ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  Lunch was over, and we had an hour to kill before our tour. We decided to have a drink in the lounge.

  I’d peeked into the room on the way to the restaurant. One end was elegantly furnished with coffee tables, maroon-coloured sofas, and a baby grand. Cream curtains, held back with sashes, framed the large bay windows. The other end served as the bar, with taller tables, wooden chairs, and recesses in the wall that gave drinkers a measure of privacy. As this was Monday, the room was spotless, and the dark red carpet smelt of shampoo. I wondered idly what it would smell like by Friday.

  Harry, who never wasted time when someone mentioned a drink, marched into the room.

  ‘My God.’ He stopped dead. ‘Who is that Adonis?’

  Liz was peering over his shoulder. ‘Ooh yummy, Harry, he is rather gorgeous,’ she murmured.

  There was only one person in the lounge.

  He lay sprawled in a chair, an arm slung lazily over the back pulling his jacket open and straining the shirt across his chest. His legs stretched endlessly, the ankles crossed in such a way it was impossible not to see the Bart Simpson socks. His silk suit was superbly tailored, possibly even hand-made, and gave him the air of a Chicago gangster. Apart from the socks, his other concession to individuality was the bubblegum-pink tie, which he fingered softly as though needing to check the quality. His hair was expertly cut and, I suspected, deliberately tousled. Despite his relaxed features, there was something disturbing about him, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

  He got to his feet.

  I was conscious we were staring. I walked over, smiling awkwardly. ‘I’m Maggie Stewart.’

  There was a pause as he took his eyes off my hair. ‘Mike Molloy,’ he said, in a strong Irish accent. ‘At your service.’ He held my gaze, smiling easily as if to say, ‘Any time, and as often as you like.’

  Liz and Harry seemed to have lost the power of speech, so I made the introductions.

  ‘Delighted,’ Harry beamed, finally finding his voice. He hurried forward, hand extended, and pumped Mike’s arm. ‘May we join you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mike said warmly.

  We took our seats.

  ‘You people with a group?’ he said, looking at no-one in particular.

  ‘We’re with Leo Tullis,’ I said. ‘He told us there’d be another member of the Edinburgh party here. That would be you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said softly.

  ‘So where have you flown in from?’

  ‘I was in Stockholm all last week. It made sense to stay over the weekend and fly to Kiruna this morning.’

  I glanced at his clothes, wondering why, north of the Arctic Circle, he was dressed like a banker.

  He caught me looking and smiled ruefully. ‘These are my work clothes.’

  I smiled back. ‘I’d gathered that.’ I hesitated. ‘Is it a Swedish company you work for?’

  ‘Mane Drew.’ There was a hint of pride in his voice.

  ‘The name’s familiar. IT consultancy?’

  ‘They’re one of the bigger Scottish companies. They service most of the south of Scotland.’

  ‘But you’re working in Stockholm?’

  ‘I helped Mane Drew set up a branch there last spring. The irony is that, although I work out of the Edinburgh office, I’m hardly ever there.’

  ‘Your accent’s not Scottish, though,’ said Liz. ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you?’ She was gazing at Mike, her expression deliberately softened.

  I rubbed my mouth so he didn’t see the smile. When Liz dangled her charms, it worked with most men, but I was curious to see how this one would react.

  He flicked a speck of fluff off his lapel. ‘Well now, I was transferred to Edinburgh eighteen months ago from our Dublin branch’ – he looked up at Liz – ‘to inject a little Irish talent into Scotland.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Harry said under his breath, his eyes moving over Mike’s body.

  ‘I flew here after my morning meetings,’ Mike said, glancing down at his pinstripe. ‘Some eejit sent my luggage somewhere else, which is why I’m dressed like this. I need to get some ski gear. It’s cold enough here to freeze the brass ones.’ He leant back, crossing his legs. ‘This holiday was a last-minute decision,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’m wondering what I’ve let myself in for.’

  ‘You had to work this morning?’ Liz said, pouting. ‘Gosh, poor you. On the first day of your holiday, as well.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad. Mainly presentations. I slept through most of them.’ A mischievous look came into his eyes. ‘The last one was given by some woman, an A-type female. Must have spent ages on her make-up and clothes. And she’d pinned her hair up, twisted in this funny way, it was. Well, in the middle of her talk, the pins came loose and it began to unwind. You should have seen the faces, specially on the women.’

  Harry was hanging on Mike’s every word, his eyes glazed.

  ‘So the hairpins came out, one by one, and her hair fell over her shoulders. It was a good trick, and no mistake. Certainly got everyone’s attention. Reminded me of Rita Hayworth in that film where she does a striptease without taking her clothes off.’

  ‘You thought it was deliberate?’ I said coldly, suddenly sympathetic towards a woman I’d never met.

  He laughed then, a deep resonant sound. ‘Come on now, all women do it. I know one who lets out another button before a talk. She never gets asked any questions, because no-one’s paid any attention to what she’s said.’

  ‘Sounds like you don’t believe in equality of the sexes,’ Harry said, in a tone of playful admonishment.

  The corners of Mike’s mouth lifted, dimpling his cheeks, making him look like a boy. ‘Not only do I believe in it, I’m fighting to get it back.’

  It was impossible not to stare into his eyes. The brown irises were flecked with amber, the effect both fascinating and disconcerting. When he smiled, which was often, his eyes glowed with a warm confidence: Mike Molloy wasn’t a man whose ego needed constant massaging.

  He was watching me, apparently waiting for my reaction. ‘So how do you all come to know each other?’ he said, when no reaction was forthcoming.

  ‘Mags and I were best friends at school. We lost touch and then met up’ – Liz turned to me – ‘golly, when was it now? I can’t quite remember.’

  ‘A couple of years ago,’ I said, looking at Mike.

  ‘That’s it. We literally ran into each other in Jenners, at the January sales.’

  Mike continued to watch me. The expression in his eyes was unnerving. ‘So what’s it like living in Sweden?’ I said, for something to say.

  He shrugged. ‘On the plus side, no-one cares if you’re a Catholic or a Prot.’

  ‘And on the minus side?’

  ‘Swedes don’t know how to party – I’ve been at better wakes, to tell the truth – so you have to make your own fun.’ He grinned. ‘Last Saturday, I hooked up with a group of Yanks. We spent the evening drinking in hotels. It was a blast. I spent most of Sunday sleeping it off.’

  Harry had been waiting for an opportunity to join the conversation. ‘Talking of drink, there’s time for a quickie before our tour. What do you say to a little Bolinger? My treat, of course.’ He got to his feet. ‘Let me see if I can find the barman.’

  Mike nodded at Harry’s retreating back. ‘That feller’s face looks familiar.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have seen it on television,’ said Liz. ‘He’s written a bestseller, The Modern Terrorist: Nature or Nurture? You must have heard of it.’

  From Mike’s expression, I guessed he hadn’t. But then, I hadn’t heard of Harry before Liz had introduced us.

  ‘Nature or Nurture?’ He pulled a face. ‘Sounds far too theoretical. I once went to a talk called something like that. It was given by this university boffin. Had a face as long as a week. The talk was totally incomprehensible. I’m not even sure the boffin had his teeth in at the time.’

  Liz laughed. ‘Ah, but Harry’s books are different. I took a module on terrorism
when I was at college, and the books on the reading list were all by him. Jolly good they were, too. And his talks can be hysterically funny.’

  ‘You must have heard him on the radio,’ I said. ‘Professor Henry Auchinleck? The expert who advises governments on terrorism?’

  Liz was watching Mike. ‘Not just governments. NATO, the EU, the UN – you name the initials. He’s a really brilliant academic. He’s got more medals than Montgomery.’

  ‘Can’t say I recognise the name. But an academic, you said?’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Hardly the fast lane. It’s down there with lawyers and financiers.’

  ‘Careful,’ said Liz, before I could reply. ‘Maggie’s an accountant.’

  He leant back, studying me. ‘I took an accountancy course once. Not exactly rocket science, is it? Just figures on a spreadsheet.’

  I couldn’t let this go. ‘Yes, sweetie,’ I said, forcing a smile, ‘but I can do it backwards and in high heels.’

  ‘Well, that’s lovely now, Maggie.’ His lips twitched. ‘So where do you do your sums?’

  ‘Sums?’

  ‘We both work for the same company,’ said Liz quickly. ‘Bayne Pharmaceuticals.’

  He straightened his tie. ‘The Scottish drug company? We did some consultancy for them a couple of months ago, I believe.’

  ‘You believe correctly,’ I said, my smile coming easily now. ‘Our servers haven’t been the same since.’

  His eyes moved over my face. ‘A sense of humour. I like that in a woman.’

  ‘Mags is Deputy Finance Director, you know. She practically runs Bayne’s.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I said, annoyed Liz was embarrassing me in front of a stranger. I frowned at her, trying to signal that I wanted to bring the topic to a close. ‘Don’t believe everything Liz tells you, Mike. I’m just a pawn in a giant game of chess.’

  ‘Have you found the job difficult?’ he said. ‘The Finance people at Mane Drew are permanently on the verge of nervous breakdowns.’

  I hesitated. ‘The first six months were hell.’

  ‘I’m betting the men in your department didn’t make it easy.’

  I was surprised by this comment, coming from a man. ‘I’ve learnt to expect that, specially as my boss told me I beat off some stiff internal competition.’

  ‘That won’t have made you popular.’

  ‘It didn’t.’ I kept my voice level. ‘But I’m no longer prepared to stroke young male egos.’

  He grinned. ‘I have to do that all the time.’

  Harry returned with a bottle of champagne. He removed the cap and popped the cork with expertise born of practice.

  I sipped, watching Mike over the rim of the glass. He was joking with Harry, encouraging him to drink up, glancing at me now and then as though seeking my approval. Liz was laughing, turning from one to the other. The scene seemed innocent enough. So why did I feel a prickle of anxiety?

  Chapter 4

  The Activities Room was at the end of the long corridor leading from the foyer. It was 3.00pm and a group was gathering. Mike and Harry arrived together, deep in conversation, Mike still in his pinstripe.

  ‘So what about it, Mags?’ said Liz, watching Mike. ‘You up for a holiday romance?’

  ‘I think not. I haven’t had any luck with men, recently.’

  ‘Yes, well, you do total most of your relationships. But I rather think this one would help take your mind off the last. He was a disaster and a half.’

  I glared at her. Yet she was right. It hadn’t taken me long to realise that my last boyfriend didn’t want a girlfriend. He wanted a nanny. ‘I’m over him, Liz. And from now, I’m not lowering my guard.’

  ‘Gosh really? No more romantic attachments?’

  ‘That was the old Maggie. The new Maggie is done with meaningful relationships.’ I smiled wearily. ‘Nothing but casual affairs from now on.’

  ‘Then I’d say Mike Molloy would be just the ticket.’

  ‘He’s not my type. He’s got a huge opinion of himself and he’s not afraid to show it in public.’

  But it was simpler than that: my instincts told me to steer clear of him. Unfortunately, that was becoming increasingly unlikely. He and Harry seemed to be hitting it off.

  ‘That’s right, dear boy,’ Harry was saying. ‘Cooking is one of my hobbies. When I’m not slaving in a hot lecture theatre, I’m slaving over a hot stove. Look, next time you’re in Edinburgh, you must come to one of my Sunday buffets.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘From what you’ve told me, I’d hazard a guess you’re a bit of a domestic goddess, yourself.’

  ‘That, I am. I love cooking Thai.’

  ‘With me, it’s French. I like my food saucy.’

  Mike winked. ‘A bit like yourself, Harry.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’ Harry simpered, blushing to the roots.

  I listened with curiosity. For all Mike’s macho image, he was comfortable enough with his masculinity to banter like this with a gay man. And Harry loved innuendo, whether from a man or a woman. He was so obviously happy that I couldn’t help but be grateful Mike was showing such an interest in him.

  There were a dozen of us waiting for the guide. The redhead, dressed in a fur-trimmed hat and huge quilted jacket, its burgundy colour matching her hair, had told us at lunch that her name was Jane Galloway. The Ellises arrived late, looking as though they’d just had a row. Robyn was red in the face and hissing at her husband who was trying to ignore her. I turned away to hide a smile. The Ellises were going to be fun.

  The Bibbys were absent. I wondered why, given Wilson’s comment about wanting to visit the Icehotel. Perhaps they were being personally shown around later. Yes, the things money can buy.

  Leo Tullis appeared, clutching his clipboard.

  ‘Are you conducting the tour, Leo?’ I said.

  ‘I could do, I’ve been on it so many times. No, it’s being given by one of the hotel staff.’

  Right on cue, a young woman marched down the corridor. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘My name is Marita and today I will be your guide.’ She spoke in a calm business-like manner, as though she were reading the news.

  Unlike most Swedes, Marita was short. Her blonde braids, threaded with red ribbons, were wrapped around her head in a style more Germanic than Scandinavian. The patterned jacket, threatening to burst open, and the black skin-tight trousers, did nothing but emphasise the heaviness of her figure. What endeared her to me was that she seemed entirely unconcerned by it.

  She surveyed the group, her eyes lingering on Mike’s suit. I could guess what she was thinking: only a complete idiot would dress like that. Mike smiled at her, apparently oblivious to the effect his clothes were having.

  When Marita had everyone’s attention, she took a deep breath, pushed her bust out further, and launched into her speech. ‘Welcome to the Icehotel. As we are 200 km north of the Arctic Circle, the outdoor temperature can drop to as low as minus thirty degrees Celsius. So before we take our tour, you will need to dress appropriately.’ She paused for emphasis, making a point of glancing again at Mike’s suit. ‘Everything you need can be borrowed from the Activities Room. Now please follow me.’

  Her command of English was excellent, although the words were thickly accented and the delivery more sung than spoken. Harry, always unforgiving of foreigners, nudged me and pulled a face.

  The Activities Room was the size of a small warehouse: coloured ski suits hung in rows that occupied most of the room. There was little else apart from the cupboards and slatted wooden benches lining the walls. Robyn marched to the nearest rack and squeezed a snowsuit with both hands. She released it quickly and inspected the material as though checking the quality.

  ‘We have snowsuits of different sizes and thicknesses,’ Marita said, motioning to the racks. ‘On the trays above the suits, you will find gloves, hats, and ski masks. Outdoor boots are at the back. The cupboards contain sports items – snow-shoes, skis and ice-climbing equipment.’ She spoke quickly and confidently, in what wa
s evidently a highly practised routine. ‘Now let’s get our suits on, as I’m sure you are impatient to see the Icehotel.’

  She picked out a suit from the middle rack and dressed herself quickly. I took the first medium-sized snowsuit I could find and clambered into it. It was one of the thicker suits, and I was sweating by the time I’d zipped it up over my clothes.

  At the back of the room, I found a pair of knee-high boots. I sat down next to the fire door and struggled with the stiff straps.

  Liz was examining the door. ‘Where do you think this leads to, Mags?’

  ‘To the outside. It’s a fire door, I think.’

  ‘A fire door, here? Really? In all this snow?’

  ‘I’m sure they have fires, even in Lapland.’ Sweat was dripping from my brow. ‘What size is your snowsuit, Liz?’

  ‘Small, and extra long.’ She studied me, looking slim and elegant in her white suit. ‘What on earth are you wearing? I’m sorry to have to say this, Mags, but you look just like the Michelin Man.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was sweating heavily now, my clothes sticking to my back. ‘So where’s Harry?’

  ‘He’s helping Mike with his inside leg measurement,’ she said meaningfully. ‘Can you stand up in that thing?’

  Ignoring her, I levered myself off the bench and waddled out of the room.

  We left the Excelsior, and followed Marita down the slope to the Icehotel. Leo hadn’t been exaggerating: the temperature was plunging.

  Marita gestured to a low wooden building on our right. ‘That is the Locker Room, where you will change before you sleep in the Icehotel.’

  ‘About that,’ said Jim Ellis hesitantly. He peered at Marita, his eyes huge behind his spectacles. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. What should we wear?’ Robyn glowered at him, as though he’d made a social gaffe.

  ‘Wear only a sleepsuit. No clothes.’ Marita smiled encouragingly. ‘Put your things in a locker, making sure to take the one with your room number, as it is reserved for you. At the back of the washroom, there’s a door which takes you outside, then to the Icehotel’s side door.’