by Karen Swan
He had? ‘Oh. But—’
‘I am a doctor.’ She gave a small shrug, lifting the bag in her hand as though that alone proved it. ‘Retired now of course, but I help out when required.’ She walked over to the sofa and sat down on the edge of it, pulling out a stethoscope. ‘He said you fell into the water,’ she said briskly, putting the earbuds to her ears and warming the suction cup against her hand by breathing on it several times and then rubbing it.
Bo watched, mesmerized. ‘Yes.’
‘That wasn’t very clever. How are you feeling?’
‘Well . . .’ Bo went to demur.
‘Because you look like hell,’ Annika said, leaning in to put the stethoscope against Bo’s chest. ‘Breathe in for me. And out.’ She listened, moving the instrument a few inches here and there. She frowned. ‘Sit up for me.’
With a struggle, Bo leant forward and Annika repeated the procedure on her back too. Without another word, she took off the stethoscope and put a thermometer in her ear. ‘Open,’ she said, taking a tongue depressor next and examining Bo’s throat; she palpated her glands and finally looked at her with clear-eyed scrutiny. ‘You’re very tanned. Where have you been?’ she asked with the same suspicion as Anders’ grandmother. Bo wondered whether the answer would have any effect on the diagnosis.
‘Samoa, in the South Pacific. We’ve only been here a few days.’
‘Hmm. You got all your innoculations?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well the long flight and the change in climate won’t have helped,’ Annika muttered, packing everything into her bag and looking back at her again. ‘You’ve got a nasty cold and a chest infection that I don’t like the sound of. You’re going to need antibiotics; there’s a crackle in the bottom of your lungs we’ll need to keep an eye on. Trust me, you do not want to get double pneumonia out here.’
‘No,’ Bo agreed feebly.
Annika stared at her – not unkindly but with a directness Bo was unused to. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘A little toast.’
This seemed to please her. ‘Good. Eat little and often and keep your strength up. And drink plenty of fluids.’
‘Anders has left me some soup for lunch.’
‘Will you be able to manage it on your own?’
Bo nodded, just as she felt another coughing fit come on. ‘. . . Oh yes,’ she spluttered finally. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Hmm.’ Annika looked unconvinced. ‘Well, I’ll come back and check on you later. I’ll leave my number on the kitchen table if you need anything. In the meantime, I’ll go to the pharmacist for you and we can get the antibiotics course started for that chest infection. Are you allergic to anything?’
Bo shook her head.
‘Fine. Stay here, keep warm, don’t move unless you have to. I’ll be back in a while.’
Bo nodded as Annika got up and headed for the door again. ‘Thank you,’ she said weakly, just as she began coughing again.
‘Don’t thank me. It’s Anders putting himself out,’ Annika said over her shoulder, the front door clicking closed again a moment later.
When she awoke, Columbo had been replaced by The Golden Girls, but there was a small brown bottle of pills on the coffee table in front of her and the fire had been restacked. Bo blinked, trying to bring herself up to speed with events. She felt so disoriented still. Had that lady – Annika, was it? – come back? And Bo had slept through it?
Checking the time, she was astonished to see it was after two o’clock. How long had she been asleep for? The light would begin to fade soon and the others would be heading back here.
She reached out an arm and picked up the pill bottle, rattling it lightly. It sounded dispiritingly full. One tablet. Three times daily. Five days. Course to be completed.
Gathering her energy, Bo got up. The pain in her knee was still there but the swelling had gone down a lot and it was becoming easier to walk, the stiffness letting up with use. She hobbled into the kitchen for a glass of water: bitter-chocolate-painted units were topped with pale blonde worktops and there was a small round table with orange chairs; all the crockery was plain white from Ikea and the cutlery serviceable steel. The Tupperware tub of soup sat on the draining board, defrosted now and ready to be heated.
Feeling a faint thrill of delight that the cooker was electric, she watched the ring glow red within seconds as she put the pan on and waited for it to bubble. She leant against the counter, stirring the soup sporadically, her eyes flitting over the collection of waterproof jackets hanging from a hook behind the door, the solitary washed-up plate and cup on the draining board, the crumbs still on the breadboard . . . A wall calendar with images of the fjord was open to December, the white date squares sporadically filled in with commitments in blue ink. She couldn’t decipher his handwriting nor understand Norwegian to read what any of them said but she saw that the squares for 10 December onwards had been grouped together by a red bubble and scored through with Instagram.
She frowned, feeling curiously stung by the slight. It felt dismissive and disparaging, as though he couldn’t even be bothered to know their names.
She took her humble feast over to the table and began sipping slowly, her eyes closed from the effort it took. She couldn’t taste anything and her appetite had deserted her for once but she managed to force half of it down before conceding defeat. The activity had depleted her and she dropped her head, feeling spent. She needed to lie down again. Leaving the dishes in the sink, she slowly walked through the rest of the house, looking for the bedroom; she might feel more rested if she slept in a bed and not on the sofa.
There was a small study fronting onto the lane, pinboards thick with layered papers that fluttered like feathers in the downdraught and photographic brochures for Geraingerfjord Guided Tours folded in piles on the desk. There was a downstairs cloakroom too with a toilet, yet more coats and pairs of walking boots and wellies turned upside down on sticks. The staircase upstairs, opposite the ‘front’ door, was narrow, winding around on itself; there was a small bathroom at the top and two bedrooms set on either side. But which was hers?
She peered into the one on the right. Was this the guest room? The bed had been dressed with a thick white duvet, a fringed charcoal-grey blanket draped across the lower half. It had an old painted wardrobe and chest of drawers with a large jug and bowl set on the top and a worn rug on the floor. In the corner, she could see a door leading to another small white-tiled bathroom.
The room opposite was almost a carbon copy, but here the duvet was navy, the blanket across it red and the furniture was more modern – walnut she thought. It had a more masculine energy to it, and her instinct was that this was his room, but the bag that had been packed for her was propped against the end of the bed. Without needing further invitation, she peeled back the covers and fell in. She tucked the duvet close around her neck and curled up into a tightly wound foetal position. Within seconds, she was asleep again.
‘Hey. Goldilocks.’
She groaned. But her arm was squeezed again and she felt herself gently rocked side to side.
‘Wake up.’ She opened one eye. Anders was staring down at her. ‘You’re sleeping in the wrong bed. This is my room.’
‘Huh?’ She tried to wake up, to compute what he was saying.
‘Wrong room. You’re in the other one.’
She frowned. ‘But my bag—’
He glanced down and saw the rucksack at the foot of the bed. His expression changed. ‘Oh. I must have put it in here by mistake.’
‘What time is it?’ she murmured, not wanting to move.
‘Four.’
‘Four?’ She looked out of the window in front of her – the sky was a rich indigo again, the last of the daylight just a ribbon trim along the horizon. Forcing herself to sit up, she looked around with fresh eyes, noticing a photo beside the bed. It was of him with a woman: brown-haired, blue-eyed, light freckles. A rich mouth, good teeth. Beautiful.
He saw her looking. ‘
You’d better come down immediately,’ he said abruptly, taking the photograph away and sliding it into the bedside drawer. ‘Zac wants to see you before they have to head back.’
‘Oh . . . sure,’ she murmured, feeling affronted by the hostility in his actions. Snatching the photograph like that was plain rude. And was it her fault he had put her bag in the wrong room?
‘Hey!’ Zac said, greeting her with outstretched arms as she staggered downstairs a few minutes later and into the living room, still clutching her hot-water bottle, still shivering. He, Anna and Lenny were all gathered around the fire that she saw had almost gone out again and which Anders was once again prodding into life. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I was sleeping,’ she mumbled. ‘I think I’ve slept most of the day.’
‘Good. Best thing for you,’ Zac said, kissing her on the forehead and wrapping her in his arms. Bo closed her eyes, letting herself relax against him. ‘The more you rest now, the quicker you’ll recover.’
‘Hope so,’ she murmured into his chest. ‘How was the trip?’
‘Amazing!’ Anna beamed. ‘Anders took us all the way to some falls way, way down the valley where we got some incredible footage. We never would have found it on our own. Go on, Lenny – show her.’
Lenny shuffled forwards, already tabbing back through the screen on his camera. He took the strap off his neck and handed it to her. ‘Tab right.’
Bo did as she was told, eyes aching as she took in the harsh polar palette of white and black, gunmetal and navy; it made her shiver again just to look at it. Much of the footage was of Zac scrambling up an almost sheer overhang, his face burning with concentration, fingers clawed.
‘That’s a great one,’ Anna said, peering over her shoulder. ‘You can really see the give across the shoulders there,’ she murmured, pointing to the jacket he was wearing. ‘Our patented four-way stretch.’
Bo felt the energy leave her again. ‘Yes.’ She stopped at another photograph of Zac standing astride a chasm, one leg on each steep bank. Lenny had taken it from below so that he looked like a Titan bestriding the earth.
‘Love that one,’ Lenny chuckled. ‘Once we get a filter on it.’
Bo flicked faster, disinterested – it was all shots on the kayak, shots at lunch, most of just Zac but some with Anna and Anders in too. Anders wasn’t smiling in a single one. Anna wasn’t not smiling in a single one . . .
‘They’re great,’ Bo smiled weakly, handing Lenny back his camera and shuffling over to the sofa again. Pulling the blankets back around her, she sank down into the cushions, looking back at them all through hot, dry eyes.
‘Oh, Bo, you look terrible,’ Zac murmured, coming to crouch in front of her.
‘I’m fine. I’ll be better in no time now that I’ve started a course of antiBs.’
‘When did you do that?’ he frowned.
‘Anders’ neighbour popped in. She’s a doctor.’
‘Oh, Anders, that’s so nice of you,’ Anna said, smiling sweetly at him.
‘Not really. The sooner she is better, the sooner she can go again.’ Anders rose to standing. He was still wearing his waterproof clothing, the orange rubber squeaking lightly with every move.
Bo sighed; she wasn’t sure whether he intended to come over as abrupt as he did, or whether it was a lost-in-translation thing.
‘You should go now,’ Anders told them, his eyes falling to the windows.
Already? Bo looked at Zac in despair.
‘It’s so dark already,’ Anna said nervously, looking back out.
‘It’s not as bad out there as it seems from here, but you’ll need to leave now if you don’t want to be hiking that path in the blackness.’
‘Come on, guys,’ Lenny said, zipping up his jacket again with a sigh. ‘Better get those headtorches on.’
Zac stroked Bo’s hair with a hand, his gaze as soft upon her as feathers. ‘I hate leaving you like this.’
‘I’m fine,’ she murmured but she didn’t want him to go either. They had had less than five minutes together.
He reached down and kissed her temple. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, baby,’ he whispered, kissing her again.
‘See you in the morning,’ she whispered back, feeling his hand grip hers tighter for a moment before he reluctantly stood up.
‘Look after her for me, man,’ Zac said, zipping up his jacket again and looking over at Anders standing impatiently by the door. ‘She’s my everything.’
‘Yes.’
There was another pause and then, through half-closed eyes, Bo heard the rustle of them all leaving.
‘See ya, Bo,’ Lenny murmured.
‘Sleep well. Get a good night’s rest,’ Anna said sweetly, pressing a hand lightly to Bo’s shoulder as she passed.
The front door clicked shut and she heard the sound of their steps on the terrace, the clomp of their boots on the jetty and then their voices as they climbed back into the kayaks again, Anna squealing lightly as she tried to climb into hers in the dim light. There were a few splashes as the oars began to cut through the water and then that thick, loud silence again, rolling back in like a sea that had been momentarily parted.
Bo was watching the downhill racing in Austria, the Norwegian commentary a sort of white noise against the clatter coming from the kitchen as pans were lidded and drawers opened and closed. The smells that came through in wafts kept making her nose twitch.
Anders hadn’t come back through since having his shower and changing out of his outdoor clothes, so it was something of a surprise when he popped his head through the doorway and she saw he was wearing a grey waffle top and navy checked flannel lounge pants. His shaggy blonde hair was shampooed and he looked shiny-clean. Bo vowed never to take hot running water for granted again.
‘Dinner is ready.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled, forcing herself up and – because he was watching – managing not to wince too much as she put her weight on her knee; it was definitely improving.
She limped after him into the kitchen. Steam was still drifting along the ceiling like low-lying clouds, a riot of saucepans all stacked into each other in precarious towers by the sink. But the smells . . . oh, the smells.
She sat down at the table, clocking that there was water for her, a beer for him.
‘Ordinarily I would offer you one, but . . .’ He shrugged.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, looking over as he came across with two plates.
‘Lapskaus – a Norwegian stew,’ he said, setting it down in front of her. ‘Good for feeding a cold.’
‘It smells good.’ She closed her eyes and let the steam cover her face for a moment as he began to eat, focusing on his food with the intensity men always seemed to have for filling their stomachs; she supposed he had had a very active day.
She picked up her fork. ‘So your grandmother played a trick on me when I went in to check on her the other day,’ she said lightly, feeling the need to be a good guest and make conversation.
His eyes flicked up to hers momentarily. ‘Oh yes?’ he asked, but a smile was already hovering. ‘What did she do?’
‘She pretended to be dead.’
The smile cracked into a full-wattage beam. ‘Yes. She does that. It is her party trick.’
Bo grinned. ‘I nearly died.’
‘My grandmother has a wicked humour. But you should take it as a compliment. It’s a sign she likes you.’
Bo looked bemused. ‘What does she do to the people she doesn’t like?’
‘Puts frogs in their beds.’
Bo’s mouth dropped open; it had been intended as a rhetorical question. ‘She does not.’
Anders shrugged. ‘She is known for her tricks. All her life she has played them. She says why should she behave just because she is old.’
‘Fair point, I guess.’
They ate some more, the silence between them was companionable and slack. In the background, the radio was on, but barely. From the tone of the presenter�
��s voice, it sounded to Bo like they were reading the shipping forecast.
‘This is so delicious,’ she said, even though she was eating feebly, managing only the smallest of bites.
‘It is good you have some appetite. That and the antibiotics will act quickly now.’
‘Thanks again for putting me up like this. It’s really kind.’
‘Not kind. It is the only practical solution.’
Bo nodded, wondering yet again whether his abruptness was intended or not. There seemed to be a chasm between what he said and what he did – acting kindly, but speaking gruffly. ‘So – you live here alone?’
There was a slight pause before he answered. ‘I do.’
‘And you don’t get lonely?’
His eyes flashed her way, almost like a warning. ‘No.’
She remembered the photograph of the girl beside his bed but something in his demeanour told her not to ask. He was a private man, and she fell silent again.
‘How about you? Don’t you get tired of being with people all the time?’ he asked, his eyes on his food.
‘Um, well, yes – I guess sometimes it can get a bit much.’
‘Lenny is always with you?’
She sighed. ‘Oh yes, Lenny is always with us.’
He sat straighter, reaching for his beer. ‘It must get tiresome.’
‘Well, it can do. I mean, he’s our friend, he’s a great guy. But . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It would be nice to have some time just on our own, you know?’
‘So then, get rid of him.’
‘It’s really not that easy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Zac and I had been together a couple of months when we realized that our being together and the shared posts we put up had really begun to inflate our following numbers – lots of his fans had begun to follow me and vice versa,’ she shrugged. ‘But once you get to a certain size, over a million, say, it’s like interest on a capital sum, it just keeps ticking over all the time, the numbers getting bigger and bigger. We’d noticed our posts got more likes when they showed the two of us together, which was fine – but that meant we both needed to be in shot and there’s only so many couple selfies you can take before they all begin to look the same. Plus, we had an increasing number of brands approaching us for endorsement work because they loved that we were a couple so our revenue really took a leap. We realized we could actually make a career from just “being together” but it meant we needed a photographer, someone who could travel with us and help develop us as a brand.’
