by Karen Swan
‘Because you remind me of myself,’ she said, regarding her closely. ‘I believed I could control my life too. I thought there were rules and that the game was fair. If I heard a wolf howl, I believed there must be a wolf.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow,’ Bo faltered. ‘What . . . wolf?’
‘Nothing is as it might seem. People are not what you think. What happens to you is not always within your control and you must learn to accept that, to give yourself up to it.’
‘You mean, I should just drift?’ The old woman was talking in riddles, it was hard to keep up.
‘No, not drift.’ She closed her eyes and Bo could see her reaching for the word. ‘Submit. It will all happen anyway, one way or the other.’
‘What will?’
‘What is meant to be. You can fight against it, but you will only tire yourself. And I can see that you are tired, girl.’
Bo felt a catch in her throat. Jamie. Home.
She blinked hard, pushing tears away, standing up abruptly. ‘I’ve got to go. The others are waiting.’
But Signy’s words followed her to the door like arrows on her back. ‘Feelings cannot be ignored, girl. No matter how hard you try to resist, they demand to be felt. Remember that. The heart wants what it wants.’
Chapter Twenty
There was no snow in Alesund, only rain, the damp art-deco streets glimmering, lights shining invitingly from shop windows. Anders had parked his orange Defender in a car park overlooking a small wharf with colourful houseboats moored alongside, and their odd group had fractured into shards – Anna heading back to the office to ‘catch up’ on paperwork (Bo privately thought she had looked desperate to get away from Lenny), Anders making for a chandler’s that had parts he needed for the rib, leaving her with Zac and Lenny, their usual threesome.
Anna’s directions had been vague to say the least – ‘straight ahead, make a left at the water, keep the water to your right, follow the lanes in’ – but somehow they had found their way to the Christmas market anyway.
Certainly Christmas had found its way to the market. It wasn’t big. Not like the flashy Pinocchio-and-candy-cane-styled ones of Strasbourg and Vienna and Prague, which filled grand cathedral squares, where sellers sold their goods from pretty, peaked cabins that looked like elf grottoes, where dramatic light installations criss-crossed overhead and hot chocolates costs ten euros. Rather, a series of utilitarian white awnings and tents lined a single, narrow cobbled street and strings of fairy lights were hung artlessly, wherever possible. But there was a charm to it – some of the sellers had outdoor heaters to stand by, shoppers stopping momentarily to blow on their hands and stamp their feet, striking up conversations and sharing a smile with strangers; a brass band was playing at the far end; children were running past in wellies with sweet-filled cones; and the small cottagey shops on the opposite side of the lane had opened their doors, offering special exhibitions, hot food and somewhere to sit, talk, sing carols even.
Zac held her hand loosely, leading her through the crowd as they drifted from stall to stall, sampling locally caught smoked salmon bites, handling folk-tale-inspired woodcuts, ‘testing’ home-brewed aquavit . . . They found a stall selling Christmas decorations made from birch wood – a delicate star, an intricately notched snowflake, a miniature Christmas tree, an ornate sleigh, giant bells, silhouetted reindeer – and Bo, compensating for their late start to the festive season and wanting to get into the Christmas spirit even if she had to buy it in, took five of everything. Further along, they came across a colourful passementerie stall laid out with ornate braids, tassels, trims and cords, and again with a zeal bordering on fervour, she bought ten metres of red velvet ribbon, intending to copy what she’d seen on Signy’s tree: simple bows tied to the tips of the branches.
‘Do we need bows if we’ve got the wooden bits?’ Zac asked as she handed over the money.
‘They’re not bits, they’re decorations. And yes we do, because I may just put the bows on the tree and use these around the cabin – you know, hanging at the windows and from the rafters.’ She gave a happy shrug. ‘Make the whole place more festive. Homey.’
‘Homey, right,’ Zac murmured, looking at her anxiously just as her phone rang.
She answered it, seeing the worry on his face at her use of the ‘H’ word. ‘Hello?’ she said. But there was no reply. ‘Hello?’ She frowned as she pulled away again and disconnected. That was the third time it had happened, this morning alone.
‘Who was that?’ Zac asked as she clicked on the call log.
‘Unidentified caller,’ she said with a bored groan, even as her heart tripped into a gallop. ‘I’ve obviously ended up on some marketing list. I keep getting spammed.’
‘Don’t answer them. Once you pick up once, that’s it – they’ll never leave you alone.’
‘I usually don’t,’ she muttered. ‘You distracted me.’ All she could think was – was it Him? This couldn’t be coincidence, surely? The resumption of messages and silent phone calls?
They moved along, stopping again as Zac wanted to sample yet more schnapps, pretending to analyse and weigh up the flavour of this batch, as opposed to the other two stalls further back. ‘Try some,’ Zac said, offering her a tot glass.
‘It’s eleven o’clock and that’s your third shot,’ she said pointedly. ‘I’d prefer we had a coffee.’
‘This’ll keep you warmer,’ he shrugged, dispatching it himself instead.
She watched, sensing a note of defiance in the gesture. Although nothing had been explicitly said, a slightly sour tang seemed to have lingered between them after their conversation yesterday; he hadn’t reached for her in bed last night and in the car on the way up here, she had found herself wondering where their talk might have led had they not been interrupted by the others.
Zac’s general mood hadn’t been improved either, by Lenny having to hack his way down from the loft like an Amazon explorer this morning; even worse than raging about it, he had stayed pointedly silent on the matter as he patiently picked pine needles from his hair whilst having his Coke and toast, the tree’s ridiculous oversizedness in the small cabin standing as a totem of Zac’s lost battle with Anders – he had pinned his colours to the mast and got it wrong. Again.
Knowing his pride had been dented once more, Bo reached for his hand as they continued walking through the rain, Lenny behind them clicking away and switching between snaps and video. As much as she could, she tried to ignore him – it made for better footage anyway – but she noticed other people were beginning to look: his crouching, leaping presence was attracting attention, making people stare and wonder why he was filming the two of them, and that led them to wonder who she and Zac might be. Her jacket hood was pushed up, largely obscuring her face, but she detected the growing murmur rippling through the crowd, surreptitious looks darting across the passage as they took in her and Zac’s tans, her bright hair, their accents . . .
‘Zac, I think we should make a move,’ she murmured, touching his sleeve.
‘Why? We’ve only just got here.’
‘I know but . . .’ She glanced around. ‘I think we’re being recognized.’
He looked around them both ways, finding eyes already upon them. ‘So?’
‘So it’s narrow here, a one-way street. I don’t like it.’
Zac groaned. ‘You’re not still freaked about Kyoto, are you? That was completely different.’
‘No, I know . . .’
His patience sounded tested. ‘This is an entirely different scenario, Bo. It’s a family thing, everyone’s out doing their last bits of Christmas shopping. They’re not interested in us, even if some of them do recognize us.’
‘Wassup, guys?’ Lenny asked, wandering over, seeing how they’d stopped.
‘Nothing,’ Zac shrugged.
‘Bo, you cool?’ Lenny enquired, frowning as he saw her face.
‘Sure,’ she shrugged, but Zac was wrong; this wasn’t about Kyoto. Those phone c
alls she kept getting – it was Him. She knew it. Somehow he had got her private number. And if he had got that . . . what else had he found out? Did he know where she was? Could he be here? Was that why he had started up again? He had found her once before. Why not again?
She held Zac’s hand tighter, trailing him and casting worried glances about the crowds as he headed for a food van, carols wafting from a radio on the counter. ‘Hey, you hungry? They’ve got some pastries over there.’
She forced a weak smile. ‘Great.’
‘Len?’ he called back.
Wordlessly Lenny put up two fingers in a peace sign. He was photographing them standing in front of the truck, no doubt to show the followers how they were ‘keeping it real’.
‘You want two pastries?’ Bo asked.
‘Hey, it’s cold out here.’
Zac shrugged and placed their order. ‘Four pastries, two coffees and a hot chocolate,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for change.
‘Hei – excuse me.’
Bo swung round at the voice, even though it was soft and hesitant. A teenage girl with plaits and a beanie was standing there, her eyes wide as though she was looking at Taylor Swift. ‘Are you Bo?’
Bo fixed her smile in place as she tried to steady her frantic heartrate. She mustn’t let the panic win. She didn’t want another fight with Zac, not when yesterday’s showdown had been left so unresolved . . . ‘I am, yes.’
‘And that’s—?’
‘It is,’ she said quickly. ‘Would you like a photo?’ A shared selfie was the quickest way to end encounters like this. Once people had got proof, they didn’t want to linger or talk – all they wanted was to show it, share it. Taking the selfie wasn’t about this actual moment but the ones that came after, when everyone else got to see it. The validation afterwards counted for more than the actual experience.
‘That would be amazing!’ the girl gushed as Zac turned and – seeing the situation – immediately engaged a full-watt beam. Together they stood closer to the girl, moving their heads in, knowing exactly which angle to get, all of them looking at themselves on the screen. Lenny, naturally, was photographing them being photographed. ‘Thank you so much. I am a big fan of yours. I hope one day to live as you.’
‘Thank you. It’s lovely meeting you,’ Bo smiled as she moved off. See? she reassured herself. Not so hard.
‘God Jul!’ Zac called out, looking very pleased with himself for knowing Happy Christmas in Norwegian and giving her a thumbs-up.
‘God Jul,’ the girl laughed, calling it back in a completely different way and shaping her hands into a heart shape.
‘God, that language really doesn’t sound like it looks,’ he tutted as they turned back to get the drinks and snacks from the truck counter.
‘No.’ Bo watched the girl move off, telling herself she had to stop overreacting. The girl had been friendly and sweet, wanting nothing more than a photo with them. What if those calls were innocent too? Wrong numbers, slipped connections, a telesales worker in India . . . Rationally speaking, there was simply no way He could have traced her number, not unless he worked for the phone company and what were the chances of that? It just wasn’t possible. There was nothing to worry about.
‘Uh, guys?’ Lenny said.
‘What?’ Bo asked, glancing over her shoulder. A large group had swarmed around them, phones in hand and expectant smiles on their faces – the floodgates seemingly broken by one teenage girl.
‘I think you’re wanted.’
Bo sat in the coffee shop, exhausted, her shopping bags by her feet, hands around the mug. It was the first coffee she had had since breakfast, the one at the market having been cold by the time they had obliged with all the selfie requests. Even Zac had seen the sense in splitting up after that – they were far less likely to be identified if they went round separately and they needed to do their own shopping anyway.
It had also been more fun. As something of an ascetic when it came to personal belongings – never wanting to own more than he could carry – Zac wasn’t a natural shopper. He didn’t need more socks (they had sponsors for those), he didn’t wear cologne and they had no home to decorate; joke presents were their thing and she had found a zorbing ball set for him. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t splurge on other people and she had enjoyed hitting the shops in earnest for once. Finding anonymity on her own in the crowds, she had drifted into the city centre, admiring the opulent window displays and finding herself singing along to cheesy Christmas songs as she browsed and queued at the tills. She had smiled a lot and said ‘God Jul’ to at least ten people, and as her shopping bags began to bulge, as she began to mingle and blend with the crowds – rather than standing apart from them – she had finally felt the Christmas spirit descend upon her. So what if it was commercial and touristy? It was also fun.
She had bought presents for her parents, Zac, Lenny, Anna – it seemed only polite when the girl was working with them up till Christmas Eve – and, somewhat surprisingly, for Anders and Signy too. She hadn’t planned on it. There was clearly no expectation of gifts on either side – frankly, a civil word would do Bo; this morning’s ‘lecture’ from the old woman had left her almost as rattled as the silent phone calls. But she had gone into the cashmere boutique lured by the ruffled cardigan in the window for her mother and the ice-blue travel blanket had just jumped out at her – it would highlight Signy’s beautiful, merciless eyes, be light enough to drape over her shoulders and yet warm enough on the bed for those really cold nights. She didn’t need to do it, but if they were going to be neighbours over the Christmas period and they were staying in her property, it was only good manners. And because she had bought for Signy, she had felt she needed to get something for Anders too, settling on a burnt-orange cashmere scarf from the same shop; he’d no doubt hate it but she thought it would be a good colour on him and perhaps useful when he was on the water. At the very, very least, it was another wrapped and ribboned gift to place beneath the giant tree and add to the Christmassy vibe in their cabin. After all, it was better to give than to receive, right?
It was continuing to rain outside, the inside of the windows steadily fogging up and obscuring the world as if a rubber was erasing a pencil sketch. The cafe was small with navy walls, scuffed wooden floors, leather butterscotch sofas and high-stooled industrial workbenches for seating; ebonized open bookcases were filled with tall packets of coffee beans. An enormous roasting machine was set behind the counter where home-made cakes, brownies and pastries were set out, and music played quietly in the background. There was a great hum of conviviality about the place, several people working there on their laptops, and best of all, Bo was certain no one had recognized her. For several minutes, she just sat there, watching these strangers going about their lives in peace. It was nice to just be part of the moment for once, rather than trying to define it or capture it. But then she remembered Lenny’s parting words at the market: she needed to post, post, post today. They were at 9.85 million followers now, and he was on a mission to hit ten million by Christmas. And she hadn’t posted a single thing. What was wrong with her at the moment? She kept doing too much living and not enough working. She took out her phone and snapped a selfie – chin in hand, winsome smile, damp hair, hot coffee. Writing ‘Shopper’s reward’ as the caption and tagging #wanderlusters, she uploaded it. Then she took some arty shots of the coffee house, of her presents, her drink . . .
She used the tag ‘wanderlusters’ every time she posted, so did Zac, so did Lenny, but as she watched the icon circle round and round, she realized that she had long since stopped checking in on it herself; the traffic volume was simply too high. With nothing better to do, she clicked onto the thread now though, curious to see what was there.
It was a disconcerting experience, like seeing her own life being played back to her in a film, for not only did the post contain the images she, Zac and Lenny themselves had uploaded, but those of nameless, faceless strangers who had seen them, spotted
them out and about.
There! As if as proof, the images at the very top of the grid were the ones taken just a few hours earlier in the Christmas market. She saw the one with the girl with plaits who had started it all off, her bright-eyed smile and genuine excitement, Zac glowing with the flattery of the situation, her looking strained.
But there was more than that. Much more. There was a photo and some videos of her and Anders at Annika and Harald’s party. She felt a lurch of disappointment and wondered who had taken it; it felt like a betrayal somehow, catching her at a private occasion: their heads were angled in as they talked closely, trying to hear each other over the music, her laughing, her hand touching his arm briefly as he said something that appeared to be amusing. It was preceded by a grainy shot of her and Zac at Oslo airport, eating lunch, clearly en-route to here. Before that, was one of them on a plane, only the tops of their heads visible as they watched a film – it looked as though the person taking the shot must have reached into business class from the galley (queueing for the loos perhaps?). Another of them leaning on the counter at the car-rental desk . . .
And further back, as she started scrolling faster, not liking how this felt, she saw them jogging on the beach in Samoa; them walking hand-in-hand over the Pont Neuf in Paris; them on their phones in a cafe in Ubud; her trying on a dress in Marrakech – taken through a shop window; them in a bar in Sydney; them arguing in the street in St Petersburg . . . Back and back it went, the past three and a half years preserved here like a global photo album that anyone could add to. It acted as an almost perfect timeline of their travels. If anyone wanted to know where they had been in October 2015, they could find the answer here (Costa Rica, having a kitesurfing lesson).
She didn’t want to keep checking and yet she couldn’t stop looking. It was so shocking to see herself through strangers’ eyes, not knowing she was being watched or photographed. It was both intrusive and intimidating, yet also flattering too, for how many other people had this privilege of seeing their lives from the outside? And much of what she saw in the images she had forgotten about – the fishing trip in Kenya; that jacket she wore in Rio; her severe bob in Tokyo; those Raybans that never slid off her nose when she looked down in Mexico; Zac’s beloved Red Sox baseball cap that he lost in Banff. That hotel bedroom in Sri Lanka—
