Exposed at the Back (14 page)

“Posh” and “Becks”

First came the pink graphics, then two arrows flew by with Per and Sabrina’s names embroidered on ribbons trailing below. From the opposite side came a heart-shaped football. The arrows hit the ball, penetrating it, and they all flew down towards Ullevaal Stadion. In the centre circle was an animated version of the young couple kissing in front of a capacity crowd. One by one, the letters appeared on the green grass:
PDTV
.

When life became complicated, Benedikte thought, there was only one thing to do: watch reality TV. She’d tried many times to justify her love for the genre. Call it mental pornography, escapism or whatever else, the truth was that Benedikte loved it. They worse they got, the programmes only seemed to get more enjoyable. Her current favourite was MTV’s
A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila
, in which the bisexual presenter was chatted up by both men and women.

PDTV
hadn’t yet qualified for a podium spot in reality TV heaven, but there had been some priceless scenes, such as when Marius Bjartmann and his wife came round for dinner. Watching Bjartmann eating sushi with chopsticks was unforgettable. It looked like the centre-back was wearing windproof mittens. The item had been so popular that the producers were considering introducing a regular dinner feature. Norwegians couldn’t get enough of watching famous people eat.

Football used to be shy and maybe even a little boring. That was until David Beckham married Posh Spice. Soon we would hear that Becks had taken a boot on the head from a hot-tempered Alex Ferguson, that Zlatan got into fights with numerous teammates, and that most coaches thought they were Al Pacino in
Any Given Sunday
, all stories that once would’ve stayed in the changing rooms. In any case, a reality TV series about a Norwegian footballer’s life wouldn’t have happened before
David met Victoria.

The fact that Beckham had gone on playing well while he became a public figure made it easier for Vålerenga to accept their highest-profile player marketing himself like this. Vålerenga had also had the opportunity for various product placements that they, in turn, had sold on to their sponsors. At the same time, they coached everyone from their own management on the importance of describing
PDTV
as ‘good PR’.

Vålerenga had grown to become top of the class in financial terms, having once done their accounts on hot-dog wrappers. The club’s great financial sobriety meant its accounts for the previous year had only marginally gone tens of millions of kroner into the red, and now they’d set themselves the unenviable target of actually balancing the books. They couldn’t let any potential revenue sources slip away. The club knew that, if they managed to balance the books and have a Norwegian football club making money, they would be responsible for the greatest revolution in football since the invention of the goal.

But the rights to the concept, and to the big money, belonged to Golden Boys and the newspaper
VG
, whose website hosted the series, and they were already talking about expanding the idea to other top Norwegian players. Maybe they could even come up with the Holy Grail of Norwegian TV, something that would break NRK’s stranglehold on Friday evenings,
At Home with the Riises
.

PDTV
had started as a low-budget project, but then Diesen moved in with Sabrina, and his form on the pitch improved at the same rate as the number of views for his videos. For the sake of appearances,
VG
had taken a short production break in connection with the death of Golden, but now it was being rumoured that they wanted to put even more resources into the programme. Golden’s murder was, on balance, good news. For ratings.

The camera panned through the living room. The interior decoration magazines that had done picture stories on their apartment had described it as ‘hypermodern, but not without warmth and cosiness’. The flooring consisted of wide wooden boards painted gloss white, the furniture looked old but wasn’t really, and even the mess looked planned. Benedikte imagined the interior designers arguing about the selection of magazines to put there and the angle at which to display them on the white wooden chair.

Dagbladet
’s Saturday supplement had also featured their home on
its front cover, which was guaranteed to annoy their main competitors from
VG
, who had shown Diesen and Sabrina embracing, reflected in the bathroom mirror. An artistic black-and-white photo, accompanied by 14 occurrences of the word ‘sex’ in the text below.
VG
had wanted an exclusivity agreement, but it hit a brick wall in negotiations with Golden. Players, coaches, club managers and NFF executives, Benedikte had spoken with many people who’d dealt with Golden, and they all spoke of him like a god. If he entered a room with a few people in it, he’d own all of them. Who else could’ve made 100 million kroner out of a TV contract? 100 million kroner that should’ve gone to the football world itself. It was a contract that really belonged to the realms of fantasy, and Benedikte had never completely worked out why nobody had been sacked. It seemed as if people in football covered each other’s back at any price.

The picture zoomed in on Diesen, sprawled out on the pink sofa. The camera zoomed in even closer, on his face, on his eye, past the blue iris to the black hole of his pupil. How did he manage to keep so calm? How did he manage to stay focused? Football was demanding its players to perform more than ever. The repercussions of the financial crisis were being felt as everybody cut back, and it was difficult to get new contracts in Norway or professional contracts abroad. The TV and newspapers were ready to give Diesen a hard time as soon as he stopped performing at his best, and now his Everton transfer had probably gone down the drain. Diesen blinked. Another wide shot.

Sabrina entered the scene, although it looked more as if she’d been thrown on. Benedikte wondered how Golden could’ve fallen for her. Why would he have risked so much for a pair of fake boobs? Golden was known for his style and sophisticated ways. Maybe it took a man to fully understand the fascination of such bazookas.

Sabrina was wearing blue-striped pyjamas, with a large number of buttons undone. She rolled around on the chaise longue, which matched the sofa. She then spent a small eternity piling up cushions so that the chaise longue could function more or less as a normal sofa.

Sabrina gave a deep sigh when everything was in place. She put her legs up on the stack of cushions.

‘You could have helped me, you know?’ she said, putting her MacBook Air on her lap. It annoyed Benedikte that Sabrina used the same laptop as her. Diesen was watching an on-demand episode of
Desperate Housewives
.

Sabrina’s career had been on a vertical trajectory over the past few months. Even her unsuccessful appearance on
Paradise Hotel
last year had been turned into something positive. Sabrina had been brought in as a guest presenter for the last few weeks of the current series, a job that didn’t require her to sleep with anybody, but one that let her wear skimpy clothing and be cheeky. According to the celebrity news website
Side2
, she was now towering at the top of the list of celebrities Norwegian teenage girls identified with most.

Sabrina’s participation on the Norwegian edition of
Strictly Come Dancing
had also helped her to reach all age groups. Between them, the two programmes reached most Norwegian viewers, with the exception of the small group who were actually telling the truth when they claimed that they didn’t watch reality shows.

As a natural consequence of these programmes, Sabrina was now an active participant in two separate ‘blog wars’. While her
Paradise Hotel
blog posts were used as often as possible to call the others tarts, especially the male participants, the posts on her dancing blog were kinder, or at worst veiled allegations. The furthest she went was to suggest that Elin Hval, a female soap star, had put on a good few pounds after she’d stopped her intensive dance training.

Sabrina closed her MacBook and replaced it with a cushion, covering up her body. You could almost hear the producer groan. Sabrina put her hands on the cushion and crossed her legs even more. Diesen stopped watching
Desperate Housewives
and looked at her. The camera zoomed in on Sabrina’s face. She had a natural beauty when her fake breasts weren’t getting in the way of a good conversation. Maybe that’s how Golden had seen her? Or was Benedikte reading too much into it? Was it just sex, and only sex?

‘Have you learnt the lyrics yet?’ asked Diesen. Sabrina had been used as a backing singer and dancer the last few times Diesen and Bjartmann had performed their mega-hit. Since Vålerenga were going to play that Saturday, the three of them would mime the words live on
Football Xtra
on Sunday, in what was probably the last appearance Golden had booked.

Sabrina was lost in her own thoughts. It took her a few seconds to digest the fact that she was being spoken to.

‘Yeah, but I’ve got a question. I don’t quite get the meaning.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘The chorus. You know, when it goes: “Bleed, bleed, bleed for the
team. Hunt out that autumn dream.” Why should we be singing about the autumn now, when it’s summer?’

In an in-depth interview by the women’s magazine
Henne
, Diesen had revealed that when he got home, he didn’t have to explain why he’d messed up a pass or dribbled the ball too far. Sabrina asked if he’d won or lost and expressed an appropriate dose of happiness or disappointment accordingly. Sabina didn’t know that the autumn hunting season in Norwegian football had nothing at all do with culling animals.

Sabrina was supposed to mime the lyrics and jump around as the heavy drumbeat sounded in between the words ‘bleed, bleed, bleed’. Benedikte didn’t think textual analysis was really called for.

‘The lyrics point forwards to the future,’ Diesen answered. ‘The championship finishes in the autumn, so that’s when everyone’s hunting for the important points at the end of the season.’

‘And what about the next line, “Red and blue, we’re coming through”?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Well I’ve got a bit of a thing for colours, you know. You’re not red and blue. You’re blue with a bit of red and a bit of white.’

‘I see your point. And while we’re on the subject, what are you going to wear on TV?’

‘I’m stuck between a black or a brown top. Not sure. What are you and Marius going to wear?’

‘Marius and I’ll be wearing white shirts with open collars. Maybe it’d be best if you wear the black one?’ said Diesen.

‘Then I’ll go for that. Are we still doing lip-sync?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I heard the original recording when we were in the studio that day. And Marius really can’t sing. They didn’t need to do anything with your voice, but Marius, good God, he sounded like he had some sort of disease, the poor guy.’ Sabrina was whispering, not that it made what she was saying any less hurtful.

‘Don’t tell him. He thinks he sings really well. But that’s probably why people have studios like those. No big stars use their own voices. It’s all done by machines now,’ Diesen whispered back.

‘Even Engelbert Humperdinck?’

‘Alright, maybe not him, but apart from him.’

‘Well, Marius needs it anyway!’ said Sabrina, giggling.

Diesen smiled cautiously. Then he kissed Sabrina on the cheek,
said goodnight and went to bed. The episode faded out with Sabrina picking up her MacBook again and carrying on blogging about hula hoops and lip balm, and about how life as a football widow could be made easier by walking downhill instead of uphill when going shopping along Bogstadveien.

This was the most recent episode, so Benedikte didn’t quite know what to do next. She stayed on the website to see the end of the video, skimming through the credits, where she spotted the name of Bettina Robertsen, an old classmate of hers. She had a source from within the world of Per Diesen.

Coma

‘You said I should call you at any time if I had any news.’

It took Steinar a few seconds to wake up. He’d been dreaming about how to get it on with Benedikte again, and he’d picked up the phone by reflex. It was Bjørnar. His alarm clock showed it was 06:14.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Steinar.

‘He’s fallen into a coma overnight. We don’t think he’s going to wake up again. I’m really sorry.’

‘Thanks for calling,’ said Steinar, dropping the phone next to him on the duvet. He stared at a knothole in the wooden ceiling.

Steinar had once heard that the happiest period in a man’s life was the time after his first divorce. That must have come from a man who had done the walking out himself. For Steinar, the period when Mette’s inner backpacker had reawakened had been full of anxiety. In the months after she’d left, Steinar had woken up every night, certain that Junior was about to die of cot death. Even though Junior had to be too old for that, Steinar jumped out of bed time after time, running into the boy’s room and listening to check he was breathing. Time after time he’d felt relieved, tucked the duvet tight round the little poppet and sat there watching his sleeping child.

Steinar didn’t run into Junior’s room any more when he couldn’t sleep, but he usually popped his head round the door to check on him anyway. He got up and turned his head to the right, cracking his neck and feeling his spine wake up. He rubbed his scalp hard for a few seconds and went towards the boy’s room.

The cot was empty. What had happened? Junior had never climbed out of his cot before. If he woke up, which he sometimes did, he would start crying, but Steinar hadn’t heard anything this time. He shouted, but there was no answer. Junior had gone. Steinar felt his stomach in
knots and ran to the front door, turning the handle. Locked. He sped into the living room, but Junior was nowhere to be seen. He checked the kitchen, the utility room and the bathroom before running down the slippery steps into the basement. He cursed the stairs, but there was nobody down there either.

He ran back up, locked the basement door and went up to the first floor, where there were another two bedrooms and a bathroom. Junior wasn’t in the bathroom, nor was he in either of the bedrooms.

Steinar ran back down to the living room.

Junior was reading on the sofa. Or rather he was flicking through a large pop-up book, which hid most of him from view. Still, Steinar should have spotted him the first time. He supposed that he was distracted because of Ståle Jakobsen. He wanted to lift up Junior and give him a hug, but there was something about seeing his son behind a book that pleased Steinar, and he didn’t want to interrupt him. He stood there for a few minutes until Junior put down his book and stared at his father, waiting for him to say something. As if it were Steinar’s responsibility, he thought, just because he was an adult.

‘Breakfast,’ said Steinar, and they went to the kitchen together. Steinar started making an omelette, while Junior ate a blueberry yoghurt. Steinar shook the pan so that the eggs wouldn’t stick to the bottom. He put in some pieces of ham and some cheese. Shook it again. Junior, who’d had enough yoghurt, jumped down from his chair and ran into the living room. Steinar left him in peace. He took his omelette and a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, where he could see the boy in the corner of his eye. Junior had found another book. Steinar sneaked out to fetch the newspaper.

He was immersed in reading a piece on illegal workers when Junior came back into the kitchen, his shirt covered in yoghurt stains. Steinar looked at the time. They would have to hurry. He went to the utility room and fetched some clean clothes, took a good hold of Junior and pulled off his shirt. He suddenly stopped to stare at two blisters on his chest. Was it chickenpox? Damn. On any normal day this wouldn’t have been a problem, but today he had another meeting with Taribo.

‘Are you feeling alright?’ asked Steinar.

Junior looked up at the ceiling. It was difficult to get any information from him at that moment. Steinar went to fetch the thermometer instead. No temperature.

How dangerous was chickenpox anyway? Wasn’t it good to have
it when you were young? That’s surely what the other parents would think too. They’d see it as Steinar doing them a favour. If he was honest, though, how many times had he suspected that the others had been lying too? With conjunctivitis or diarrhoea, symptoms were supposed to be absent for at least 48 hours before they took their children back to nursery.

Junior rarely came home wearing the same T-shirt he’d started the day in. The nursery staff would notice the blisters when they changed him. Steinar did the only thing that a single father with childcare problems could do on such an occasion, he rummaged through the things that Mette had left in the bathroom until he found what he was looking for. Concealer.

He couldn’t fail to appear at the prison meeting because Benedikte was right. he’d been too soft at the previous sessions. This time he had to press Taribo.