All That Man Is (25 page)

‘You and Elin,' Edvard says, sensing that he has, if only very slightly, unsettled Kristian, and liking it. ‘Does your wife know about that?'

‘Edvard …'

‘Does she?'

‘Edvard, nobody's interested in that. They're interested in you. They're not interested in me. You are the defence minister of Denmark. You have been having an affair with a married woman, Mrs Ohmsen. Mrs Ohmsen is pregnant. It might be yours. That is a matter of public interest …'

‘It is not a matter of public interest,' Edvard says from the step, a silhouette against the dim light which is on in the porch. ‘There's no public interest there.'

Kristian says, ‘It's my opinion that there is.'

‘No, there isn't. That's just a pretence. It's just a way for people like you to have power over people like me.'

‘People like me?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you mean by that.'

From the step, Edvard eyes him furiously, woundedly.

‘You're upset, Edvard,' Kristian says. ‘I understand that. And I'm truly sorry to have dropped this on you like this. I assumed you knew. You probably want to phone Mrs Ohmsen, don't you, and find out what's going on. Why don't you do that? Okay? I'll wait here.'

Edvard stands there for a few seconds. Then he turns and enters the dark house, and Kristian waits on the path in the hot twilight. He does not sit down on the porch. There is, he notices, the debris of a solitary meal on the table there. He is hungry, suddenly. He hasn't had anything to eat himself since a sandwich on the plane this morning. He often forgets to eat when things are moving fast.

It is dark when Edvard emerges from the house again, into the shadowy electric light of the porch. Kristian, left waiting for nearly half an hour, has finally sat down.

Now he stands. Edvard, he thinks, has shed a few tears. Something about his discoloured nose, the evident fragility of his self-possession.

‘Did you speak to her?' Kristian asks.

‘Yes, I did.'

‘And?'

‘She doesn't know how you could know about it. She hasn't told anybody. She thinks you must have bribed somebody at the clinic where she went.'

‘We didn't.'

‘You say that.'

‘Is it yours?'

‘I don't have to answer that.'

‘No, you don't. The question will be asked. You will have to address it at some point.'

‘Maybe.'

‘It would better for you,' Kristian says, ‘to put everything out there now, rather than have it trickle out over a longer period of time. It will be less damaging that way, and less painful.'

‘Are you my media advisor now?'

‘I'm trying to help you, Edvard.'

‘No, you're not.'

There is a prolonged silence, only the implacable throbbing of the insects. Then Edvard says, ‘It's mine, she says. She isn't keeping it.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Now please leave.'

*

‘This,' he says to Elin, travelling south again on the dark motorway, the air conditioning still purring, ‘is a sensational story now.'

‘It is,' she says. ‘Well done.'

‘I'm thinking,' he says, ‘do the basic story tomorrow, without naming her, without saying she's pregnant. Then hope someone else names her during the day. Then Friday we do the full story, with names, pictures, everything. Don't do the pregnancy, though – save that for Saturday.'

‘Sounds fine,' she says. ‘Unless someone scoops us on it.'

‘They won't.'

‘I'll think about it.'

‘Should help with the audit,' he suggests.

She laughs. ‘That is the furthest thing from my mind at this point.'

He laughs too. ‘If you say so.' He says, ‘I'm hoping I haven't missed the last flight. I should get to the airport at tenish. So office some time after two.'

‘We'll be waiting for you,' she says.

He has missed the last flight. When he phones Elin to tell her, she suggests he stay in a hotel and take the first flight in the morning.

‘No,' he says. ‘There's an Air France flight to Paris in about half an hour, and then one to Copenhagen at fourish. It gets in at five forty-five.'

‘Are you sure you want to do that?' she says. ‘It sounds totally exhausting. Everything's okay here.'

‘Yeah, I need to do that,' he says.

‘Why?'

‘Don't worry about it.'

‘Okay. If that's what you want. How long do you have to spend at the airport in Paris?' she asks.

‘Two or three hours.'

‘That sounds fun.'

‘I'm going to love every minute of it,' he says.

And indeed the exhilaration he is feeling – the thrill of feeling that he is smack in the middle of things, major news events, things that everybody is talking about – takes him through the flight to Paris and the hours at Charles de Gaulle, the hours from one to four in the morning, when more people start to arrive in the huge lounge where he has been sitting and looking at the stuff Elin sent him. The first edition:

DEFENCE

MINISTER'S

SECRET

LOVE

A picture of the minister looking shocked that they found somewhere, archive. Another, on the inside pages, of him looking sad.

The stunning brunette, 40, is refusing to leave her husband, one of Denmark's richest men …

He finally falls asleep on the flight to Copenhagen.

It is already light. Paris, familiar, in the little oval window.

He does not see it. He is asleep.

And then, mild Danish air.

He is aware, taking his seat in the Audi, that he stinks. He literally stinks.

Every morning he takes his daughters to school, or in the summer holidays to their tennis lesson. It is something he has promised to do. It is a promise he has kept so far.

When he parks in front of the house in Hellerup it is just after seven. He has time to shower and shave, to eat a bowl of Alpen, to drink two Nespressos: a Ristretto and then a Linizio Lungo with some skimmed milk in it.

‘You look shit,' his wife says.

‘I feel wonderful,' he tells her.

‘Have you slept?'

‘An hour on the plane from Paris.'

‘You were in Spain?'

It seems strange now. ‘Yeah,' he says. ‘Málaga, place near there.'

Tine and Vikki are looking at the paper's iPad app, the front page:

DEFENCE

MINISTER'S

SECRET

LOVE

And the minister, open-mouthed with shock.

The TV news have picked it up. The TV is on in the kitchen, as usual, and there it is, the same picture, as the newsreader talks about the ‘allegations' that have been made.

‘Who is she?' Tine, eleven, asks.

Her father, eating Alpen, shrugs. ‘It's a secret,' he says.

‘Who is she? Tell us! Who is she?'

‘I'll tell you tomorrow,' he says, with a jolly wink.

‘Tell us now! Tell us!'

‘Tomorrow,' he says.

On the Internet, the story is proliferating. Speculation about who the minister's ‘secret love' might be is spreading on social media. Among the many names mentioned so far is that of Natasha Ohmsen.

They leave the house at the usual time, he and his daughters with their tennis stuff. Though he looks pale, he feels eerily fine.

Hellerup is serene in the morning sunlight, chestnut trees full and green in quiet streets of detached houses. Tall beech hedges against prying eyes. No shops. He is one of the youngest householders in the area, not yet forty. Most of the neighbours are older than that, well into middle age.

Somewhere, in an even more exclusive part of the suburb, where tennis courts and swimming pools are standard, the Ohmsens have their house.

*

Once, two years ago, when Kristian was still the showbiz and TV editor, he went with David Jespersen, the deputy news editor and his erstwhile schoolmate from Sundbyøster, to a pub in town to watch FC Copenhagen on the telly. It was a Sunday afternoon. They had been in the office, working. David was spending more time in the office than he usually did, especially at weekends. His wife had thrown him out of their flat after one ‘indiscretion' too many and David was staying with friends and didn't want to be there all the time at the weekend. Kristian was in the office every Sunday anyway, so they were seeing more of each other than they had done for a while.

They arrived at the pub with about ten minutes until kick-off.

David had a Carlsberg. Kristian a tomato juice – he was going back to work after the match.

They talked a bit about David's situation, about the thrills and spills of his private life – the nannies he'd showered with, the hurried unions in nightclub toilets.

Then David said, ‘What about you? You don't play away sometimes?'

‘I don't have time, mate,' Kristian said.

‘What about Elin? Any truth in that?'

Kristian just trickled some peanuts into his mouth and turned to the TV, up near the ceiling in a corner of the room. The team sheets.

David was smiling. ‘I know it's true,' he said. ‘Lucky you, mate. She's sexy, Elin.'

‘It was nothing,' Kristian admitted, taking a gulp of tomato juice. Then he said, holding his glass out to the barman, ‘Oi, Torben – put some vodka in that, will you?'

‘I thought you were going back to work after.'

‘I am.'

‘So it was nothing?'

‘It was short and sweet,' Kristian said, taking back his fortified drink. ‘And now it's over. That's it.'

‘You could make time for
her
then?'

‘It happened in the office, mate. That's the point. We didn't have to make time. We were there all the time anyway.'

‘Where'd you do it?' David asked through a scurrilous smile. Nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Stationary cupboard?'

‘In her office mostly.'

‘In her orifice.'

Kristian swivelled on his stool more squarely to face the TV. He said, ‘It's starting.'

A more serious question – ‘Did Laura know about it?'

‘No, she didn't,' Kristian said. ‘And she won't. And it's not going to happen again.' He took a swig of his drink, winced at the vodka, and said, ‘It was a mistake.' And then, his attention already on the starting match, ‘We both lost focus for a bit.'

*

‘How did he take it?' Elin asks him.

‘Not great,' he says.

Elin makes a pained face.

Kristian says, ‘There
were
a few tears.'

‘I'm sorry you had to do that, Kristian.'

‘
C'est la guerre
,' he says. ‘I felt sorry for him, though.'

‘Well, again,' Elin says, ‘I'm sorry you had to do it.'

He smiles – quietly, sadly maybe. Just for a moment. ‘So how are we looking?' he asks.

‘Oh, she's been named,' Elin says. ‘Natasha has.'

‘What, already?' He thought it would be quick – not this quick. It's not even ten in the morning.

‘It's all over the Internet,' Elin says.

‘Are any other papers naming her? We can't be the first …'

‘Not yet. We're watching.'

He says, ‘I think we can give Søren Ohmsen a call at this point, don't you? He might not know yet. I'll get David to call him, okay?'

‘What's he going to say to him?'

Kristian says in a sunny voice, ‘“Good morning, Mr Ohmsen. Did you know your wife is having an affair with the defence minister?”'

She sniggers. ‘We are terrible, aren't we.'

‘
C'est la guerre
.'

‘Is that your catchphrase or something?'

‘Seems to be, yeah,' he says. ‘Did you get that picture? Of the three of them. I'm sure there is one.'

‘Mikkel will be here in a minute,' she says, ‘with what he's got.'

They are in the secret office – the one used for sensitive stories. It's not actually secret, just away from the hustle of the newsroom, on another floor.

She says, ‘Do you want to take a few hours, go home, get some sleep?'

‘Do I look that bad?' he smiles. ‘Laura said I looked like shit.'

‘How is Laura?' Elin asks.

There's a knock on the door. They expect it to be Mikkel. It's not. It's Elin's PA, Pernille. She says, ‘I've got Ulrik Larssen on the phone. From Dahlin's office. He's angry.'

‘I'll talk to him,' Kristian says. ‘Okay?'

Elin says, ‘I don't mind talking to him.'

‘I think it's better if I do.'

‘Okay,' she says, ‘fine.'

To Pernille he says, ‘Tell him I'll call him back in a minute. Thanks.'

‘What are you going to say to him?' Elin asks, when Pernille has left them alone again.

‘That we're going to handle this as sympathetically as possible. That we don't want to damage Edvard, etcetera, etcetera. Same as what I told Edvard. It's even true. Ish. I'll ask him if Edvard wants to do an interview.'

‘You're shameless,' Elin says, smiling at him in a way he likes.

‘I've got a thick skin,' he tells her. ‘You know,' he says, ‘Edvard said to me last night if he'd have become prime minister, he'd have offered me Ulrik's job?'

‘Yeah, yeah. Do you think he was serious?'

‘Who knows. It's a hypothetical situation, isn't it. Now.'

‘I suppose we'll have to increase your salary,' she says, still smiling at him. ‘Again.'

‘You know I'm not in it for the money.'

‘I thought you said this wouldn't damage him. Edvard.'

‘Well, it depends what you mean by damage. He's safe in his current job, I'd say. I'd better call Ulrik.'

‘What,' Ulrik says, ‘the
fuck
do you think you're doing?'