Faye flinched when she realized what she’d said, but Kerstin merely nodded.

Faye hung her clothes in the wardrobe, vacuumed, made the bed, and lay down on it with her hands behind her head. She needed to find a way to support herself. Quickly. To start with, just to survive. To pay Kerstin her rent, to buy food, things that Julienne might need. But the work had to be flexible enough for her to be able to work on her business plan at the same time. She couldn’t work for someone who was constantly breathing down her neck.

Faye went over to the window. A blond man in his fifties was walking past with a large Rhodesian ridgeback, which seemed to respond to the name Hasse. The dog started, then strained at the leash, leaving the man struggling to keep his balance.

Faye looked on thoughtfully as they passed.

—

Kerstin had made beef patties with potatoes and gravy. There were dishes of lingonberry jam and pickled gherkins laid out on the circular dining table.

“This is lovely,” Faye said.

“Thanks.”

Kerstin served Faye another helping.

On the windowsill there was a photograph of Kerstin as a young woman. Her hair was brown, cut in a bob, and she was wearing a short white dress.

She saw that Faye was looking at it.

“London in the late sixties. I was an au pair for a family there, and was in love with an Englishman, Lord Kensington. They were good times.”

“Why didn’t you stay?”

“Because Lord Kensington’s mother, Lady Ursula, didn’t think it suitable for her only son to live with a Swedish au pair. A few years later he married a society girl called Mary.”

“How sad,” Faye said.

“It is what it is. I’m not complaining.”

“Have you been married?”

“Oh, yes. To Ragnar.”

Kerstin turned her head away. Tugged unconsciously at her collar.

Faye watched her, then looked around the room. She couldn’t see any pictures of Ragnar. Or of Ragnar and Kerstin together.

There was a clink of cutlery as Kerstin put her knife and fork down. She stood up and left the room, then returned with a photograph. She put it down on the table in front of Faye. It showed a bare-chested man in a pair of white shorts sitting on a sun-bed.

“Ragnar,” she said. “Palma, 1981.”

“Nice,” Faye said. “It must be hard to lose someone you’ve lived with for so long. How long has it been since he passed away?”

“Passed away?” Kerstin opened her eyes wide and looked at her uncomprehendingly. “No, no. Ragnar’s alive. The bastard’s in an old people’s home on S?dermalm, slowly rotting away.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He had a stroke three years ago.”

“So you live alone?”

Kerstin nodded.

“Yes. But I’m happy,” she said, popping a potato in her mouth. “It’s nice and quiet. The only thing that disturbs my peace of mind is the fact that he’s still breathing.” She looked at the picture. Then she turned it upside down and said, “Help yourself to another patty. Good food’s a balm to the soul.”

Faye nodded and took the dish from her. It was the first time in ages that food actually tasted of anything.

Faye woke up early the next morning. She was met by the smell of freshly brewed coffee as she went down the creaking stairs.

Kerstin was already up. She was reading Dagens Nyheter, and beside her on the table was a folded copy of Dagens Industri. The photograph of Ragnar that had been on the kitchen table was gone.

“Good morning,” Kerstin said. “Help yourself to coffee.”

It was still dark outside, though spring had started its slow advance. Faye sat down at the table and reached for the copy of Dagens Industri. She read the editorial, then one of the comment pieces. She turned the page and found herself staring straight into Jack’s blue eyes. She started, and briefly considered moving on, but her eyes were automatically drawn to the headline. Fuel. She needed fuel.

ADELHEIM DENIES RUMORS OF INITIAL PUBLIC OFFERING, it read.

Kerstin must have noticed the change in her breathing, because she glanced up from her paper to look at Faye.

“Bad news?” she asked.

“No, it’s nothing. Just someone I used to know.”

In the article Jack said they weren’t planning to put Compare on the stock market. But he confirmed that the company’s head of finance, Ylva Lehndorf, would be leaving the business to work for the music giant Musify instead. Jack said it had been a mutual decision, and wished Ylva well in her career. Not a word about the fact that he was living with her. Presumably the paper knew that, but Dagens Industri was too polite to mix personal gossip with business.

He’s already started to change Ylva, Faye thought. The next step would probably be for her to stop working. Faye wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Should she enjoy the schadenfreude? Or feel sorry for her? In a way it would have been easier if she could have believed that Ylva was simply better than her. Smarter, stronger. But now Ylva had begun to subordinate herself. Which made her seem even more like Jack’s little whore. Bought off by his money and charm.

Faye scanned through the article a second time before moving on. She didn’t yet know what was going to come in useful, she had no clear plan. For the time being she was simply gathering information.

“What are you going to do today?” Kerstin asked.

“I thought I might take a walk. Do you happen to know if there’s anywhere nearby where I could get some leaflets printed?”

“Leaflets?”

“I was thinking of setting up a small business.”

“Oh?”

Kerstin put the newspaper down and looked at Faye.

“Yes, a dog-sitting service. Everyone around here seems to have a dog. I thought I could walk them during the day while I’m figuring out what I’m going to do. To earn a bit of money quickly and easily. Then we’ll just have to see what I do after that. It would buy me a bit of time, though.”

Kerstin looked at her intently. Then she went back to her paper.

“Try the library in Dalen,” she said.

—

Faye printed twenty posters and pinned them up in strategic places around Enskede. She imagined what Alice and her friends would have said if they could see her. To her great joy she realized that she didn’t care. She couldn’t afford a gym membership, and spending her days walking dogs would give her exercise that would help her to lose weight. And at the same time she would earn money, something she desperately needed if she was to make any progress.

Chris would have given her a loan without a moment’s hesitation if she had asked. But Chris had done enough. Faye had to fend for herself now, to prove both to herself and everyone else that she could do it. And for the first time in many years she felt ready to fight. Her past had finally turned out to be an advantage, not just something that woke her in a cold sweat with Sebastian’s image fixed in her mind. She refused to think about her father. She still had that much power over herself.

She quickened her pace, stopped at a lamppost in front of a yellow villa, and pulled out the roll of tape she had bought at ICA.

Two girls of about the same age as Julienne were bouncing on a trampoline in the garden. They were laughing and yelping.

Faye stood and watched them for a while.

How many times would they be betrayed? Have their dreams crushed? Ahead of them lay a long string of beaded insults doled out by men. The experience of being sidelined, judged on their looks, the struggle to fit in, to please everyone—all the things that had humiliated women of all ages, in all countries, over the years.

And then it hit her like a flash of lightning. There was an army out there, waiting to be set loose. Most women—no matter how rich and successful they might be—had been betrayed by a man. Most of them had that one ex, that unfaithful bastard, that liar, deceiver, the one who broke their heart and stamped on it. That male boss who gave the promotion to a male colleague with worse qualifications and less competence. The comments, the wandering hands at the company’s Christmas party. Most women had their own war wounds. One way or another.

But they kept quiet. Gritted their teeth. Responded magnanimously, showing understanding and forgiveness. Comforted the children when he didn’t show up like he promised. Smoothed things over when he made patronizing remarks. Carried on inviting his parents to the children’s birthday parties even though they took his side in the divorce and kept singing the praises of his new partner. Because that’s what women did. They internalized their rage. Turned it against themselves. God forbid they should ever make a fuss or demand justice. Nice girls don’t fight. Nice girls don’t raise their voices. That’s something women were taught from an early age. Women soaked things up, smoothed things over, bore the responsibility for all relationships, swallowed their pride and subordinated themselves until they all but vanished.

Faye was hardly the first woman in the world to be humiliated by her husband, to be treated like an idiot, to be replaced by a younger model.

Enough of that now, she thought. Together we’re strong, and we’re not going to stay silent any longer.