me you were describing,’ she said, astonished. ‘I was a terrible person to be married to.’ And the moment she’d said the words, she knew they were true. ‘I never even told him that I knew he’d been unfaithful. I just took my revenge, over several months, without explaining why. He didn’t realize a thing, obviously.’
The waiter asked if they’d like anything else, and Jimmy Halenius consulted his watch. ‘Shall we move on somewhere else and have a few drinks?’ he asked.
Suddenly Annika remembered the flight to Málaga the next morning. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, glancing at her own watch. ‘I haven’t even packed yet!’
‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘I have to be at Arlanda at half past four.’
‘Then there’s no point even thinking about going to bed,’ he said cheerily.
‘I disagree,’ she said, and fumbled for her bag.
Halenius called for the bill and paid in cash. He asked the waiter to summon a taxi, then helped her on with her jacket.
Outside it had started to snow, hard little flakes of ice swirling through the air and hitting her face like needles. The sign over the door creaked in the wind. A group of young men, with slicked-back hair, wearing English oilskin coats were marching down the middle of the street, waving wine bottles and mobile phones.
A taxi glided towards her. Jimmy Halenius stepped out into the road and the restaurant door closed behind him. He wasn’t particularly tall, maybe ten centimetres taller than her. ‘Where are you flying to?’ he asked.
‘Málaga,’ she said, as the taxi got closer.
‘Ah, España,’ he said. ‘
Entonces, vamos a salutar como los españoles!
’ He took hold of her shoulders, pulled her towards him, air-kissed her left cheek, then the right. ‘The Spaniards kiss twice,’ he said, his lips close to her ear. ‘It’s worth remembering when you’re there.’ He let go of her and smiled, his eyes narrowed to slits.
A taxi pulled up alongside them and stopped. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, and opened the door for her.
Annika got in without thinking and let him close it behind her. She saw him turn away and walk off towards Järntorget, turn up his collar against the wind and disappear round the corner.
‘Where to?’ the driver asked.
And only then did she realize that she knew no more about the Kitten than she had when she’d arrived.
Tuesday, 4 January
4
The light was so bright that she had to close her eyes. She stood there swaying on the steps of the plane for several seconds before she could open them enough to make her way to the ground. Her knees and back ached. The low-cost airlines weren’t joking when they said you got what you’d paid for. The local buses in Stockholm were a Utopia of personal space compared to the sardine tin that had flown her to Málaga.
It was warm, almost twenty degrees. A smell of aviation fuel and burned rubber hovered over the cement apron. She was shepherded onto a huge bus that swallowed all the passengers, and realized it had been a mistake to wear her padded jacket. She tried to wriggle out of it. Impossible. Instead she sweated and suffered as the bus jolted its way along the endless terminal building towards the entrance.
The entire airport seemed to be a huge building site.
The deafening sound of cement-mixers and earth-movers reached all the way into the baggage hall. There were lots of different conveyor-belts, close together, and they rattled and creaked as they transported suitcases and sports equipment in an endless torrent.
‘Do you know where I can hire a car?’ she asked an elderly man. He had a large stomach and a vast golf-bag.
He gestured towards Customs, then to the right.
She squashed her jacket into her bag and went with the flow.
On the floor below the baggage hall, another equally large hall stretched out, full of car-hire companies. She walked hesitantly along the counters. All the usual names were there, Hertz and Avis, as well as some cheaper
The waiter asked if they’d like anything else, and Jimmy Halenius consulted his watch. ‘Shall we move on somewhere else and have a few drinks?’ he asked.
Suddenly Annika remembered the flight to Málaga the next morning. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, glancing at her own watch. ‘I haven’t even packed yet!’
‘Are you going somewhere?’
‘I have to be at Arlanda at half past four.’
‘Then there’s no point even thinking about going to bed,’ he said cheerily.
‘I disagree,’ she said, and fumbled for her bag.
Halenius called for the bill and paid in cash. He asked the waiter to summon a taxi, then helped her on with her jacket.
Outside it had started to snow, hard little flakes of ice swirling through the air and hitting her face like needles. The sign over the door creaked in the wind. A group of young men, with slicked-back hair, wearing English oilskin coats were marching down the middle of the street, waving wine bottles and mobile phones.
A taxi glided towards her. Jimmy Halenius stepped out into the road and the restaurant door closed behind him. He wasn’t particularly tall, maybe ten centimetres taller than her. ‘Where are you flying to?’ he asked.
‘Málaga,’ she said, as the taxi got closer.
‘Ah, España,’ he said. ‘
Entonces, vamos a salutar como los españoles!
’ He took hold of her shoulders, pulled her towards him, air-kissed her left cheek, then the right. ‘The Spaniards kiss twice,’ he said, his lips close to her ear. ‘It’s worth remembering when you’re there.’ He let go of her and smiled, his eyes narrowed to slits.
A taxi pulled up alongside them and stopped. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, and opened the door for her.
Annika got in without thinking and let him close it behind her. She saw him turn away and walk off towards Järntorget, turn up his collar against the wind and disappear round the corner.
‘Where to?’ the driver asked.
And only then did she realize that she knew no more about the Kitten than she had when she’d arrived.
Tuesday, 4 January
4
The light was so bright that she had to close her eyes. She stood there swaying on the steps of the plane for several seconds before she could open them enough to make her way to the ground. Her knees and back ached. The low-cost airlines weren’t joking when they said you got what you’d paid for. The local buses in Stockholm were a Utopia of personal space compared to the sardine tin that had flown her to Málaga.
It was warm, almost twenty degrees. A smell of aviation fuel and burned rubber hovered over the cement apron. She was shepherded onto a huge bus that swallowed all the passengers, and realized it had been a mistake to wear her padded jacket. She tried to wriggle out of it. Impossible. Instead she sweated and suffered as the bus jolted its way along the endless terminal building towards the entrance.
The entire airport seemed to be a huge building site.
The deafening sound of cement-mixers and earth-movers reached all the way into the baggage hall. There were lots of different conveyor-belts, close together, and they rattled and creaked as they transported suitcases and sports equipment in an endless torrent.
‘Do you know where I can hire a car?’ she asked an elderly man. He had a large stomach and a vast golf-bag.
He gestured towards Customs, then to the right.
She squashed her jacket into her bag and went with the flow.
On the floor below the baggage hall, another equally large hall stretched out, full of car-hire companies. She walked hesitantly along the counters. All the usual names were there, Hertz and Avis, as well as some cheaper
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