‘You can’t get rich in this fucking country if you don’t help yourself. Maybe our methods were a bit rough, but they weren’t fucking illegal. Pensioners ought to know how to hold onto their own money, I mean, we’re talking about adults here. Responsible for their own decisions. In this fucking country everything’s always someone else’s fault, someone else has to clean up the mess, someone else has to carry the can. Then the witch-hunt starts, even though the only thing you’ve done is build up a successful business, provided jobs for a shitload of people and contributed to the country’s GDP.’
He shook his head in frustration.
‘The big mistake is if you dare to make a few kronor for yourself, because that gets right up people’s noses. Communist bastards. Like fuck am I going to let them destroy everything I’ve built up!’
He gulped down the last of the beer Faye had bought him and waved at the bartender for another. Faye looked at him. It was as if she was seeing him for the first time. He was behaving like a whiny child who’d had his favourite toy taken away. He wouldn’t last long if he behaved like this in front of the media.
She had to find a way to calm him down. He was going to be roasted slowly, not burn out quickly like a firework.
‘Jack,’ she said softly, putting her hand on top of his. ‘I agree with everything you’re saying. But you need to present it in a less aggressive way. Tell them you were young, that you’re different now. Maybe go to one of your old people’s homes and spend a day doing voluntary work. Invite the media. Win back people’s trust.’
She imagined Jack visiting an old people’s home. The reporters would see through him, obviously, and it would make the whole thing far worse. He’d be slaughtered.
But it would draw things out.
‘Yes, maybe.’
Jack looked thoughtful. The red blotches on his neck started to fade.
‘Think about it, anyway. What are the board saying? Henrik?’
‘Naturally they’re worried. But I’ve explained that this will blow over. No one wants me to resign, there’s no one better suited than me.’
He stretched. Despite everything, he remained convinced of his own superiority, his invincibility. She resisted the urge to drive her Jimmy Choo heels into his Gucci shoes. Ugly Gucci shoes at that. He used to dress better when she was his wardrobe advisor. Ylva seemed to want Jack to dress like a Russian oligarch. For each year with Ylva he became less coordinated and more covered in labels.
‘No, of course not,’ Faye said sweetly. ‘It’s good that they appreciate that.’
He met her gaze.
‘I … I’m pleased you had time to meet me. I know I wasn’t always easy to live with. What happened with Ylva … that’s just the sort of thing that happens, the sort of thing you can’t help …’
He was starting to get a bit drunk, and seemed to be having difficulty focusing.
‘She doesn’t understand me the way you do. No one does. No one ever has. I don’t know what I was thinking …’
Faye looked down at their interwoven hands.
‘I’ve grown up, Faye, I’m more mature. I don’t think I was ready. But now I realize that I made a mistake. It didn’t mean anything, not really. I just wanted … everything.’
His voice was pathetic and pleading. He was slurring noticeably. He was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, and it took all of Faye’s self-control not to snatch her hand away. She was so angry that there was a rushing sound in her ears. Why had she never realized how weak he was before now? Why had she refused to see it? And only seen what she wanted to see, filling in the gaps for herself? As if Jack was a huge paint-by-numbers project. An unfinished one.
‘Try not to think about that,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is what it is. The most important thing right now is for you to get through this.’
He looked round.
‘It looks the same as it did when we met here that first time. Do you remember?’ His face brightened.
‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘I was sitting where you are now, Chris was sitting here.’
Jack nodded. ‘Imagine if we’d known about all the things we’d go through, the way everything would turn out. I was crazy about you. God, those were the days. Everything was so …’
‘… uncomplicated,’ she concluded.
Anger was still roaring in her ears. Shutting out everything except Jack’s saccharine, maudlin voice.
‘Yes. Exactly. Uncomplicated.’
A short silence followed, then she cleared her throat.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to fight,’ Jack said. ‘I’m going to get through this.’
He squeezed her hand one last time.
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Faye said. She only hoped Jack hadn’t noticed the bitter undertone.
Three days had passed and Compare’s share-price had dropped to seventy-three kronor. A number of senior business figures had spoken out to say that Jack’s position was becoming untenable. Shareholders were starting to sell their stocks. Jack’s invitations to speak at two seminars were withdrawn. He had given an interview, not to Dagens Industri – the paper which had first released the video – but to Dagens Nyheter. Talking about how highly he valued the older generation. That the whole thing was a complete misunderstanding, the video had been taken out of context, it was so many years ago, it was all a failure of communication, someone was trying to sabotage a successful business.
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
The public hated it. And they hated Jack. The National Pensioners’ Association said it was impossible to understand why he hadn’t accepted responsibility and left the company.
But the board declared that they still had confidence in him. As worried as they might be about what would happen if Jack remained managing director, they were even more frightened at the prospect of the company having to survive without him. Jack was Compare. Which was exactly what Faye had been counting on, knowing that would lead to his downfall.
While Chris was having one of her chemo sessions, Faye called her broker in the Isle of Man and asked him to buy ten million kronor worth of shares in Compare. The share price stabilized somewhat when it became clear that not all investors had lost faith in the company. While she was buying up a slice of Compare, she was also giving Jack some breathing space. The calm in the eye of the storm. Before she made her next move.
Fjällbacka – then
I pretended to be asleep when Sebastian got out of my bed. He moved away cautiously and swung his feet onto the floor. He picked up his socks from the floor and put them on while I kept my eyes closed.
I heard Sebastian open the fridge and cupboards, then pull out a kitchen chair which scraped gently on the wooden floor. A sudden crash made me start and open my eyes. He must have dropped a china dish; in my mind’s eye I could see the fragments and yogurt spread across the kitchen floor. And imagined Sebastian’s panic.
I sat up in bed, aware of what was coming. Dad was a light sleeper. It was a Saturday, and he didn’t want to be woken early. Mum and Dad’s room was on the ground floor, next to Sebastian’s. They had been fighting late into the night and Dad was bound to be exhausted now. I had lain awake listening to the screams and thuds while Sebastian slept soundly with his arm over my chest.
Dad rushed into the kitchen with a roar. I pulled my knees up, wrapped my arms round them, and the darkness began to move inside me. Sebastian’s shrill screams came through the floor, then Mum’s pleading voice. But I knew Mum wouldn’t be able to stop Dad. He needed to vent his anger, needed to hit something, needed the satisfaction of something breaking.
When the screams fell silent I lay down again and pulled the covers over me. The side where Sebastian had been sleeping was still warm.
Faye tucked Chris up in bed and settled down on her sofa for a while. She didn’t want to leave yet. She got her laptop out and checked her latest work emails. Chris’s laboured breathing i
n the next room made it hard to concentrate, it hurt so much to hear how her friend was suffering. When she was halfway through her inbox her mobile buzzed. A newsflash from Dagens Industri. It read: ‘Jack Adelheim speaks out!’
Her pulse was thudding in her temples as Faye clicked to open the interview. It was longer than she had feared, ingratiating and in fact might as well have been labelled as an advertisement. Jack was allowed to direct the conversation, and was described exclusively in superlatives. The journalist laid out the questions for him like teed balls on a golf course.
Faye scrolled down to find the journalist’s name. Maria Westerberg. In the photo byline she was standing close to Jack at the entrance to one of the city’s smartest hotels. They were both smiling broadly at the camera. Faye looked closer at the picture. Jack and Maria were standing in front of a shiny mirrored wall and the picture editor had evidently missed one particular detail when the image was selected: Jack’s hand was on Maria’s backside.
Faye snorted. She wasn’t about to let Jack regain the advantage just because he’d seduced a journalist. She reached for her mobile and called his number. He answered with renewed vigour and enthusiasm in his voice.
‘Things have started to turn round. People are buying shares in Compare,’ he crowed. ‘I knew it would come right!’
His tone was triumphant. Some of his old self-assurance had crept back in.
‘That’s great, Jack. Not that I was ever really worried,’ she whispered. ‘I’m proud of you.’
She looked up at the ceiling as she crept out of Chris’s living room. Johan would be back soon.
‘I was wondering if you fancied meeting up to celebrate?’ she said, enjoying her own acting skills. She needed more ammunition to neutralize what he’d managed to achieve by having sex with Maria Westerberg.
‘Sure,’ Jack said. ‘I’m at the office. But I can sneak out if you’ve got time?’
Faye went into Chris’s bathroom, opened the cabinet where she knew she kept her sleeping pills and took out a blister-pack of Stilnoct. Chris would never notice or mind that a few pills had gone missing.
‘Are you still there?’ Jack said. ‘Hello? Did the line cut out?’
‘Yes, I’m here. That sounds good. Shall we meet at the Grand?’
‘In the bar?’
‘No. The suite.’
Faye had texted Kerstin, and she had promised to look after Julienne. They were going to play Minecraft, like they did every evening these days. Kerstin had started to become something of a virtuoso at it, and Faye had even caught her playing it at work.
No price was too high when it came to getting revenge on Jack, Faye had reminded herself on the way to the hotel. And now she was lying in the big double bed looking at her ex-husband, who was high on newfound self-confidence.
‘Christ, I can’t get enough of you,’ Jack panted, looking down at Faye. He was on the edge of the bed licking her breasts, nibbling them, nipping them. And she was enjoying it – not the sex, but the fact that he thought he was the one exploiting her.
She didn’t feel the same weakness for Jack, the same desire as when they fucked in his study, on Ingmar Bergman’s desk. That had been a dream, a fantasy of something that had probably never been real in the first place.
When he kissed her she felt sick from his bad breath. He’d started to dye his hair to cover up the grey, but that only made it look more and more like a knitted hat. She also suspected he was using Botox.
The thought made her as dry as tinder between her legs. Jack merely grunted, wet his hand with his tongue and lubricated her enough for him to go on thrusting until he came. Faye faked a few half-hearted groans and he was happy to let himself be fooled by them. He wasn’t the sort of man who was all that bothered if a woman orgasmed or not. Other than for the sake of his own ego. She lay there after he got off and started strutting around the suite naked.
She found herself comparing his body with the men she had slept with since he left her. He might train at the gym five times a week, but not even Jack Adelheim could stop the passage of time. His buttocks were no longer as pert, and weren’t those the beginnings of man-boobs? It was as if she’d got a new pair of glasses after living with impaired vision for far too many years.
Had he been projecting his own image of himself onto her? She found herself missing Robin’s firm body. Or Mike’s. Or Vincent’s. Or the guy with the Nirvana T-shirt she’d gone home with from the Spy Bar last weekend. Any of the men who had replaced Jack in her bed.
Jack went into the bathroom, whistling. Faye quickly got up and pulled on her bra and pants. She reached for her black Chanel Boy Bag. Inside was the powder she had made from crushing three Stilnoct tablets in Chris’s kitchen. While Jack showered she poured him a shot of whisky and opened a half-bottle of cava for herself. In the bathroom he was singing ‘Love Me Tender’. She tipped the powder into his glass. When he had finished showering she poured herself a bath.
‘God, I’m exhausted,’ he said, stretching out on the bed like a contented cat.
‘It’s just the tension easing after everything you’ve been through. Have a whisky and relax for a while,’ she said, then closed the bathroom door.
She sank into the warm water and waited. Drank two glasses of cava. Then she called out:
‘Jack?’
No answer. She got out and cautiously opened the bathroom door. Jack was lying asleep with his mouth open, completely naked. His penis looked almost ridiculous in its limp state. It lay nestled against his thigh like a white grub. Faye giggled. Jack snored loudly and she flinched. But he merely rolled onto his side and sank deeper into the pillow.
She put on a dressing-gown, took out his laptop, sat down at the desk, logged in and connected to the Wi-Fi. How many hours did she have? She had been waiting for an opportunity like this, having laid the foundations by gradually letting Jack get closer, turning herself into someone he desired again. She had wanted to make him lower his guard, let her in, trust her. And now, this evening, she had finally got the chance. And she was going to make the most of it.
She read his most recent emails but found nothing of interest, except that he seemed to be having an affair with a young student at the School of Economics.
Faye looked her up on Facebook and discovered that she was twenty years old. Faye looked at her pictures. She was pretty. Blonde, but she looked dull. Would the press be interested in something like that? No, they’d never publish it. A mobile buzzed in the bedroom. She jumped to her feet, padded in and looked at the mobile lying by Jack’s side. It wasn’t that one that had received a text. Jack must have two mobiles. Of course he did. Presumably he used the secret one for his affairs. She felt the pockets of his coat and found a white iPhone.
It needed a password to unlock it. Or a fingerprint. Faye carefully lifted Jack’s index-finger and pressed the button with it. A moment later she was in. She checked that she hadn’t turned the sound on by mistake.
The message was from Henrik.
Where are you?
She didn’t bother to reply and looked through his messages instead. Jack was evidently completely mad, and in all likelihood a sex addict. She was astonished. Some days he appeared to have two or three sexual encounters booked in. She couldn’t understand how he had any time to run his business. Women sent him naked pictures and videos of themselves showering and masturbating. Jack replied with pictures of his penis. She felt oddly indifferent, even though some of the messages and pictures were over three years old and had obviously been sent while they were married. She couldn’t hate him more than she already did. But she was disappointed. Nothing she’d found on his phone could help her. Swedish newspapers didn’t publish infidelity scandals unless they were a matter of national security. In Britain, on the other hand, news of Jack’s penis pictures would have made it onto every front cover. Just to be on the safe side, she got her own phone out and filmed as she scrolled though the pictures. She even captured the text exchanges, making sure it was c
lear whose phone it was. There were also a few selfies among the dick-pics.
There was nothing in the notes section but short, cryptic reminders. Times and locations of meetings. She checked a few of them with the texts and discovered that they didn’t match. What sort of meetings were they? Probably business meetings. So why weren’t they noted in the diary?
She was about to put the mobile down when she spotted the voice memo icon. Without any great expectations, she opened it and discovered that there were around thirty-five saved sound recordings in there. She clicked on one, assuming that it was going to be something to do with sex, but to her surprise heard two men talking. One of them was Jack, but she couldn’t identify the other man. They seemed to be sitting in a stationary car. The sound quality was excellent. They sounded relaxed, as if they were good friends.
Was Jack having sex with men too? Nothing would surprise her any more.
No, this was something different. Something worse than the video clip of Jack that had done such damage to Compare’s share price. She felt like bursting into laughter but stopped herself. She mustn’t wake Jack until she’d copied everything.
To make sure she didn’t leave any electronic evidence she played the clips through the speaker and recorded them on her own phone. When she checked the sound quality she could hear Jack’s snoring faintly in the background. She spent the next hour checking through his laptop, without finding anything else. But she was happy.
It had been a surprisingly lousy fuck. She pondered whether he had always been a useless lover. If that was yet another thing she had been deceiving herself about. Unless perhaps she simply hadn’t had anything to compare him to. She thought about the guy in the Nirvana T-shirt and felt herself getting wet. He had given her three orgasms. In a row.
Faye tapped in the code to get into Chris’s building without having to think about it. Chris had been so insistent on her coming that Faye was feeling nervous.
The Gilded Cage Page 25
