jacket. Then she straightens up and looks at him. Really looks at him.
And then she comes towards him and she doesn’t stop before she is standing very close to him. He puts his arms around her and she clings to him as if she doesn’t ever want to let go. Henning can’t remember the last time he held Nora like this. He places his hand tenderly on her neck and strokes her hair. He closes his eyes. Her soft, lovely hair. Just like he remembers it. The scent of her. Also just like he remembers it.
And when she pushes herself away from him a little later, her feet refuse to follow. So she stays where she is, close to him. They are separated by only a few centimetres. He can feel her breath on his face, a cloud of alcohol that lingers around his nose. Henning doesn’t know whether he pulls Nora close to him or Nora glides imperceptibly towards him, but again he feels himself trembling at her magnetic power, which has never lost its hold over him. And he realises with all his being that he has never loved anyone the way he loves Nora.
And that’s why he pulls away.
He sees it in her eyes; how she, too, feels that what they are doing is wrong. They look at each other for many, long moments.
Then she turns around and leaves.
Thursday
Chapter 67
Trine can’t remember the last time she had such a good, dreamless sleep. After they had talked late into the night, she cuddled up to Pål Fredrik and didn’t wake up until her mobile started to buzz on the bedside table. She has heard people say how therapeutic it is to make a clean breast of things, to share the secrets that were eating them up, but she would never have believed that it could feel like this.
But though it helped to tell Pål Fredrik about her father and what she saw that night, she didn’t tell him everything about herself. She didn’t even come close. And she doesn’t know if she will ever manage it.
Trine gets up at the same time as Pål Fredrik though she doesn’t intend to go back to work yet. They eat breakfast together, read the newspaper, discuss the news – at least any news that isn’t about her. When Pål Fredrik goes to the office, Trine finds herself alone once again in a silence that festers around her. She feels the urge to exercise, to run away from it all, but she doesn’t; instead she reflects on how the media have wallowed in every revelation about her that has come out in the last few days.
She hasn’t read even half the stories that have been published, but the biggest headlines seem to have taken root in the public’s imagination. As an elected politician and a member of the government, she had known that her life would be subject to constant, close scrutiny. And she has yet to meet someone who has never made a single mistake. She accepted that she would always be under the microscope.
But she hasn’t deserved this.
She bloody well doesn’t deserve this.
With the benefit of hindsight, it’s easy to see that she should not have done what she did. Life would be so much simpler if we never had to deal with unintended consequences.
Talk about things being simple.
Trine realises she hasn’t allowed herself to think simple thoughts in the last few days. When she tried to identify the person who could have known what she did in Denmark, her initial conclusion was that a friend might have mentioned it to someone and thus inadvertently started the rumour. But the simplest explanation hasn’t occurred to her until now. There is one person who knows everything, who helped her, got her out of Hotel Caledonien discreetly, arranged a car and a plane ticket, booked a hotel and packed some clothes for her so she could travel incognito from Kjevik Airport. Who made the appointment that enabled Trine to deal with her little problem. It’s someone she has worked closely with during the three years she has been Justice Secretary. The person she trusted the most.