by Rachael Blok
‘Here, let me take her. Where is Ebba?’ Iqbal has reached him and Filip feels Marieke lifted from his arms. From her hairline a trail of blood trickles and he panics. He wants to reach out and take her hand, tell her everything will be OK. It would reassure him, almost more than her.
‘Where is Ebba?’ Iqbal asks again, and Filip gestures behind him.
‘She’s gone for Aksel, I’ll help them. You take her out.’
‘Everything will be OK, Marieke,’ he says, feeling instantly calmer, turning back into the burning wreck. ‘Get her away!’ he shouts over his shoulder.
The smoke, dense now, makes him cough and he is light-headed. A drop of blood falls into his eye and he smears it off his face with the back of his hand.
‘Ebba?’ he shouts.
She is dragging Aksel by the shoulders, but it’s a slow task. He’s completely unconscious. Filip runs forward and grabs his feet.
‘Aksel? Can you hear me?’ he shouts as he pulls. There is nothing.
‘On three!’ He counts.
They lift him and suddenly there are more hands appearing, taking Aksel from him and pulling him backwards, pulling him out of the wreck. Filip looks at the limp body, thinks of the words Aksel had said to him when he stood up on the helicopter. What were the words?
There’s no sign of Richard or Sarah. Pulling from his rescuers, Filip runs back into the smoke.
BEFORE
FRIDAY
16
MAARTEN
Something’s off. He doesn’t know what.
Just as the food is being served, he nips back outside. It’s not really his job to monitor the whole place. The PC is watching the doors for intruders; really, Maarten knows he’s just here as a handshake. The threat based on the letters has been deemed small, even in Rotterdam. It’s simply a PR exercise. Everyone knows.
But something’s off.
‘Sign of anything?’ he asks the PC standing outside.
The night is still warm.
‘No, sir. Nothing. We’ve had a call that a car is expected soon. Someone’s wife, I think.’
Maarten watches with interest as a long black car pulls up. Out of it climbs a young woman, tall with blonde hair in waves down her back. He recognises her from something he’d watched on TV with Liv the other week. It must be the actor Liv mentioned. She is, according to Liv, on track to become stellar.
She climbs out of the car and looks long and hard at the house as the driver brings her bags round and lifts them up the steps. Someone from the house opens the door, takes the luggage, and, throughout it all, the woman has not moved a muscle.
Her poise, dress, make-up, hair… She looks as though she’s about to step in front of the camera. She glistens. And it is interesting, Maarten thinks, that for all that, she looks far from home.
She thanks her driver, then lights a cigarette. She takes only a few drags, ditches it, walking up the steps. She walks with a straight back. But her fists are clenched.
She looks like she’s going into battle.
He checks around the gardens and the drive. The air is still. The moon appears, disappears behind a cloud, and the shadows grow darker as he steps back into the house.
There’s a great buzz coming from the dining room. The string quartet appear to have relocated to the far corner and the conversation levels are growing louder. They must be starting to eat now and he’d better head back in.
He pauses next to the young actor, who stands outside the room like she’s waiting in the wings for her performance.
‘Going in?’ he asks, offering his arm, feeling suddenly more gallant, like the house has demanded he raise his game, step back in time. He speaks in Dutch, to offer some support, and she glances at him in surprise, then smiles, taking his arm.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I could use something to lean on right now.’
He allows her to step forward first and he feels a flash of sympathy. This is a lion’s den of a room into which to walk.
‘All OK?’ he asks, as they approach the door frame.
‘I’ll tell you,’ she says, ‘by the end of the night. Ask me then.’
17
LOIS
Lois sees her first, as she sits at the side of the round table facing the dining room doors.
The music has started up and it could be a mistake, Lois thinks. With all the drink being consumed, people are loud enough already. They raise their voices to be heard above the background of Mozart, and the energy in the room lifts a notch higher.
Aksel, to her right, has poured her glass of wine, passed her bread and is charming to his left and his right. Ebba’s eyes glance his way more than once, her face becoming pinker when he appears not to notice. He finally mouths something at her and Lois sees Ebba shake her head, barely perceptibly. She mouths ‘11.30’ at him and Lois feels on alert. Something is coming and it is not good.
To her left, Maarten’s space is empty. He’s not drinking tonight. Not drinking herself, she is more aware of it; she’s both relieved he is on the job and nervous about the issues that demand his sobriety.
He’d said he’d be back in a second and she can see him now, coming in.
With Sophie Atwood on his arm.
People say ‘dressed to kill’ and Lois has never really thought much about the saying, but as Sophie enters the room, the air changes, the tone changes. Whatever had been going on, heightens. It’s like a rattle of bullets has been fired upwards.
Many things happen at once.
Lois glances at Filip, who is staring across the table at Marieke, still talking to Aksel. Filip finishes another drink and, as Aksel sees Sophie and rises in his chair, saying, ‘Sophie, how lovely,’ Filip jumps, like he’s been shot; his chair lands backwards with a thump. The music rests between pieces and, for a good few seconds, there is no sound. Filip stands, staring at his wife, and it is Aksel and Ebba, rising almost as one, walking towards her, who welcome her into the room.
Lois could swear, as Sophie leans forward to acknowledge their greeting, that her hands are shaking.
Ebba, after kissing each cheek, takes Sophie by the arm and leads her from Maarten to a space at the table, for which Iqbal has quickly made room. She and Sophie are good friends so this makes sense, but still Filip has not moved.
Instead, he stands, almost swaying, and Lois knows that he is drunk, but can’t quite work out why he hasn’t gone to greet his wife.
Aksel gets there before Filip. Pulling out her chair, asking her about the journey, commenting on the trains, saying how well she looks.
She looks more than well, Lois thinks. Sophie wears a pale lemon dress, sleeveless and cut low. Triangles are cut out of each side of the bodice, so that it is straight to the waist in a v-section, and then it falls full length to the ground, spilling out in silk folds. She wears gloves, which adds a bygone glamour – on anyone else they would look like a costume, but on Sophie they are vintage Hollywood. Her hair is long and loose and her make-up light; her eyes luminous from the other side of the table. She shakes her hair over her shoulder and smiles at the room.
‘Hello, everyone,’ she says warmly. ‘Sorry I’m late. Filip, darling, thanks for sending the car.’
The talking resumes as the music starts, and Aksel slides Sophie’s chair in, dipping his head low and whispering something in her ear. She laughs, and Lois glances back to Filip, still standing, staring at his wife.
It is only then that he walks towards her, bending his head. Lois wonders if he’s going for the cheek, from the angle; but Sophie turns her head up to him and kisses him on the mouth. Sliding her hand up behind his head, she holds the kiss for a second longer than a quick greeting.
Filip’s stance, neck bent, means the back of his head is ripe for attack – if this were a war.
Their lips part and eyes around the table turn away, not wishing to be caught peeking. They make an impressive couple. As Sophie’s mouth turns upwards to Filip, Lois imagines a few around the table may wonder how
it might feel to be on the receiving end. She thinks of it, briefly, herself.
Sophie’s hand slides round to Filip’s cheek, slipping down his arm and squeezing his hand. She turns back to the table and Filip stands, flaming red, as though this were his first kiss at a disco, and not a greeting one may give a wife.
18
FILIP
Sophie is dazzling. He has drunk far too much and his gaze darts from Marieke to Sophie, but neither will catch his eye. Both laugh with their neighbour and avoid each other.
He hasn’t managed to catch Marieke since this afternoon. Each time he’s approached her, something’s got in the way. He needs to apologise. He should never have taken the call from Sophie when Marieke was in the room. The only consolation is that he’s sure she didn’t hear. They never had got to the bottom of what she had wanted to talk about.
And he wants to talk to her – Marieke is his best friend at the moment. Tonight, he needs that ease, that emotional support.
Sophie sits next to Richard, a good thirty years older than her. Filip himself has ten years on Sophie, which often seems a lot. Seems a world away from her at times.
Richard is telling her something; his hands sweep wide in description. People become animated around Sophie. He thinks of those first few nights on honeymoon, when the air was still warm at 2 a.m. and Sophie had listened intently as he explained his ideas for the next deal, feeling like the world was opening out at his feet.
‘She’s very beautiful, your wife.’ He can’t remember the name of the woman to his right and panics for a moment.
She sees his expression, speaks warmly, saying, ‘I’m Olivia, Liv. I’m Maarten’s wife. You were talking to him earlier.’
‘Of course! Yes, yes she is.’ He looks back to her, thinking she is too beautiful – untouchable. Why did he ever think he could be enough for her?
He looks at Marieke. She makes him feel he is enough; her friendship asks nothing of him. But now even she won’t look at him. He must have really upset her; it weighs upon him. Is he doomed to let down every woman he knows?
He just wants to be enough. He wants to talk to Marieke. Tears prick his lids quickly and he looks down, embarrassed.
Liv speaks, deliberately not noticing, and he is grateful. ‘My daughters love her. She was in the film set in Amsterdam?’
‘Beneath a Sky,’ he says, and smiles. She had sung in that one. He still falls in love with her anew every time she sings. He had gone to the opening and sat beside her, falling in love with the voice coming from the screen; those eyes brown, the smile that opens up a whole world. She had been next to him, miles away.
‘She was brilliant in that! We all loved it. It’s so rare that romantic films these days feel innocent enough to take a ten-year-old to. She really looks amazing. I can’t believe she’s just got off the train and managed to put herself together. I couldn’t look like that after getting ready in the car.’
‘Ah, well, we have a secret. We’ve both done it before turning up for premieres. We travel with the clothes,’ – he nods to the dress – ‘then we take a room at the St Pancras Hotel. She has people to do her hair and make-up. Or if we fly, we have use of the lounges. We’re lucky.’
‘Where’s the dress from?’ Liv whispers, leaning in.
Filip looks again. ‘I’m not sure. I think Prada, maybe?’ He shrugs. ‘I see the labels. I hear the conversations she has with her stylist.’
‘Well, something I’ll never get into then,’ says Liv, finishing another glass of wine. ‘But then again, I doubt my abs would hold up on display from the side like Sophie’s. Not sure two spin sessions a week pulls it together enough for public viewing.’
Filip begins to enjoy himself. Liv’s easy to talk to. And she’s funny. He turns his attention from the two women in the room he should be speaking to, and laughs along with Liv.
He takes a bite of the food on his plate and gestures at Maarten, who is talking to Lois. ‘I guess Maarten can’t really relax much tonight?’
Shaking her head, she says, ‘I don’t know. It’s work for him, but not for me. Wine?’ She lifts the bottle and grins, pouring them both a glass. ‘This is a night off for me, from watching box sets on the TV and remembering to make packed lunches for the next day. It’s probably run of the mill for you.’
He thinks of his huge office at home, where sport plays on a big screen while he clears his emails for the night. He thinks of falling asleep on the sofa, watching TV, listening for Sophie to come back from living her own life out in the city.
He shakes his head. ‘No, this is still a big night for me too. You’ve heard we’re talking to the press tomorrow, ahead of the announcement? It’s taken a while to get the deal together. Ebba and Lois have worked hard.’
As he says this, he remembers his questions for tomorrow’s meeting: he’ll need to be sharp. The evidence is beginning to mount that the two deals are not equal. He’d had an email from Ruben, who is gathering more intel, that suggests the initial rumour is true.
Aksel is taking what is his: again.
He’d mentioned to Lois he’d wanted to go over a few things. He wanted to see Lois’s expression. Ebba is so composed. There would be nothing – no tell. Lois, to his satisfaction, had looked confused, which implied that the rumours might not be true. Or maybe that she wasn’t privy to them. In which case, the secrets run deep. Deeper than he’d like.
Somehow the main course is finished and dessert is coming out.
‘Some music?’ Aksel says, standing.
Looking up, Filip sees the string quartet have taken a break. The room is very hot now and he leans back, fanning himself with the napkin.
His head is throbbing.
Aksel walks across the room. What the fuck is he doing?
‘If I play…’ he says.
He gestures to Sophie with a mock bow, offering out his arm.
‘Of course you fucking play,’ mutters Filip, and Liv, to his right, drinking wine, chokes on a mouthful, spraying tiny droplets over her plate. He likes her even more.
‘If I play,’ Aksel says again, ignoring Filip, ‘then maybe we could ask Sophie to sing? She could be persuaded?’
Sophie looks up, smiling, but she seems surprised. Filip feels nervous again. Glancing at Marieke, he sees her stand, roll her eyes.
He wishes she would catch his eye. He’s making a mess of all of this. He still wants to apologise for earlier. He doesn’t know quite what to do. Maybe he should just go to his room and leave everyone to it? He’s so drunk, staying will benefit no one.
‘If you like,’ Sophie says, smiling and rising.
As she takes Aksel’s arm, he leans in and whispers something to her. Sophie flushes a deep pink, up from the neck, and laughs. Aksel leans in again, placing his free hand over hers, which rests on his arm.
Klootzak! Kankerlijer! Filip thinks. His fists close tight and his nails bite into his skin.
He thinks of standing in the bathroom, last week, trying yet another product to see if it would help with Sophie. To see if he could last the distance. The contrast of that, with Aksel’s effortless maleness. He’s like a dog, spraying everywhere.
Filip curses himself. He couldn’t spray everywhere even if he tried. Failing, always failing. There’s no treatment, no pill that has worked. He shrinks further and further.
Yet here, Aksel slinks across the room like he’s warming up for the tango. Almost pirouetting her round to the room, facing the table.
God she is beautiful, Filip thinks again. For the millionth time. With all eyes forward, he allows himself a moment to appreciate his wife. She walks tall, with an easy grace. She sits on the edge of the piano stool, her back to Aksel, half at an angle, so she looks at the table while he faces the piano.
‘If it doesn’t sound too good, it’s because Lois told me it hasn’t been tuned for a while. Nothing to do with the pianist.’ Aksel winks and the room laughs.
They look like a fucking couple, Filip thinks, leaning back a
gainst his chair. They look like a fucking golden couple.
‘Unless, of course, Filip, you wish to play for your wife?’ Aksel pauses for a second.
But of course he can’t play. Aksel waits until the room has registered Filip’s lack, before beginning.
As Filip had expected, the notes fall from his fingers quickly and are accomplished. He leans to Sophie and whispers something one more time and she nods, smiling broadly. That smile. Those eyes.
‘Oh, this is the theme from Beneath a Sky!’ Liv says.
She’s right. Filip lets himself stare at Sophie, knowing what is coming, pleased he hasn’t left the room. Pleased she is his wife, even if it is not for much longer. He’s suffused with pride. He is so very proud of her.
A tear falls from his eye, and Liv places her hand over his, squeezing quickly.
When she sings, he is lost. The music is soft, with only the piano to accompany her. She sings effortlessly and, for a few minutes, the sting leaves the air.
Filip even feels warm towards Aksel, following the melody, not competing with her voice.
When she finishes, there is a moment of quiet and then everyone stands, applauding loudly.
‘Brava,’ Ebba shouts.
Filip sees Richard smile at Sarah, Liv at Maarten, Lois at Ebba; and Aksel whispers something to Sophie, who instead of leaning back to him, turns and catches Filip’s eye.
He claps louder, knowing a few tears are falling, knowing he is drunk. But that song and that voice. And she’s looking just at him.
‘You must love her very much,’ Liv says.
He doesn’t even need to think. ‘I do. I love her very much indeed,’ he replies, smiling at Sophie, desperate to hold her, to tell her he is sorry for everything. But he knows he is too much of a coward.
Too late, he notices that Marieke, coming back into the room, hears his words. She stops still, staring at him with apparent disgust. His mouth falls half open as she turns on her heel and leaves the room.
