We were seated outside in adjacent chairs, facing the square. The restaurant had no menu and instead we were brought glasses of prosecco by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair, then small bowls of marinated squid and octopus and anchovies, sharp and oily and entirely delicious. As if to reassure each other of the platonic nature of the evening, Freja showed me pictures of her daughters on her telephone, two startlingly beautiful girls with very blue eyes, born a year apart, growing in montage form into straight-limbed, long-haired, white-teethed young women, the very embodiment of health and vigour, pictured against a varied background of windswept Atlantic beaches and Thai palm trees, the Sphinx, a glacier somewhere. With shrewd editing it might, I suppose, be possible to compile an upbeat slideshow of even the most grim and Dickensian of childhoods, but on the evidence of Freja’s photo album her daughters had been particularly blessed. They seemed like the kind of healthy, wholesome family who’d be happy to share the same toothbrush. Of course she was far too nice a woman to gloat, but I couldn’t help but be aware that while Freja was usually pictured in the embrace of her photogenic offspring, I could not recall a single photo of my son and me. Perhaps when he was a small child, but in the last eight, ten years? Never mind, here was a photograph of Anastasia Kristensen, swimming with dolphins; here was Babette Kristensen, volunteering in an African village. Here was our pasta, and more wine.
‘Anastasia is a documentary-maker now. Babette is an environmentalist. I’m very proud of them, as you can probably tell. I have an almost limitless capacity to bore people about them. I’ll stop now before you slump forward into your linguine.’
‘Not at all. They seem like lovely girls,’ I said.
‘They are,’ she replied, returning the phone to her bag. ‘Of course when they were younger they could be little bitches …’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t say that even if it’s true — but goodness, we fought! Thankfully those things get easier with time. One more …’ She produced her phone again. ‘I debated whether or not to show you this, you’ll understand why …’
And here was Babette, twenty years old, sitting naked in a hospital chair, a newborn baby girl the colour of an aubergine at her breast, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. ‘Yes, this year I actually became a grandmother. Can you believe it? I’m a mormor at fifty-two! Good God!’ She shook her head and reached for her glass.
‘Who is this here?’ To the left of the chair stood a lean, distinguished-looking man, a Roman senator, absurdly handsome despite the foolish grin and surgical frock.
‘That’s my ex-husband.’
‘He looks like a film star.’
‘And is all too well aware of the fact, I’m afraid.’
‘He has incredible eyes.’
‘My downfall.’
‘Wait — he was at the birth?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘He saw his grandchild … come out?’
‘Yes, yes, we both did.’
‘That’s very Scandinavian.’
Freja laughed and I peered once again. ‘He really is a very handsome man.’
‘That’s where my daughters get their looks.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s entirely true,’ I said obligingly, and Freja nudged me with her elbow. ‘Are they friendly with their father?’
‘Of course, they adore him. I repeatedly instruct them not to, but they insist on worshipping him.’
My son did not worship me, and that was fine. To be worshipped would have made me uncomfortable, likewise ‘adored’. But ‘friendly with’, I could have lived with that. ‘I always thought that daughters were more forgiving of their fathers,’ I said. ‘It always seems like an easier relationship than fathers and sons. I wonder why that is?’
‘I suppose it’s because you’re freed of the obligation of being a role model. Or at least the comparison is less direct. Whereas with a son …’
‘Perhaps. I’d never thought of that.’ Had Albie ever aspired to be like me? In what respect? If I thought long enough, perhaps I’d come up with something, but now Freja was pouring wine.
‘I feel the same about sons. I’d have loved a son. A handsome, rather old-fashioned boy who I could mould and dress up and then hate his girlfriends. Besides, you mustn’t idolise girls. If you had a daughter, that would bring its own problems too.’
‘I did have a daughter.’
‘You did?’
‘My wife and I. Our first child was a girl, Jane, but she died.’
‘When?’
‘Soon after she was born.’
A moment passed. Over the years I’ve noted that some people, when told we lost our baby, seem almost angry, as if we’ve played a trick on them. Others try to shrug it off, as if it doesn’t really count, but thankfully this is rare. For the most part people are thoughtful and kind and when the situation arises, as it sometimes does, I have a facial expression I produce, a smile of sorts — Connie has one too — to reassure people that we are okay, and I produced it now.
‘Douglas, I’m very sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago. More than twenty years now.’ My daughter would have been twenty this year.
‘No, but still — it’s the worst thing that can happen to a couple.’
‘I didn’t raise it to be dramatic, but Connie and I, we have a policy of never avoiding the subject either. We don’t want it to be a secret, or something taboo. We want to be … straightforward about it.’
‘I understand,’ said Freja, but her eyes were reddening.
‘Please, Freja, I don’t want to spoil the evening …’ No, not twenty, nineteen years old — just. She’d be about to start her second year at university.
‘No, but still—’
‘I don’t want to cast a gloomy spell.’ Medicine, or architecture, I’d imagined. Or perhaps she’d be an actress, or an artist. I wouldn’t mind …
‘So your son …’
‘Albie is our only child, but our second child.’
‘And is that why you’re here? Because of your son?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s gone missing?’
‘He’s run away.’
‘And he is …?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Ah!’ She nodded, as if this explained everything. ‘Is he sensible?’
I laughed. ‘Not always. Rarely, in fact.’
‘Well he is seventeen, why should he be?’
‘I was very sensible at seventeen.’
Freja shook her head and laughed. ‘I was not. Are you particularly close?’
‘No. Quite the opposite. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Do you talk to each other?’
‘Not really. Do you? With your daughters?’
‘Of course. We talk about everything!’
‘With my son and I, it’s like a rather awkward chat show. Albie’s this surly young pop star who doesn’t want to be there. “So, how are things? What have you been up to? Any future plans?”’
‘But if you don’t talk to each other, that must be a worry.’
‘It is. It is.’
‘Perhaps we should change the subject. Except to say, I don’t mean to underdo — is that a word? Underrate, underestimate your concern, but if he has access to money and a phone for emergencies—’
‘He does—’
‘And he’s an adult, more or less. Why not just let him be?’
‘I promised my wife I’d find him.’
‘The wife you are separated from.’
‘Not yet,’ I said defensively. ‘We’re not separated yet. We’re just not in the same city. We are … geographically separated.’