‘In what way?’
‘Just, he seems so relaxed and easy going privately. You know, the way he is with his wife and son – it just seems like he’s happy to go with the flow. But at work, he’s much more authoritative. He’s only been at Norbank a few weeks but is already talking of ways of “streamlining operations” and “optimizing output”. That obviously means cuts.’
‘You think?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Well. It’s not like they’d ever get rid of you. I mean, you’re indispensable.’
‘Charlotte, if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nobody is ever indispensable. Especially once you start getting very expensive.’
‘I’m seeing Bianka again at some point this week. I guess I can fish around a little for more information.’
‘I doubt she’d know anything. And besides, it would come across really obvious. Honestly, the best thing we can do is to solidify a good friendship with them outside of work. And that doesn’t feel like much of a chore. I think they’re both pretty cool.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You like her a lot, right? Bianka?’
‘Yes. I like that she’s a little different. She just doesn’t seem to care about all those little social rules the rest of us spend so much time on. I’m planning on introducing her to some more people in the next couple of weeks. I imagine it isn’t that easy to meet people when you don’t have kids at the school.’
‘Good. Actually, do you know what I was thinking? Why don’t you invite her to Ibiza with the girls?’
My mouth literally drops open at Andreas’s suggestion.
‘What…’ I whisper.
‘Don’t look so utterly horrified, babe. Just a suggestion. I think you’d benefit from some fresh blood in that group of friends.’
‘I…’ I actually struggle to find words, which doesn’t happen to me very often. Every year for years now, Linda and Anette and I go to our house in Ibiza the third week of June and open it for the season. It has long become a tradition, one we cherish increasingly for every year that goes past. It started with Anette and I when we both still lived in Oslo, and then Linda started joining us after we reconnected when we’d all ended up moving to London. Though many people associate Ibiza with partying, we lie low and focus on re-centring ourselves during this short break from our gruelling lives in Wimbledon. We do yoga every morning on a wooden platform overlooking the Mediterranean. We eat simply and spend long afternoons on the terraces, journalling and dozing. We go out for a couple of early, casual dinners at the local beach clubs.
‘Andreas, that’s not possible. We have a tradition. I’m not going to suddenly invite a fourth person none of us know well – it would give the whole week a completely different vibe.’
‘Exactly. Might be fun.’
‘The week in Ibiza isn’t about fun.’
‘Why not?’
‘Andreas. Let’s just drop it, okay? I like her. Let’s totally have them over for dinner again and, I understand that it would be a good idea to be friends with her. But she can’t come to Ibiza. Obviously.’
‘Charlotte, all I’m saying is, maybe you should let loose a little more. You’re only just forty, but you and your girlfriends sometimes behave like you’re a decade older. You’re allowed to just… have some fun. Bianka would help with that; she seems pretty wild.’
‘What does that even mean? Maybe I should let loose a little more?’ I’m super loose. Relaxed as all hell. I have so much fun with my girlfriends that there is simply no way I can squeeze in any more fun. How dare Andreas suggest that I need to have more fun? Has he even seen my social schedule? He shrugs and leans in to peck me on the cheek but I’m trembling with fury at his words.
Maybe you should make love to me a little more, I think to myself, watching my husband disappear down the hallway toward the spare bedroom. And he has the nerve to say that I behave like I’m a decade older. I go after him. He turns around in surprise when I place my hand on his bare lower back. I pull him close and kiss him hard on the mouth, prizing his mouth open with my tongue but he pulls back and looks at me.
‘Charlotte, what are you doing?’
‘I think you should come to bed with me,’ I whisper, pushing my lower body, clad only in a silk camisole, into his. ‘I think you’re right, about having more fun. Let’s have some fun.’
‘Babe, it’s almost one a.m. on a school night. I have meetings all day tomorrow.’ My husband leans in and gives me a chaste, brotherly kiss on the cheek.
‘Why don’t you sleep in with me tonight? Andreas, come on. Please. I’d like that.’
My husband sighs deeply, as if asking him to sleep beside me is such a chore. ‘Charlotte, you know it’s best if I go down the hall when I’m going in to the City in the morning.’
Alone in bed as usual, I can’t sleep. Thoughts chase through my mind like little storms; how did we get here, to a place where we don’t share a bed during the week because Andreas needs his ‘rest’; where the mention of having fun hits home so hard because I know it’s true, that my life is predictable and controlled and ordered, with little room for spontaneity or so-called fun. If I’m honest, the idea of fun terrifies me, and doesn’t sound like fun at all. It seems synonymous with breaking rules and slipping up and losing control – my very idea of hell. When I try to picture what fun might look like, I see things like the strobing neon lights of crowded nightclubs, feeling the beat of the music reverberate throughout your body so you can’t help but dance. Or nights in sweatpants on the sofa, eating pizza straight from the box, followed by pick-and-mix candy, and beer, even. Not that I would ever do either of those things.
Besides, those are hardly fun activities, just dirty and chaotic. But I see Bianka, too, in her crazy vermilion trouser suit in a sea of prissy white cotton dresses, her wild platinum curls standing out among the poker-straight, honey-blond hair of everyone else. And tonight, at dinner, the way she looked at me as though I were an amuse bouche when she sat back down for dessert, making me suddenly aware of the tiny hairs down the length of my spine, standing up.
*
In the morning I run, circling Cannizaro Park several times, and though the weather is lovely, there is thick mud in parts from this week’s rain and by the time I finish, I’m filthy and lethargic. Anette and Linda are waiting for me in the café of the hotel lobby, where we meet at least three times a week after drop-off. I sink into the plush seat and as soon as he sees me, the waiter sets about making what I always have – a double black Americano. No cheat days for the Keto Queen. I’ve summoned Anette and Linda here; we weren’t due to meet until tomorrow but I knew this couldn’t wait – Ibiza is coming up. I’ve been up all night turning Andreas’s suggestion over and over in my head. At first I thought it was utterly insane, quite a shocking suggestion, but the more I considered it, the more I recognized that the strange feeling in my stomach was unmistakably excitement at the prospect. I tried to imagine the usual set-up; Anette, Linda and me whiling away the days in cushy, slow luxury with interiors magazines, expensive albariños and tons of yoga. I don’t want that, not anymore. I’ve realized that Andreas is right – we need to mix it up a little. We need to have fun.
‘God, you look wiped,’ says Linda, who of course looks as serene as always.
‘Mmm,’ says Anette, shooting a rather horrified glance at my mud-splattered yellow tights. ‘Did you fall over?’
I pick up my coffee and take a long, delicious sip, and then smile graciously at my girlfriends.
‘So. I’ve been thinking. We need to finalize plans for Ibiza, and—’
‘What is there to plan?’ asks Anette. ‘Same procedure as always, presumably?’ Linda nods eagerly, almost aggressively, as though suggesting any changes at all might make her snap.
‘Well. Yeah. Largely.’
‘Largely?’ An ominous flatness creeps into Anette’s voice.
