‘How did she die?’
‘In her sleep. Her heart just stopped. She was only fifty.’
‘Jesus. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you.’
I nod. It’s true – she can’t possibly imagine what that was like for me, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who could. We fall silent for a long while; there doesn’t seem to be anything more to say, though the silence is a peaceful, intimate one, not awkward or uncomfortable. Eventually I continue because I realize that for the first time, I feel comfortable talking to someone about her. Most of the time I just block her out.
‘When I was small, she’d cry when I cried, and I knew that she truly felt what I felt. When she laughed, she laughed loudly and made everyone else laugh, too. I took after my calm and quiet Protestant father. And yet, as a child, I adored my mother and it felt like an open current of energy ran between us, a strong, unseen channel of communication known only to us.’ Since she died, I’ve never allowed myself to wallow in emotions or pay that much attention to feelings. I choose to be cool, calm, and always in control.
But now, just for a moment, I let in her memory, for the first time in so very long, and I can practically see her: walking up the path from the beach to her little finca farmhouse in the late-afternoon light of high summer, carrying a couple of rocks smoothed down by the ocean, picked from the surf. Her black hair, streaked silver, is piled atop her head and her bare face is the deep brown colour of someone who spends their life outside, gardening and painting. When she sees me, her face breaks into a brilliant smile, and it’s the smile that gets to me – that I’ll never see it again, that I’d forgotten it, or repressed it – that it was here, all along, inside me.
I snap out of the image and look into the clutch of tall, dark trees, and beyond, the colossal concrete apartment buildings at the far end of the park, asymmetrically lit, then at Bianka, whose face is shimmering in the soft light.
‘I bet your mother would be very proud of you,’ says Bianka, gently touching her plastic glass to mine before taking a long sip of her prosecco.
‘Thank you. It helped to have my children. To feel truly rooted to someone again.’
‘They seem like really great kids. And it looked like Storm and Madeleine took quite a shine to one another.’
We both smile.
‘It did.’ I can think of worse potential boyfriends for Madeleine than Storm Langeland, Norway’s biggest youth ski star. ‘Oh, I’ve been wanting to ask you more about Storm. He’s just incredible, so impressive. Oscar idolizes him. What he achieved in St Anton was unbelievable.’
‘Yes. He’s very driven when it comes to the skiing. He’s not like that at home, though. At all. He’s usually throwing stuff around or playing Fortnite.’ We laugh and the atmosphere between us feels light and conspiratorial, the shared experience of motherhood an instant bond. ‘I’ve always imagined it must be amazing having a daughter.’
‘It is. Terrifying, too.’ I think of my daughter, my sweet and strong Madeleine. I think of her when she was a chubby, happy baby, with a bald head and toothless grin, and it never fails to give me a chill to take in that it’s fifteen years ago. I’d give anything to hold that little baby and her brother in my arms one more time, to go back and really drink them in, instead of wishing them older or wallowing in exhaustion. I often feel like the best time of my life is already over, that it evaporated with the children’s childhoods, and that the rest of my life will be a monotonous slog toward the horrors of old age and, eventually, death. I’ve seriously considered having a third child in an attempt to hold onto my youth but that’s hardly the best reason to bring a new life into this world, and besides, I couldn’t bear another nine months of obesity followed by what can only be described as attempted murder trying to get the baby out. Besides, my husband would have to have sex with me for another baby to even be a possibility, and he’s making it pretty clear that he doesn’t want to do that.
I feel Bianka’s eyes on me, and again I have the feeling that she is truly interested in hearing about me.
‘Terrifying how?’
I swallow hard and mentally return to the conversation about daughters.
‘Well. Just… I guess I found being that age pretty difficult. So now I find myself constantly looking for signs of the same kinds of struggles in Madeleine. I know it’s unfair, but it’s impossible not to.’
‘Difficult because of your mother?’
I nod. Again, I feel myself divulging something to this woman I have never told anyone, in fact, something I’ve spent the last two decades denying, even to myself. ‘I coped with it by developing a serious eating disorder. My whole life became about control.’ It still is, and sitting here with Bianka in the soft grey evening, in a random park across town, the ever-present hum of London like a backdrop to our conversation, I sense that she knows this, that she gets me in a way nobody ever has.
‘That must have been so hard for you.’
I pause. It must have been, I guess, but I realize I have no idea, and no language for talking about it; I just never allowed myself any space to dwell on those years.
‘I don’t remember that much from those years.’ I feel uncomfortable now and want to change the subject. It’s as though I’ve suddenly emerged from a deep sleep only to realize that I’ve shared my deepest secrets in that unconscious state, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. But I can’t deny it also felt good to talk about it. ‘To be honest, the thing that helped in the end was keto. That’s probably why I’m so obsessive about it. I feel like it saved me. It gave me something to do, firm boundaries, control. I love knowing exactly what I can and can’t do all the time.’ It’s a deflection, but it’s also the truth.
‘How did you go from a teenager with an eating disorder to Norway’s biggest lifestyle blog to a TV show and a bestselling range of own-brand products, though?’ Bianka reels off my achievements in an exaggerated voice, making us both laugh.
‘I’d wanted to be a doctor, so I went to med school, but I was in total denial about my own struggles. Then I had the children just after I qualified and got sucked into the storm of motherhood for years. I was going to start working when they were both in nursery but then Andreas got the transfer to London and I realized it was a good time to take some time to get myself healthier, in both mind and body. I got even more serious about keto and started blogging about it, and it just took off from there, really.’
‘So you built an empire out of your fucked-up teen years. That’s impressive.’
Bianka looks at me deadpan and I stare back, not sure whether to take offence. She’s touching on a real truth; that my impressive career is in fact a veneer for my deeply ingrained and much-courted eating disorder. I might pretend that Keto Queen is all about optimal health and the best way of eating for our physiology, and the results speak for themselves, hence its success. I know deep down that it’s more complicated on a personal level, but does it matter? I like to think that what matters is that I maintain a healthy weight and that my passion for a ketogenic lifestyle has blossomed into a successful career. And yet, sometimes I feel like such a phony and I yearn to tell someone that in spite of the fact that I make a living off my innovative and elaborate low-carb recipes, making a point out of turning pretty much anything keto, all I actually eat is steak and cabbage. I’m literally terrified of anything else and go to great lengths to conceal that these are the only two things that pass my lips. I consider telling Bianka but decide against it.
‘I’m sorry, Charlotte,’ she says. ‘That probably came out wrong.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, and it is – in fact, it’s incredibly refreshing that Bianka just says it as it is. ‘You’re absolutely right – I built an empire out of my fucked-up teenage years.’
Bianka clinks her glass against mine again and then we both erupt into laughter.
‘I’m sorry you had to deal with all of that,’ she says when we finally stop laughing and just sit side by side, smiling in the dark, pleasantly tipsy. She places a hand on my wrist and just lets it linger there, stroking the skin beneath the sleeve of my silk blouse. It feels deeply intimate and comforting, and suddenly I feel teary again.
‘It’s okay. It is what it is. I’m sorry to be such a mess; it really isn’t my usual style to be all weepy and…’
‘Please don’t apologize. You’re allowed to be a whole person, you know. I’m not only interested in the shiny, perfect Charlotte Vinge. I want to know the real person.’
It feels as though her words heal something that came loose inside of me a very long time ago and I realize how much I’ve missed having a very close friend. I do have Anette and Linda, but we never have conversations like this. We talk about kitchen refurb inspiration, our kids’ achievements, Gucci belts, where to eat out in Cannes, that kind of thing. We don’t talk about how we feel or how we came to be who we are. I feel a bolt of gratitude for the unexpected appearance of this woman in my life.
‘Enough about me,’ I say, as we start walking back toward Leyton and the Tube – it’s getting chilly and our glasses are empty and tomorrow is another hardcore day with a photoshoot and a book signing. ‘I want to know about you.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Just… everything. Like, tell me about the woman I reminded you of. You mentioned it the first time we met.’
‘Ah.’ Bianka chuckles a little. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask about that. The look on your face was priceless.’
‘So…?’
‘She was my girlfriend. For years. Ended in tears.’ I try to process this information and feel like I have a hundred follow-up questions, but Bianka swiftly changes the subject.
