‘It’s still a couple of months until Easter. A lot can happen before that.’
‘Yes, I can always hope that Lucas has a heart attack or something. No, pardon me, I didn’t say that. It’s just that it makes me so mad!’ She closed the oven door a bit too hard.
‘Oi, be kind to the appliances.’
‘I’m probably just going to have to get used to the fact and start planning what to do with all the money I make from the sale. Although I have to admit, I always thought I’d feel happier if I became a millionaire.’
‘You don’t have to worry about becoming a millionaire. With the taxes in this country, you’ll probably have to spend the majority of your profit on financing terrible schools and ever worse health care. Not to mention the incredibly, fantastically, totally underpaid police force. We’ll probably eat into a good share of your fortune, you’ll see.’
She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Well, that would be wonderful. Then I won’t have to worry about whether to buy a mink or a blue fox coat. Patrik, believe it or not, the appetizer is ready now.’
She took a plate in each hand and led Patrik into the dining room. She had pondered whether they should sit in the kitchen or in the dining room, and she finally decided on the dining room with its lovely wooden drop-leaf table, which looked even lovelier by candlelight. And she hadn’t skimped on the candles. Nothing was more flattering to a woman’s appearance than candles, she’d read somewhere.
The table was set with silverware and linen serviettes, as well as Rörstrand plates for the entree. It was her mother’s finest, the white Rörstrand china with the blue trim. She remembered how careful her mother had always been with those plates. They were only taken out on very special occasions. Which did not include the children’s birthdays or anything else that had to do with them, Erica thought bitterly. The ordinary china at the kitchen table was good enough for them. But when the pastor and his wife, or the vicar, or the deacon came to dinner, then there was no end to all the fuss. Erica forced herself back to the present and set the appetizer plates across from each other on the table.
‘It looks delicious.’ Patrik sliced off a piece of potato pancake, added a healthy dollop of onions, crème fraiche and caviar on his fork, and managed to lift it halfway to his mouth before he noticed that Erica was sitting there with her wine glass raised along with one eyebrow. Shamefaced, he put down the fork and switched to his wine glass.
‘Skål and welcome.’
‘Skål.’
Erica smiled at his faux pas. It was refreshing in comparison with the men she’d dated in Stockholm, who were all so well brought up and knowledgeable about etiquette that they could have been clones. Compared to them Patrik felt like the real deal, and as far as she was concerned he could eat with his fingers if he wanted to; it wouldn’t bother her. Besides, he looked terribly cute when he blushed.
‘I had an unexpected visitor today.’
‘Oh? Who was that?’
‘Julia.’
Patrik gave Erica a surprised look. She was pleased to see that he seemed to have a hard time tearing himself away from the food.
‘I had no idea you knew each other,’ he said.
‘We don’t, really. Alex’s funeral was actually the first time we met. But this morning she was standing at my door.’
‘What did she want?’
Patrik scraped his plate clean so eagerly that it looked like he was trying to scrape the colour off the porcelain.
‘She asked me to show her pictures from when Alex and I were kids. The family apparently don’t have many photographs, according to Julia, and she took a chance that I might have more. Which I do. Then she asked me a lot of questions about when we were kids and things like that. The people I’ve talked to said that the sisters weren’t very close, which is not so odd considering the age difference, and now she wants to find out more about Alex. Get to know her. Anyway, that’s the impression I got. Have you met Julia, by the way?’
‘No, I haven’t yet. But from what I heard they aren’t, or weren’t, very similar,’ said Patrik.
‘No, God no. They’re more like complete opposites, at least in appearance. They seem to be both introverts, even though Julia has a sullenness that I don’t think Alex had. Alex seemed more, how should I put it … indifferent, based on what I heard from the people I talked to. If anything, Julia seems angry. Or maybe even furious. I get the impression that there’s rage bubbling and fizzing just below the surface. Rather volcanic. A dormant volcano. Does that sound stupid?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I imagine that as an author you have to have a feeling for people. A knowledge of human nature.’
‘Oh, don’t call me an author. I don’t think I’ve earned that title yet.’
‘Four books published and you don’t consider yourself an author?’
Patrik looked downright uncomprehending and Erica tried to explain what she meant.
‘Well, four biographies, working on the fifth. I don’t mean to denigrate it, but for me an author is someone who writes something from her own heart and her own brain, and doesn’t just describe someone else’s life. The day I write something that comes from me, then I can call myself an author.’
She was suddenly struck by the fact that this wasn’t the whole truth. Looked at superficially, according to that definition there was no difference between the biographies she’d written about historical personalities and the book that she was writing about Alex. It was also about another person’s life. And yet somehow it was different. First, Alex’s life had run at a tangent to her own in a quite obvious way, and second, she could express some of her own views in this book. Within the framework of actual events she could even steer the book’s soul. But she couldn’t explain that to Patrik. Nobody could know that she was writing a book about Alex.
‘So Julia came here and asked a bunch of questions about Alex. Did you have a chance to ask her about Nelly Lorentz?’
Erica waged an intense battle with herself and finally decided that she couldn’t in good conscience withhold this information from Patrik. Maybe he’d be able to draw conclusions from it that she couldn’t. It was the one small but vital piece of the puzzle she had chosen not to reveal when she went to dinner at his place. But since she hadn’t got much further with it, she saw no reason to keep quiet any longer. But first she had to serve the entree.
She bent over to take his plate, making sure to lean forward a bit more than usual. She intended to make the most of the trump cards she had. Judging by Patrik’s face she had just shown herself to be holding three aces. So far her Wonderbra had proved to be worth the 500 kronor she had invested. Even though it had left a sizeable dent in her pocketbook.
‘Let me get that.’ Patrik took the plates from her and followed her into the kitchen. She drained the water from the potatoes and put him to work mashing them up. She reheated the gravy one last time and tasted it. A splash of port and a generous dollop of butter and it was ready to be served. No light cream in this dish! Then all that was left was to take the baked pork fillet out of the oven and slice it. It looked perfect. Light pink in the middle, but without the red
