‘Us? There is no us. And nothing happened. It was a party that got way, way out of hand.’
‘Charlotte. Look. I realize that was a bit… extreme. But we had fun, didn’t we? Is that really so bad?’
‘A little too much fun, frankly.’
‘Why do I feel as though you’re blaming me?’
‘I don’t actually know that much about you or how you choose to live your life, Bianka. But I can tell you, this really isn’t my vibe. And I’m feeling as though I’ve made a couple of really stupid and out-of-character judgment calls this past week and it’s time to get real again and cut the crap.’
‘What do you mean, get real again? I feel that what you and I have is more real than anything else in my life, and—’
‘I’m sorry to be blunt but I need to be very clear here. Me and you is not real. We’re Ibiza gone wrong. Everything has gotten completely out of hand and I need to do what I usually do at Can Xara, which is relax, think, re-centre myself, and reconnect. Not take drugs and fuck my girlfriends and random men at parties.’
Bianka watches as Charlotte spins around again and walks away from her, with an unparalleled wild fury. The images of Charlotte crashing onto the rocks and dying flash through Bianka’s mind again; the moment her hands make contact with the small of her back, the brief look of surprise, followed by horror on her face, then the freefall through the air. And then – the sickening thud and the burst of blood. Bianka picks up her pace and rushes after Charlotte but by the time she catches up with her, Charlotte is opening the gate at the top of Can Xara’s garden and moving briskly toward the terraces, where Linda and Anette are drinking coffee. When they see Bianka and Charlotte approach, they both sit up straight and place their little gold coffee cups onto the table.
‘Hey, ladies, whoa, slow down. Where are you going in such a hurry? I think it’s only fair to spill all the dirty details,’ says Anette, laughing loudly, and when she bares her teeth she looks like a bloodthirsty animal pressing its prey into a corner. Charlotte looks stricken and shakes her head before storming into the house, her bare feet slapping loudly on the marble as she rushes upstairs.
‘I wish there were some dirty details to spill but sadly not,’ says Bianka, placing her sunglasses on top of her head and meeting Anette’s green eyes square on, taking care to appear as calm and composed as ever. ‘We grabbed another bottle of wine from the restaurant and drank it on the beach. Next thing we knew, the sun was high in the sky and we were sleeping on the sand like a couple of old drunken bohemians.’ Bianka makes herself chuckle a little, but both Anette and Linda just look at her, perhaps trying, and failing, to picture or believe the scenario she just described. Then Bianka rushes inside, charging up the stairs in pursuit of Charlotte. The door to the master bedroom is locked and Bianka can hear the insulated and distant sound of water running somewhere within. She knocks, again and again, but there is no response, only the sound of rushing water.
*
Back in her room across the hallway, Bianka paces around and around, as though the wild fury she feels inside is actually chasing her through the room. After a while she stops, her eyes scanning the sparse, white space for something she can hurl to the ground to release her furious energy. She settles on a white-and-gold Jonathan Adler vase placed on the little table by the balcony doors, and rips the white lilies from its narrow mouth before placing the vase into a plastic bag she brought for dirty laundry. She goes through to the ensuite bathroom and turns on all the taps and the rainforest shower and when she feels certain nothing can be heard by Anette and Linda outside on the terraces or through the thick stone walls in the master bedroom, Bianka brings the bag with the vase inside down onto the marble floor with all her force, again and again. When she finally stops and peers inside the bag, the vase is not only broken but pulverized.
Bianka feels tears press into her eyes, but she successfully forces them away. She never cries, not ever, and she most certainly won’t cry over Charlotte; self-absorbed, insecure, neurotic Charlotte, who seems to be under the very wrongful impression that she can control everything, Bianka included.
‘It doesn’t fucking work like that, Charlotte,’ she whispers out loud, her voice drowned out by the gushing water. You might think you control everything, but you’ll never control me. It’s quite the contrary.
Now, it’s time to calm down and recover her position. Bianka knows all the way down to her bones that she will. It’s Bianka’s way or nothing. It always is. She smiles at herself in the mirror, carefully honing her expression until she feels satisfied it’s gentle and soft – the expression of a kind, concerned friend.
Twenty-One
Storm
Storm spends a week at summer training camp, but his head is miles away, his mind filled to the brim with Madeleine. He suddenly understands why athletes are discouraged from dating, and consciously ploughs all of his efforts into the rigid program. He has to if he’s going to bunk off next week when Madeleine’s in town. Every morning, the alarm sounds at six. After a quick breakfast of plain porridge, he and the two other ski guys in his year rush out into the woods bordering the school in Lillehammer’s eastern suburbs, accompanied by their gung-ho trainer Bojan, a one-time Serbian Super G Olympic gold winner.
‘Faster,’ Bojan screams, his deep voice hollering down the hillsides.
After, Storm spends a couple of hours in the gym doing targeted exercises to maximize muscle strength. Then, in the afternoon, he has another session with Bojan, on roller skis on the smooth cycle tracks of the Gudbrandsdal valley. And throughout every gruelling session, Storm Langeland thinks of one thing: the moment his lips touched Madeleine’s, how it had felt inevitable and entirely right.
On the Sunday, he waits until the lull between the afternoon training session and dinner. He has the room to himself – Albert is away at a golf tournament in Canada, and he swiftly packs a little hold-all bag of essentials. He logs onto VY.no and buys a train ticket to Oslo with his own money – he’s always been a saver and has accumulated a nice balance after all the sponsorship deals. His father controls his bank accounts, but Storm has access to the current account under supervision, and he knows Emil will never notice small expenditures like a train ticket. Next, he creates a new email address with his father’s name on Gmail. He composes an email to school, saying Storm won’t be attending next week’s summer training camp, and is authorized to leave campus and travel to Oslo to stay with relatives, signing it off with his father’s name before sending it.
*
Madeleine is waiting for him on the doorstep of his house in Slemdal, wearing jeans and a light-blue velour hoody. His heart begins to race as soon as he sees her and she jumps to her feet and pulls him close in a long kiss.
‘God, it’s good to be back,’ she says, as Storm unlocks the front door and motions for her to step inside. ‘London seriously drives me crazy sometimes. It’s just so crowded.’
‘So your parents just, like, let you come here by yourself every year?’
‘Yeah, to stay with my father’s brother and his wife. They’re pretty chill. They had twins last year so they don’t micromanage me too much at this point. I have to help them out with the kids in the daytime and stuff while I’m here, though, that’s the deal.’
‘Cool.’
‘What did you tell school?’
‘You mean, what did my dad tell school?’ He winks at her and hands her a cold Coke from the fridge and it takes her a moment to clock what he meant.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Clever.’
*
They cook together, a simple pasta dish Madeleine would never be allowed to make at home, and laugh until their stomachs hurt at the thought of the Keto Queen’s expression if she could see her now, wolfing down farfalle, sitting close together with Storm Langeland at his empty family home in Oslo.
‘There’s something I wanted to tell you about,’ Storm says, when they’ve finished eating and settled comfortably on the sofa, scrolling through Disney+ on the hunt for a show neither of them have seen.
‘What?’
‘I… uh, it’s, like, a weird family thing.’
‘Okay. You can talk to me, you know.’
‘Yeah. Uh. I wanted to, I guess.’ It’s the truth – ever since Storm picked the letter up off the doormat when he first arrived back from London, he’s been yearning to speak to Madeleine about it. He senses that she’s wise and trustworthy, the kind of person who’d know what to do about these kinds of things.
‘What is it, Storm? You’re worrying me.’ She places a hand on his wrist and he loves how soft and warm her fingertips feel on his skin. He sticks his other hand in his trouser pocket and retrieves the letter, a little crumpled now from being reread many times. She begins to read it with a neutral expression, but it changes as she nears the end. She reads it again, out loud.
Dear Storm,
We saw your recent interview in VG Sport. We’ve framed it, like all your other ones. Your mother would be so very proud. We’re so proud, too, and hope to meet you again someday. Perhaps you’ve received our letters, and don’t feel ready to see us, but perhaps you haven’t. We’ll never stop writing to you in the hope that we’ll reach you, unless, of course, you want us to stop.
