The Last Fix (3 page)

    'Why?'

    'Because.'

    'Ole,
I never ask you who you ring.'

    'But
I want to know who you're ringing.'

    She
took a deep breath and closed her eyes. 'Why?'

    'I
have a right.'

    Her
eyes narrowed. He hated it when her eyes narrowed, hated the determination that
lay behind her cold, hard blue eyes.

    'Ole.
Don't start. You have to respect my wishes.'

    He
closed his eyes for a second. He didn't want to feel this. But it came. He was
unable to stop: 'Closing the door on me is not right.'

    'What
did you say?'

    'Don't
close the door on me.'

    'I
decide if I want to be alone,' Katrine said in a low snarl. 'And everyone has
to respect that. You, too.'

    'You're
not alone if you're talking to other people.'

    Katrine
dug deep. She stared at the wall as though counting to herself. Then she
groaned and said in a low, imploring voice: 'Ole, don't. I've had enough of
jealous men!'

    'I
want to know who you're ringing. You have no right to be so secretive.'

    Katrine,
cool, almost in a whisper, 'Don't I?'

    Ole
took a sudden step forward. Before he knew what he was doing, he had grabbed
her plait and pulled her into a standing position.

    'Ow,'
she screamed, tottering forwards. She lost her towel; a soft breast fell
against his arm. 'Let me go!' she gasped.

    Just
as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he let go, his innards cold as ice. 'Sorry,'
he stammered and moved to embrace her. But she was juggling with the towel and
shoved him away with tears in her eyes. 'Out,' she said.

    'I'm
so sorry.'

    She
put a hand to her hair. 'You're completely insane.'

    'I
said sorry, didn't I!'

    'And
I'm asking you to go,' she screamed. 'Out. I have to make a call.'

    Stupefied,
Ole backed into the sitting room. 'You have no right to keep secrets from me,'
he mumbled. 'You have no fucking right!'

    'Out!'
Katrine hissed. And slammed the door again.

    Ole
sat staring at the outline of her body through the wavy glass. Watching her
pull herself together, get up and stand in front of the mirror with her back to
him. She paced to and fro. He followed the silhouette of her body as she sat
down beside the telephone and took the receiver. He saw how her body language
changed, how she flicked her hair and brushed it with long, casual strokes. Her
voice was low and tender, a voice talking to another person, a voice
articulating words he could not distinguish. He could hear her laughter,
though. In the pit of his stomach, the embers of jealousy smouldered. He wanted
to know who she was calling. She couldn't bloody do this. She would soon
fucking see what happened if she went on like this.

    The
crowd cheered. Ole Eidesen watched the slow-motion replay. Frode Olsen,
horizontal in the air, got three finger tips to the ball and pushed it over the
bar. A blue Molde player clenched both fists in a demonstration to the
spectators of how disappointed he was. Ole wasn't interested. He couldn't get
his mind off Katrine, who had now cradled the receiver and was about to call
another number. In his heart he was cold. She was cheating on him. She was
sitting three metres away from him and cheating on him. Before his very eyes.

    Annabeth
and Bjørn had set the table in the large L-shaped room. The table was
L-shaped, too. The longest part of the table had been placed in-the longest
part of the room. There was a neatly written place card on every plate. Katrine
had been given a seat at the rectangle forming the short end of the letter L.
Most of the guests were unknown to her. The only ones Katrine knew were those
from the rehab centre; from where she sat, she could see just Sigrid and
Annabeth. Annabeth's husband, Bjørn Gerhardsen, was opposite her. This
could become tricky, she had thought as for a few brief minutes they stood
facing each other. This could become very tricky. But Ole was there too, in the
chair next to him as it happened. Ole and a plump guy she knew from sight at the
centre; she had no idea what his name was - he may have had some function on
the administrative board. In addition, she had an inkling that he was gay. He
had all the buffoonery and the feminine movements. Between Ole and the gay man
sat a woman in her late twenties. She didn't know her, either, although Ole
seemed quite taken by her; he was indulging in furtive sidelong glances. The
woman for her part was encouraging him by playing coy. That didn't bode well,
thought Katrine, who had been able to study the woman's figure for the brief
moments they had stood before taking a seat - she was not that tall, yet she
had endlessly long, nylon-clad legs. The legs took the focus off other details,
such as lifeless hair with split ends and stubby fingers with nails chewed down
to the stumps. However, the face, despite a few irregular features, bore a deep
sensuality with two sensitive eyes and wonderful, golden skin. The fact that
the chemistry between Ole and the unknown woman seemed to be working so well
led Katrine to examine her own feelings. She wondered whether Ole's undisguised
interest in the other woman ought to have made her feel jealous. The strange
thing was that it did not. All she felt was irritation; she was irritated by
his clumsiness, irritated that he wasn't better at chatting her up. And this
lack of jealousy frightened her. It made her think of her therapy sessions,
what she had gone through with respect to her emotional life and the danger
signals. She speculated on how she should interpret this. In a way the fact
that Ole only irritated her by showing interest in another woman made Bjørn
Gerhardsen loom larger, seem more powerful and dangerous. It became harder to
avoid his gaze. For this reason conversation around the table seemed to be
desperately sluggish. And, worst of all, she felt she was responsible for this
sluggishness. Her irritability was putting a damper on others. The idea was
silly. She knew that, but was still unable to stop herself thinking it. She was
sweating and wished she were anywhere but here. The hushed lethargy was broken
at various junctures by Annabeth standing up at the corner of the L-shaped
table and shouting
'Skеl'.
They were doing a lot of toasting over where
the table joined the second room. Katrine toasted with mineral water and held
her hand over her glass when Bjørn Gerhardsen tried to fill it with red
wine.

    After
the main course the long-legged woman took out a cigarette. Gerhardsen fumbled
in his jacket pockets. Ole didn't notice anything. But the plump gay man was
first out of the blocks and lit her cigarette with a gallant bow.

    'I
won,' he grinned at Bjørn Gerhardsen.

    Everyone
laughed. The childish outburst relaxed the atmosphere. Even Katrine laughed.
The laughter was liberating.

    Annabeth
squealed from the corner with a raised glass. 'Skеl, Georg!'

    'Goggen,'
shouted the gay man. 'Everyone calls me Goggen…To the young woman with the long
legs he said: 'Did you see the new guy on TV on Saturday night? Do you remember
the joke he told about the psychologist?'

    The
long-legged woman was already laughing. Cigarette smoke got caught in her
throat and she started coughing. Ole was staring down the gap between her
pitching breasts.

    I
don't belong here, thought Katrine.

    'So
the patient said:
I'm not the one.
…' Goggen sat up in his chair, puffed
out his cheeks and put on a stupid face. Katrine realized this was meant to be
an imitation. Goggen, in a lumberjack voice:'… he said to the psychologist.
You're the one who's obsessed about sex. After all, you're the one doing the
asking.'

    The
woman with the long legs screamed with laughter. Ole did, too. But Katrine felt
icy tremors run up her spine because a foot was stroking hers under the table.
It couldn't be Ole's. She didn't dare to look up. Don't let it be Bjørn's,
she thought. Bjørn could not be so revolting. There was no one else it
could be, though. It had to be Bjørn Gerhardsen. She shivered and
flushed; she was sweating. The foot caressed her leg higher up. Up and down, up
and down, slowly.

    Katrine
closed her eyes and kicked the foot away. And then there he was. The moment she
opened her eyes he was there, Bjørn Gerhardsen, with a gentle,
provocative smile.

    She
felt someone's gaze burning on her cheek and twisted her head. It was Annabeth.
There was no mistaking where Annabeth was looking. For some reason Annabeth
must have guessed something. The knot Katrine felt in her stomach went ice
cold. Annabeth knows, she thought. The bloody bitch. She knows. And Bjørn
knows she knows. So he must have told her. She turned her head and focused on
Annabeth's husband again. He smiled; he had been following her eyes and now he
winked at her without the slightest attempt at concealment. Who noticed
anything? Annabeth, of course, and Goggen. The fat homosexual scented the
magnetism in the air like a deer scents watchful eyes in the gloaming. Georg
studied her with renewed interest. And Gerhardsen kept smiling. She lowered her
eyes and, at the same time, despised herself for having lost the battle. She
stared down at the table cloth and felt the perspiration trickling down her
neck.

    'It's
so smoky in here,' she exclaimed. 'I could do with a bit of air.' So saying,
she got up and stumbled towards the veranda. A woman's hand opened the door for
her. As she staggered on to the terrace she heard the company at the table
breaking up. Annabeth's voice boomed: 'Coffee with liqueurs in the lounge!
Please help yourselves! I have just put it out, and I don't have the energy to
serve you… self-service!' The voice cracked on the last word.

    Katrine
breathed in the fresh air. It was a grey June evening and she leaned against
the terrace railing. She looked down at an illuminated swimming pool.
You
could dive in from here,
she thought. The blue, luminous water formed the
centrepiece of what looked like a tiled courtyard. And beyond the tiles grew a
few fruit trees.

    She
could make out a lit street lamp between the trees; it cast an orange light on
the pavement outside the fence. She let her eyes wander further afield and
noticed that the view of Oslo was blocked by a large canopy of trees in the
distance.

    She
knew he was there before he spoke. Knowing he was standing behind her caused
perspiration to break out again.

    'Is
this where you are?' the smooth voice whispered.

    The
sound of his heels on the slate tiles was repugnant. She didn't turn. She
didn't answer.

    His
reflection appeared in the pool below. 'Cognac?' he asked, putting a glass down
on the broad balustrade. A square reflection of the light yellow veranda door
formed on the glass containing the brown liquid. His fingers were rough, the
skin around his wedding ring seemed swollen. His wristwatch was a bluish watch
face inside a thick metal chain; it was naff, something that would not look out
of place in a James Bond film.

    'No,
thank you,' she said. 'Have you seen Ole?'

    'Do
you like our garden?' Gerhardsen asked as though he had not heard the question.
She observed her own reflection in the blue water beneath her. And she observed
Gerhardsen's. Naff man in naff clothes beside a blonde wearing make-up. Shit,
it was just like a James Bond film. 'Big garden,' she said politely. 'Must need
a lot of work.'

    He
was leaning back against the balustrade sipping from his glass. 'Couldn't you
come and help us from time to time?' he said with a smile. 'You're so good with
your hands, aren't you?'

    She
stiffened. His smile was macho, self-assured.

    But
that didn't matter. These looks, these blatant advances were familiar territory
to her. I can overcome this, she thought; she concentrated, looked him in the
eye without any emotion and felt her nerves relax.

    'You
have a good memory,' she said, regretting the words at once, they could have
been easily misunderstood. It was like giving him rope which, of course, he
grabbed greedily.

    'You,
too,' he said.

    The
silence was transfixing. The sound of laughter and the usual drunken revelry
carried from inside the house.

    'If
you want, I can show you round the garden now,' he said with a crooked smile.