An hour later the door opened and Faye felt anticipation fluttering in her stomach. She called out to Jack and he looked into the kitchen. Faye stood up and walked toward him. Soon that little worry line between his eyes would be gone.

“I’ve got some wonderful news to tell you, darling,” she said. “Come and sit down.”

Jack sighed. “I’m tired, can’t it wait until . . .”

“No, come along.”

Faye couldn’t wait.

Jack raised his eyebrows but sat down at the kitchen table. She knew he’d be happy when she told him, and ignored the harassed look on his face.

“What?” he said.

Faye smiled at him.

“I’m pregnant, darling. We’re going to have another child.”

His expression didn’t change.

“It could be a boy,” she said. “You’ve always wanted to have a son as well.”

Faye stroked her stomach and smiled again. He had always loved her smile, said it was infectious. But now he just rubbed his face wearily with his hand.

“What is it?” Faye said.

The lump in her throat was back.

“Now isn’t a good time, Faye. I don’t want another child.”

“What do you mean?”

What was it with him? Why wasn’t he happy?

“I just think that Julienne is enough.”

“But . . .”

Her voice was barely audible. She didn’t recognize the look in Jack’s eyes.

“It’s not appropriate. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to . . . well, you know . . .”

Faye shook her head.

“You want . . . you want me to have an abortion?”

Jack nodded. “Yes, I know it’s a nuisance, but it simply isn’t appropriate.”

She wanted to throw herself at him. Shake him. But she knew it was her fault. She had caught him by surprise, she needed to let it sink in.

Jack stood up.

“Okay?” he said.

Faye swallowed the lump. He fought so hard for her and Julienne. Did she really have any right to demand more?

“Yes, I understand,” she said.

Jack’s face softened. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

“I’m going to bed,” he said.

On the way to the bedroom he stopped and turned.

“I’ll call my doctor tomorrow so we can get it done as soon as possible.”

The bedroom door closed and Faye leaped to her feet. She hurried into the bathroom and yanked the toilet lid up. The spaghetti and meat sauce came back up, the taste of tomatoes mingling with the bitter taste of bile. She flushed it away, then rested her head on the cold porcelain and let the tears come.

STOCKHOLM/BARCELONA, SEPTEMBER 2001

I HAD BEEN SLEEPING like a log for more than twenty-four hours when I was woken by the shrill sound of the phone. It was Axel. When I heard his broken voice tell me what had happened, that Viktor had died in a fire started by a cigarette in bed, the tears came. I sobbed so hard that my whole body shook.

I had been forced to do what I had done, there hadn’t been any choice, but the price was high. The price was always high.

After the call I lay in bed with my knees pulled up to my chest. I concentrated on breathing. In, out.

Viktor’s words were still ringing in my ears. I know who you are. The question is, does he know . . . Viktor would never have been able to keep quiet. If he had lived, Faye would have had to die.

—

A few days later large raindrops started to fall outside the window. It was liberating. The rain washed away the stifling heat that had been draped over Stockholm like a blanket of humidity.

Chris had gone away. Her parents had invited them to their apartment in Majorca and I was on my own in Stockholm again. When I sent her a short text to tell her about Viktor she offered to come home, but I assured her I was okay.

I buried myself in microeconomics, macroeconomics, statistics and financial analysis. College was the only thing that mattered. Succeeding, being the best. It was all down to me, no one else could do the work for me. And I had made up my mind. I was going to create a whole new life for myself. Run a business, travel business class, earn more money than I needed, have a handsome husband (Jack), nice, well-behaved children; I’d own houses and apartments in interesting places I’d read about and seen in films. I wanted it all. I was going to have it all.

My phone, charging beside the bed, rang. Probably Chris, calling to update me on her exploits in Spain. I lay on the bed and checked the screen before I pressed answer. It was a number my phone didn’t recognize.

“Yes, hello?”

“Hi!”

“Who is this?” I said, although I recognized the voice at once.

“It’s Jack. Jack Adelheim.”

I closed my eyes. Didn’t want to sound too keen.

“Oh, hi . . .” I said hesitantly.

“Am I disturbing you?”

He sounded excited. Happy. I could hear music in the background.

“Not at all. What’s on your mind?”

I was making an effort to sound nonchalant, and rolled onto my back.

“I was thinking of asking if you’d like to go somewhere. Tonight. I need to get away from Henrik.”

“Sure. Which bar do you want to meet at?”

“Bar? No, I mean go away somewhere.”

I laughed. He was crazy.

“Go away somewhere?”

“Yes, for a couple of days. We’ll be back on Sunday. Pack a few clothes and meet me at Central Station, and we’ll go to Barcelona.”

“Okay.” I realized I was holding my breath.

“You want to come?” he said in surprise.

“Yes.”

“See you in thirty minutes, then.”

I hung up without fully understanding what I had agreed to. Then I leaped out of bed and started to pack.

—

We were drunk by the time we landed. We’d started to drink at Arlanda, and continued with cocktails the whole way across Europe. We had to wait a while in the line for a taxi but got one eventually. I was giggly and a bit unsteady on my feet, and very conscious of the blood rushing through every vein, every capillary in my body.

“Hotel Catalonia, por favor,” Jack said once we were in the back seat. “Está en el Born, lo conoce usted?”

The car started with a jerk and I felt Jack’s hand on my thigh, burning my skin.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Jack said with a wink.

He moved his hand farther up my thigh and all my blood rushed to my crotch.

“What sort of hotel is it?”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

I smiled and turned my head away. How could I ever be disappointed in Jack?

The dark September night was hot and humid. People in summer attire strolled the streets in search of somewhere cool, dinner, company. I wound the window down and enjoyed the air on my face. I needed to cool off.

I had never been farther from Sweden than Denmark, where I had once been on a motoring holiday with my family. A holiday that had been abruptly cut short. But I didn’t want to think about that now. I let the wind in my face blow away all the memories and told myself that I could replace them with new ones. Every cell in our body gets renewed, replaced. The same ought to be true of memories.

“I love this city. You’ll see, it’s easier to breathe here,” Jack said, closing his eyes.

His long, dark eyelashes looked like little fans against his cheeks.

“You’ve been here before?”

He opened his eyes and looked at me, the glimmer of the streetlights and neon signs reflected in their deep blue.

“Twice.”

I wanted to ask if those had been the same sort of trip. If he had sat in other taxis, with unspoken promises and hands on other women’s thighs. Perhaps this was Jack Adelheim’s standard maneuver? Maybe he was following his usual seduction tactics? But it didn’t matter. Three days in this city together with Jack was far too tempting a prospect for me to waste it on pointless jealousy and unnecessary thinking. I was here now. With Jack’s hand on my thigh.

We turned off onto one of the avenues, stopped at a red light, then drove into a very picturesque part of the city. The alleys grew narrower. Cobblestones kissed the rubber tires. We waited for an oncoming car to pass. My armpits were sweaty, but I closed my eyes and let myself be seduced by the sounds. Laughter, the clatter of cutlery, intense conversation, music. Bars everywhere, restaurants, cafés. The sweet smell of hash.

I wanted to take Jack’s hand, squeeze it, look into his eyes, and tell him how wonderful he was, how happy I was to be here. But I had made up my mind not to take the initiative. Not to force anything.

“Here it is,” Jack said.

A white facade, glass doors. Above them a sign with the hotel’s name in large letters, HOTEL CATALONIA BORN. A young porter hurried over, skirted around the car, and opened the door for me.

“Gracias,” I said, and smiled. I already missed the heat of Jack’s hand as I got out of the car.

“You’re a fast learner,” Jack called as he paid the driver.

The porter took our bags, we walked in, and Jack started to speak to the receptionist in his rough Spanish. He switched to English when the communication gap grew too big. We filled in some forms and handed over our passports. A photocopier rumbled, then we got them back.

“All sorted,” Jack said.