Today is the third morning since she’s been back and she wakes feeling even worse than the other two days. Slowly, last night comes back to her in fragments. She and Emil had eaten together in the kitchen – lasagne, still in its aluminium tray, not from one of the chichi delis but from Tesco, and Emil had glanced at it, visibly surprised. Bianka stared back, challenging him to say something, but he didn’t, he merely shoved his fork into the bubbling, cheesy top layer and wrenched it apart. It was slightly burned on top and lukewarm in the middle, but Emil made a point of saying it was delicious, perhaps sensing her downcast mood and fearing an explosion.
‘I’m going to go into the library to Skype Storm,’ Emil said afterwards. He’d been doing this most evenings since they’d been in London, leaving Bianka alone with the housework. She felt a stab of annoyance.
‘I’ll join you,’ she said. She had the feeling something was up and she usually made sure she stayed in the loop. ‘It feels like ages since I’ve seen Storm.’ Emil looked momentarily horrified, then swiftly arranged his features to amenable and bland.
‘Ah. Sure, honey. That’s great,’ he said. ‘Storm will be pleased.’
Bianka could tell Storm was surprised to see Bianka sitting next to his father on the sofa when the screen flickered to life.
‘Oh. Hi. How was Ibiza?’ he asked.
Bianka made the effort to arrange her face into a little smile. ‘Good,’ she said. Though she was slightly tanned and her hair was even lighter, Bianka knew she didn’t look especially well. Even in the little window on the video chat showing her and Emil, she could see she looked gaunt, her complexion sallow, a sprinkle of acne studding her jawline.
Storm appeared to feel emboldened by this meek, quiet Bianka.
‘So,’ he began. ‘I have some pretty exciting news. I’ve been trying to find out more about my mother. To remember her. Dad’s helped me, and Madeleine, too, and I’ve even met my grandparents—’
‘What? Emil—’ Bianka’s voice came out shrill and edged with hysteria.
‘Storm,’ said Emil. ‘Maybe you and I should—’
But Storm doesn’t stop there. ‘Bianka, I was hoping you might help me too. I’m older now and I have some questions about her. I didn’t even know that you guys knew each other, that you were friends.’
Bianka stood up abruptly, making her chair squeak loudly. ‘We agreed a long time ago that we don’t talk about her in this house,’ Bianka said. She stood up and left the room quietly, but upstairs she slammed the bedroom door violently shut, its sound reverberating down the stairwell.
That fucking boy just doesn’t get it, Bianka thinks now, lying in bed and staring up at the uneven plaster of the ceiling. His father, too. They think that she objected to talking about Mia and displaying pictures of her around the house because it might be too hard for Storm, when really, Bianka knew that looking at Mia’s smiling face every day in her own home would break her heart into even smaller pieces.
Bianka sits up in bed, propping a pillow behind her back for support, then checks her phone yet again. She cancels her therapy session scheduled for the next morning by sending Dr Matheson a text message. She has no choice – if she makes herself dial in, meeting Dr Matheson’s earnest, intelligent gaze, Bianka just knows she’ll divulge something of what happened in Ibiza; in this state it might be as though everything she’s ever done is written on her face. It has been hard enough, over the years, not to sit on that couch and tell her the truth. Dr Matheson answers almost immediately.
Bianka, we can reschedule for the same time on Friday. But you know these sessions are mandatory and I have to report it if you miss more than one session. Please confirm.
Best, Dr M
Bianka goes downstairs the next morning, trying to ignore the lurching feeling in her stomach at the thought of having to make conversation with her husband. She can hear him downstairs, rummaging in the kitchen like he always does, looking for stuff, and wonders why he isn’t already at the office. She intently hopes he doesn’t intend to work from home; usually she likes it when he does but today she needs space and quiet. She sets about making herself coffee, fiddling with the fancy new machine Emil insisted on when they moved here. Emil acknowledges her with a nod and a tight smile, and they both stare out at the light rain falling. The warm, serene mornings at Can Xara feel as far away as a dream.
‘So. Ah,’ Emil begins. ‘I just had a call from Storm’s school. They called about some equipment stuff, but it turns out he hasn’t turned up for the training camp all of last week. He forged an email in my name. And now he’s not picking up. He, uh, was pretty upset yesterday when you walked out of that call—’
‘What the hell?’
‘I sent Mia’s parents a message. He’s there, at their house. But God knows what he’s been getting up to all week when we thought he was in Lillehammer.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, he needs to go back to school immediately.’
‘I agree, but at least he’s not bunking off mandatory stuff or endangering his education. The summer camp is voluntary. Besides, he won’t talk to me; he’s not answering messages or picking up the phone. I suppose it could be worse. At least we know where he is.’
‘I’m not sure it could be much worse. Mia’s parents are batshit.’
‘Well, he’s sixteen. I’m not sure it’s that terrible if he spends some time with his grandparents if he feels the need, to be fair.’
‘Clearly I can’t ever go away. You’re unable to control that boy.’
‘Is that the goal, though? To control him?’ Emil sits down at the kitchen table and peers into his coffee as though he might find the answer there.
‘Isn’t it? You and I both know he’d have gone off the rails years ago if I hadn’t understood he needs a firm hand. And look at him now. VM gold, Euros silver, Olympics next.’
‘I’m not talking about his achievements. I’m talking about how he feels. You can’t control that. You have to try to understand him.’
‘I do understand him. What I don’t understand is, the one time I’m away I come back to this bullshit. Why is he suddenly asking about Mia? We both know it will only bring more hurt. You need to shut it down. And, seriously, running away from school and forging his father’s emails? This is bad. But the most interesting thing of all is that he gets away with it.’
‘So what do you suggest I do? Fly to Oslo, turn up at Mia’s parents’ house and take him back up to Lillehammer?’
‘Obviously. It’s called parenting.’
‘Wow. That’s pretty rich, Bianka. Giving me a lecture on parenting. Maybe we should talk about what’s going on with you. You’ve been weird since you got back.’
‘It’s not weird to feel upset about coming home to this level of bullshit.’
‘What level of bullshit, though, Bianka? Embellish?’
‘Last night. Him asking about Mia. The fact that he’s run away.’
‘Look. You seem jittery. You haven’t been sleeping much. Maybe just take some time to look after yourself this week? I imagine Ibiza was pretty full-on.’
‘It was more sedate than I’d thought it would be, actually. But don’t change the subject. Seriously, how dare you insinuate I don’t parent? I’ve raised your son since before he can remember.’
