I drive fast south toward Wimbledon but then I remember that Andreas is working from home today. I pull over in a miraculously available parking spot alongside Clapham Common and sit a long while, just trying to manage my breath, staring out the window absentmindedly at dog walkers and runners sluicing in and out of the park. And there she is again – Bianka – walking full speed toward me, this time pushing a baby in a stroller, her unruly curls rising and falling as she powers in my direction, but of course, it isn’t her at all. Is this what it’s like to go crazy? I watch my hands resting on the steering wheel. They are slim, brown, and laden with big diamonds on three fingers. These hands have killed someone. I begin to cry.
Tears pour down my face, and again I feel like someone else, someone certifiably insane, who has no control over themselves and their emotions. I stay in the car for a long while, over an hour. Then it begins to rain heavily and the common empties as people take cover in the many cafés lining the street running alongside it. I leave the car and cross the first wide stretch of grass and sit down on an empty bench, letting the rainwater rush across my face, taking the heavy TV makeup and my tears with it.
It’s early afternoon by the time I let myself back into the house, drenched to the bone. I head straight up to bed and am surprised to find Andreas standing there in the bedroom, bare-chested and about to put on a fresh light-blue shirt.
‘Charlotte. You’re back early… Jeez, what’s happened to you? You look terrible.’
I shoot him a glance and wrench my clothes off, kicking them in a soggy pile into the corner. Andreas raises an eyebrow. I never do this kind of thing, being as controlled as I am.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, burying myself beneath the comforter.
‘I have to head into the City for a few hours. I need some files for a meeting tomorrow morning.’
I stay in bed, with a neat vodka in a water glass for company. In the mirror opposite the bed, the woman looking back at me is glassy, cold, frightening, unfamiliar. At one point, when I head downstairs for a refill, I meet Oscar in the hallway, carrying a lacrosse stick, sweat plastering his dark hair to his skull, and he looks at me strangely when I say ‘Hi, honey.’
I return to the bedroom, drawing the summer duvet up to my chin. Then I compulsively google Maxime Dubois-Joseph, and see that a couple of new articles have appeared on French sites. I run them through Google Translate and learn more about the man I’ve murdered. He loves dolphins, says his girlfriend of four years, a chic Parisian brunette with full lips and kohl-rimmed almond-shaped eyes named Elodie. He’d never go off without telling me where he’d gone, she continues. Elodie likely believes her boyfriend would never indulge in cocaine-fuelled threesomes, either. Maxime’s father, Louis Dubois-Joseph, is now offering two million euros for information, whether he’s found dead or alive. My wife can’t stop crying, he says.
Heir feared dead, says Paris Match, and link to Sicilian mafia discovered.
*
When I wake again, it’s morning and in spite of a slight headache from the vodka, I feel better. I cringe at the thought of yesterday’s train wreck behaviour; to think that I imagined seeing Bianka so many times – it was frightening. But now, I feel truly rejuvenated. Sometimes all we need is a good night’s sleep and a chance to recover. I go down into the kitchen and my stomach sinks at the realization that I’ve gone downstairs too early – it’s not yet seven and my husband and son are there, shuffling around and making breakfast.
‘Oh, hi, Sleeping Beauty,’ says Andreas, winking at me. ‘Are we still having the Langelands over for dinner on Saturday?’ he asks. ‘Do you remember we said we’d do a lobster party? It’s been in my calendar for over a month.’
‘Oh, no,’ I whisper. ‘Definitely not. Cancel it.’
‘How come?’
‘I just can’t right now. I’m really behind with work.’
‘Ok, well, would you mind cancelling it? Crazy day today, with people flying in from Houston and Singapore and all kinds of places.’
‘Fine.’ I fiddle with the coffee machine for several long moments before continuing. How best to phrase what I’m about to say? ‘Look. About them,’ I begin, trying to find the best words to make myself clear but with a degree of discretion. Emil is, after all, Andreas’s boss. My husband and son watch me carefully as I continue, and I can feel Ayla’s eyes on me, too, from over by the window, where she’s sitting and folding linen serviettes. ‘They’re lovely people. Marvellous. And yet, I think we might take just a tiny step back. On a social level, if you see what I mean.’
‘How come?’ asks Oscar.
‘Yes, why is that?’ asks Andreas, looking at me.
‘I think that maybe Bianka is quite a complicated person. It might be good to maintain a degree of distance from her, if that makes sense. In fact, I’m pretty sure she has… depression.’
‘I don’t think Madeleine’s going to distance herself from Storm anytime soon,’ says Oscar, barely glancing up from his phone.
‘Oh? What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Uh, he’s her boyfriend. Duh.’
‘What? No, of course he isn’t. They’ve only met once.’
‘No, Mum. It’s not like something isn’t happening just because you don’t know about it. In fact, I’d bet they’re together right at this moment, all snuggled up.’
‘Oscar,’ says Andreas, in warning, but I can tell from the look on his face that we are both having the same terrible realization at the same time, that neither of us have had any idea what’s going on while Madeleine has been in Oslo. Oscar is tapping into his phone and then triumphantly turns it around to show us the screen.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘Here she is on SnapMaps. That’s her avatar and this is Storm’s. Both in the same location in Slemdal. Isn’t that where they lived in Oslo?’
‘Oscar, you’re being ridiculous. Madeleine is at Uncle Fredrik’s house. It’s seven in the morning, for God’s sake,’ I say, but even as I speak I realize it’s wishful thinking.
‘My point exactly. He’s her boyfriend and they’ve had a nice little sleepover,’ Oscar says, laughing. I have to turn away but meet Andreas’s horrified gaze as I do. The last thing I need is for my daughter to be dating Bianka’s stepson.
‘Oscar, you can stay out of this. I’m calling my brother,’ says Andreas.
‘I forbid her to see that boy!’ I shout.
‘You forbid her? Lol.’ Oscar laughs incredulously. ‘Seriously, what the hell is going on?’
‘I’m concerned for Bianka. I’m finding ways to be there for her. In the meantime, I worry that Storm is being exposed to all kinds of things at home and, for that reason, I feel it would be healthier for your sister to spend less time with him.’
‘Wait. So you’re saying that Storm is going through a hard time at home, and for that reason you forbid his girlfriend to spend time with him?’
I open my mouth to answer, but even I can tell how unreasonable it sounds. Andreas is staring at me, one eyebrow elevated. Andreas and I work well together as parents usually – we don’t challenge each other’s decisions or authority in front of the kids but I can tell he is naturally interested in how I am going to weasel my way out of this one.
‘I thought you were best friends,’ says Oscar.
‘Oh. Oh, no. We’re very new friends, Oscar. She’s a lovely person but Anette is my best friend.’
‘But you’re friends.’
‘Yes, of course.’
