Bianka had narrowed her eyes in sympathy, nodded in all the right places, smiled gently as tears sprung to Charlotte’s eyes, touched her wrist to assess whether the other woman was comfortable with physical touch. She was initially surprised, but open to it for sure; starved even.
Bianka begins to walk slowly around the house, fluffing cushions and tweaking curtains and wiping down a couple of surfaces. She thinks back to the moment when Charlotte invited her to Ibiza. It was so delicious, so perfect, that she’d known instantly that she’d never forget it.
For every slow minute sliding by, she reminds herself that this time next week, she’ll by flying off to her absolute dream destination with Charlotte Vinge. What a turn life has taken. It’s a shame Charlotte’s insipid girlfriends from the Streamstar party will be there, too – but Bianka isn’t daunted by a couple of droll suburban tagalongs.
Nine
Storm
He’d been surprised when his father had agreed to let him spend the night alone at the house in Oslo – the flight would land at ten p.m., missing the last available pickup service from school.
‘You’re almost seventeen and obviously I trust you,’ his father had said, placing his hands on Storm’s shoulders, then drawing him into a hug as he dropped him off at Heathrow. ‘Just don’t attempt to cook anything.’
Walking through security and scanning the monitors for the right gate, checking and rechecking his digital boarding pass, Storm had felt pretty grown up. He’d also felt sad; it was still new and unfamiliar that Emil would leave the airport and go back to his life, a different life altogether than the one Storm was a part of. They’d discussed the possibility of Storm returning to London in just over a week – he’d be off his training schedule for a summer break, and when Emil had seen Storm hesitate, he’d added that Bianka would be flying off to Ibiza. Plus, Storm is more than a little keen to see Madeleine Vinge again.
He finds his seat at the front of the plane by the window and recalls the feeling he’d had that evening after the dinner when he’d met her for the first time.
The house on Dunstall Road was completely quiet and the usual faint noise from the traffic on the A4 had died down, and Storm lay still and alert on top of his bed in the green room, still wearing his smart Ralph Lauren shirt and chino trousers. He didn’t want to take them off, signalling the end of the evening; he wanted to hold onto it for a little longer. Madeleine circled round and round in his mind, like a bird high up in the sky, impossible to catch and impossibly beautiful. He imagined running his hands through her glossy light-brown hair and pressing his mouth to her soft, pink lips. He felt himself blush again in the dark at the thought, and at the memory of the long moment in the attic space when he held her hand, blissfully high and a little braver for it. He felt like a different boy than the boy who’d woken up that morning, the boy who really only ever thought of skiing and FIFA. Was this what it felt like to become a man? He closed his eyes and smiled and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Storm felt free and happy, and the loneliness he usually felt at home was gone, if only for a while.
He feels it again now as the plane takes to the sky, marking the end of his first trip to London. The rest of the weekend had crept by slowly, spent with his father running around Wimbledon Common and taking a train into the city to look at all the sights, most of which feel like a blur in Storm’s mind. The Tower of London, London Eye, Madame Tussauds, the Shard, and Buckingham Palace; Storm had dutifully perused all of these sights and more, taking a few pictures here and there, constantly checking his phone for a new message from Madeleine.
*
In Oslo, it’s still light outside at eleven when he walks from Slemdal metro station to the house. People sit out in gardens in the gentle, warm evening, laughing and clinking glasses together. Storm tries to pretend that this is like all the other times he’s walked home on a summer evening, that his father is at home watching TV or tidying up the kitchen before bed. But it feels nothing like before; it feels like years later even though it’s only been a few weeks, as though he’s a man returning home from war, the same on the outside but fundamentally altered within.
He pushes the door open but it meets resistance – a pile of newspapers, flyers, and letters have accumulated on the doormat inside and Storm wonders whether his father has forgotten to redirect the mail. He kicks his shoes off and is about to head into the living room to relax for a while in front of the TV when a plain white envelope on the top of the pile catches his eye. It’s addressed to him. He picks it up and turns it over to open it, but when he reads the name of the sender at the back of the envelope, his heart skips several beats in his chest and he drops it to the floor in shock.
Ten
Charlotte
The last couple of weeks have just flown by with all the excitement of discovering a new London with Bianka. The gallery opening in Leyton and the slightly frightening and emotional walk in the park was followed by a Caribbean street food festival in Hackney, then a tarot reading in Dulwich at a woman’s tiny flat that was decorated almost entirely in purple silk. Bianka apparently discovered her on Instagram.
I smile to myself at the memory – Bianka and I have known each other only a few short weeks but it feels like we’ve already covered a lot of ground. And today is a special day. My alarm rang at 5 a.m. and I practically leaped from bed, I’ve been looking forward to this day for so long. Throughout winter, when the bone-chilling, grey cold settles on London, and throughout the endless rains of spring, I have looked forward to this every single day. Our annual girls’ trip to Ibiza. This year it’s even more exciting than usual because Bianka is coming with us.
I apply my makeup carefully, enjoying the deep silence of the house and the first, bright rays of the late June sun spilling onto the terracotta tiles of the bathroom. I can’t quite believe that when I remove my makeup this evening, I’ll be at Can Xara, my beloved house on the northwestern coast of Ibiza. Going there always gives me a thrill, but never have I felt it more than today. Our first trip came about many years after my mother died, when my kids were small, and Andreas and I discussed selling the property I’d inherited since we never used it and it was just standing there. I’d found it too painful to go there and to sort through my mother’s things, putting it off for years. Then a generous offer for the house came and since Andreas would stay at home to look after the kids, Anette offered to come with me to help sort things out. Within days of being there, I knew I would never sell it, that the place still held within it an unbreakable bond to my mother.
Why don’t you build a modern, sleek villa up there on that hill? Anette asked and I shielded my eyes and followed the direction of her pointed finger to the natural plateau further up the steep hill, and it was as though I could actually see it there – the house that would embody my own dreams as much as the ancient rambling finca had embodied my mother’s. I designed the house myself and two years later, it stood there, exactly as I’d envisioned it – a long, white-and-glass structure that was built to merge with the landscape and looked like it had sprung forth from Ibiza’s very core like a desert flower.
And in the many years since, Can Xara has brought more peace and joy to our family than I could ever have anticipated. After we moved to Wimbledon and grew close to Linda, who’d once been a casual acquaintance in Oslo, she too started to join us. And every year the three of us count down to this day, and every year our trip has more or less followed the same rhythm. It has never occurred to us to bring our partners or invite anyone else on this week away, so it came as no surprise that it didn’t go down especially well when I broke the news that I’d invited Bianka to join us. I didn’t think they’d be that negative, though – not even Anette, who can be more than a little territorial and feisty. A couple of days after the fiasco at Cannizaro, when she just walked out without a word, she called.
‘I just don’t understand why you’d even try to fix the least broken thing in our lives,’ she said. I explained and she listened and in the end she pretended to be okay about it, because, really, what choice did she have? We’re in our forties and generally try to avoid throwing our weight around when we don’t get our way. It’s cuter to just smile graciously. Besides, it’s my house, and my decision – and we all know that at the end of the day.
*
I drive fast down the empty streets to Anette’s house on Calonne Road, and she’s already outside, waiting on the curb. She’s wearing a floaty orange kaftan I recognize as one she picked up at a market in Sant Joan de Labritja last year, which perfectly complements her vivid copper hair. The overall effect is that of a commanding, flickering flame. Anette air-kisses me and we set off. We’re giggling and beaming at each other; we both know exactly how much we have to look forward to. I feel almost euphoric to leave my family and work behind, if only for a week. The monotony of parenting, the endless demands of work – I often feel like I’m trapped in a washing machine, spinning on the fast cycle. I manoeuvre the Range Rover onto the A4 heading toward the M25 and Heathrow, urging the accelerator with my Valentino-sandaled foot.
‘Aren’t we picking up Linda and Bianka?’ asks Anette.
‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Linda is driving herself because that’s much easier from Cobham. And Bianka’s husband is driving her because he’s off to Copenhagen for a meeting.’
‘Ah. Not gonna lie, this is going to be interesting.’
I glance at Anette and smile and though she smiles back, there is something slightly confrontational in her eyes. Anette is my best friend from school, we’ve known each other since our very first day of primary, aged six. We’ve always been close and, even as adults, our lives mirror each other’s in many ways. Anette runs her own law firm and is married to Mads, one of Andreas’s university friends and long-time colleagues at Norbank. When Andreas got transferred to London, Mads and Anette followed just months later and thank God for that. We do a lot of couple’s things together, and Anette and I remain as close as we have been since childhood. If I have a problem, it’s Anette I call. If I need to just forget everything, even calorie-counting, and just get drunk, again it’s Anette I call. But while Anette and I live similar lives and have many shared interests, we don’t have the kind of friendship that is built on a deeper emotional understanding, the kind where we just ‘get each other’ implicitly. I’ve never even thought about this, or known we were missing such a connection, because I’ve never had it before. Until Bianka.
‘Yeah. Yes, it will be great for you guys to get to properly know each other.’
‘I mean, she’s got to be something rather special to get an invite to our week, so my expectations are naturally sky high.’ This sounds exactly like the subtle threat it is and I feel anxiety stir in my stomach at the thought of Bianka and Anette having some sort of bitch-fest power struggle on this trip.
‘Anette. Be nice, okay?’
‘I’m always nice,’ she says breezily. This is such a blatant lie that we both burst out laughing. Anette did not become a successful lawyer by always being nice. She’s referred to as ‘the shark’ or ‘the rambunctious redhead’, both of which Anette considers huge compliments. ‘So. What makes her so special?’
‘Oh, well, I’m not sure she’s that special. She’s just really nice.’
‘Must be, considering the amount of time you’ve spent with her recently.’
‘Anette. Stop being so jealous. It was actually Andreas who suggested that I invite her.’
‘Ah. I see. So this is basically a strategy invite.’
‘No. No, Anette, actually not at all.’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t hurt to do what Andreas suggests, though, right?’ Anette keeps her voice breezy, but there is a clear tone of malice beneath it.
‘That’s not fair. I wouldn’t have invited her unless I really wanted to.’
‘And why is that?’
