The Last Fix (5 page)

    He
mumbled: 'Do you think I want to be on my own with that lot outside?'

    She
nodded and had another violent retch. She brought nothing up. Yes, she did, a
drop of caustic bile rolled off her tongue. She felt the draught of the door as
he opened and left. That was a relief. She felt better.

    Ole
was full of lies, too. This place suited him. He slotted in among these people.
Ole could make conversation, he could drop small compliments to the ladies and
engage in small talk with other men. Ole was at home. Only she was at sea. She
had no business being here. And she wanted to go home. She should be with
people who made her feel good. That was the solution. Go home. If home existed.

    She
recovered a little and dragged herself up by the toilet seat. She sat on the
bowl staring at herself in a large mirror. In this house you could sit on the
toilet and admire yourself. Annabeth's husband, Bjørn Gerhardsen, too.
Perhaps he stood here in front of the mirror, jacking himself off before he
went to bed. She shook her head to remove the sight from her consciousness. Her
stomach was empty. She was not nauseous any longer. But her stomach muscles
ached after the attack. She sat like a teenage prostitute after her first OD,
before the darkness came. Knees together, mucus running down her chin, watery
eyes, sickly pale skin and vomit-stained hair hanging down in two big tangles
over her forehead. The tears that had been forced out as she spewed had made
her mascara run. She thought about the insane sight of Annabeth spattered with
wine. And instantly felt sick again. She swallowed. Sat there with closed eyes,
swallowing until the nausea subsided. Now she knew what she should not think
about. Slowly she opened her eyes and regarded herself in the mirror. The
sounds of music, laughter and screaming carried through the door.

    
If
she had not been a conversation topic for that lot outside before, she was now.
Have you ever heard anything like it? The poor welfare case feels unwell and
throws up at Annabeth's party - have you ever heard anything like it
?

    There
was a knock at the door.

    She
wanted to be alone, quite alone. There was another knock. Banging,
social-worker-type- banging. I-will-never-give-up-banging. Shall-we-talk-
about-it-banging. Old-woman-banging. 'Katrine?' It was Sigrid. 'Katrine? Are
you OK?'

    Katrine
wanted to be alone. No, she wanted to be with Henning, to sit and drink tea
with Henning and not to feel the quiver of expectation in the air, or the
looks.

    'Katrine!'
Sigrid kept on banging.

    Katrine
stood up and opened the door a fraction.

    'My
God, what do you look like, my little girl!' Sigrid was caring, as always. She
pushed her way into the room and began to wash Katrine's face. 'There we are,
yes, are you better now?'

    'I
think I'm going home,' Katrine said, pulling a face at herself in the mirror.
'Could you ask Ole to ring for a taxi?'

    'I'll
do it for you. Ole's gone into the garden.'

    'In
the garden?'

    'Yes,
Annabeth wanted people to swim in the pool. And she has a new fish pond she
wants to show off. Just wait and I'll find you a car or see if anyone can take
you.'

    'There
isn't a soul here left sober.'

    Sigrid,
her brow furrowed: 'It might seem like that, but there are quite a few people
who don't touch a drop.'

    'Just
forget it,' Katrine sighed.

    They
observed each other in the mirror. Sigrid, middle-aged, slim and grey-haired,
attractive and educated, with soft, caring hands. Katrine, young with a
somewhat weary expression in her eyes. 'You should have been a nurse,' Katrine
said and put Sigrid's arm around her shoulder. Portrait of girlfriends in the
reflection. 'I can see it now as large as life.'

    'What?'

    'You
walking round in a white uniform on the night shift with several male clients
waiting for you in the dark, waiting for a glimpse of their dream woman
tiptoeing through the door.'

    Sigrid
smiled at Katrine in the mirror, flattered but still with a caring, concerned
furrow on her forehead. 'I'm old,' she said.

    'Mature,'
corrected Katrine, freeing herself, 'but I'm young and don't have the energy
for any more tonight. I'll ring someone to pick me up. You go back to the
party.'

    Katrine
felt a sudden desire to have Ole with her, to have him holding her. She wanted
Ole to say:
Stay here, with me.
She stood in the doorway looking. First
of all for Sigrid, who had disappeared into the crowd. She stood and watched
Ole come in from the terrace. Ole and the long-legged lady from the dinner
table. Their intimacy had become more open. Katrine closed her eyes and could
see them before her, naked in bed. She could imagine it quite clearly, but felt
no jealousy, just a leaden despondency.

    What
did she want Ole to say?
I'm sick of this place.
He could say that. He
could come here, hold her and say he would take her home and stay with her. She
could feel herself becoming angry. Why didn't he do that? Why wasn't he the
person she wanted him to be?

    At
that moment her eyes met his. He was walking towards her. She closed her eyes.
She saw it vividly. The row that was coming. All the nasty things she would
say; all the nasty things he would say. She opened her eyes again. For every
step that Ole took, she wished it were Henning. Henning and no one else.

    'How's
it going?' he asked.

    'Better,'
she mumbled. 'You're enjoying yourself too, I can see.'

    He
followed her gaze, to the woman with the legs watching them. As soon as Ole
turned, the long- legged woman left and was lost from view.

    'Some
people are going to hit town,' Ole said after a pause. 'Smuget. The queer and a
few others. Do you feel like joining them?'

    'No,'
she said. 'Do you?'

    'Not
sure. Maybe.'

    'I'm
going home,' she said.

    'Home?'

    She
gave a tired smile. 'You don't need to join me. Relax, stay here. Or go with
the others to town.'

    He
brightened up. 'Quite sure?'

    She
nodded.

    A
crowd of noisy guests forced their way between them. Goggen patted Ole on the
bottom. 'You going to join us, sweetie?'

    Ole
grinned.

    Goggen
grabbed his waist and swung him round in a slow waltz. Katrine retreated to the
toilet, locked the door and waited until she was sure the hall was empty.
Voices and strident yells penetrated the walls. Someone was mistreating the piano.
When she was sure that all those in the corridor had gone, she crept out,
lifted the receiver of the telephone hanging on the wall and called Henning's
number. She checked her watch. It was not midnight yet. At last she heard a
sleepy hello at the other end. 'Katrine here,' she said quickly. 'Are you in
bed?' She couldn't restrain herself from asking, and then grimaced, as though
frightened he would say yes and be grumpy.

    'Me?
No.' Henning yawned aloud. So he had been asleep.

    'Have
you got a car?' she asked.

    'My
brother's, the big old crate.'

    'Can
you pick me up? I'm at Annabeth's. Now?'

    Thank
God for Henning, who never asked any questions. 'Start walking now,' he said.
'And I'll meet you.'

    Twenty
minutes later the house was a hundred metres away and she was alone in the
darkness. She strolled down the quiet road. It was grey rather than dark
outside, the murky gloom of a summer night. She felt a lot better, but her
stomach and diaphragm were still taut. The fresh air caressed her face. She
passed under a lamp post. The electric lamp buzzed and projected a pallid
gleam, unable to illuminate better than the night itself. She continued on down
the road. Her heels echoed on the tarmac. The electric buzz was gone, soon to
be replaced by a mosquito next to her ear. Shortly afterwards she heard the
drone of a car. Next she saw the beam of headlamps behind the massive trees
alongside the road. Oslo opened up far beneath her. The whole town smouldered
with lights, like the embers of an enormous dying bonfire. The black sea of the
inner Oslo fjord reflected and amplified the glow. The drone of the engine
increased in volume and soon she saw the reflection of car headlamps on the
trees and a line of cars rounded the bend. The first car was low with an open
top. Henning's long hair blew in the gusting side wind, and he had to brush it
away from his face. He pulled up and she jumped in.

    They
sat looking at each other, smiling. 'What's up?' he asked.

    Her
smile became broader. 'What do you think?'

    'Have
you won loads of money?'

    She
grinned. 'No.'

    'Tell
me what it is!'

    She
collected herself and closed her eyes.

    'Something
wonderful has happened to you,' he said.

    She
nodded, unable to restrain her smile.

    'Are
you going to tell me what?'

    'Later,'
she said, squeezing his hand. 'Later,' she repeated, stroking the dashboard
with her hand, and asked, 'Where did you find this?'

    'It's
my brother's,' he said. 'I look after his car while he's abroad.'

    'Do
you mean that? You've got a brother who just lends you this kind of car?'

    He
gave a lop-sided smile and cocked his head. 'He is my brother after all.'

    'Tired?'
she asked.

    'Not
any more.'

    'What
do you feel like doing?'

    He
shrugged. 'How much time have you got?'

    'All
night.'

    He
leaned his head back so that the little goatee stuck up like a tuft of moss on
the end of his pointed chin. 'Then it's as clear as the stars in the sky,' he
mumbled. 'I know what we can do.'

    'But
I want to eat first,' Katrine said. 'I feel like some really greasy, unhealthy
food.'

    Her
hair fluttered in the wind in the open-top car. Henning accelerated past
Holmenkollen hill which loomed up in the night like a huge mysterious shadow.
They bumped into each other in the hairpin bends going down the ridge, and her
hair became tangled and lashed at her eyes. Without hesitating for a second she
removed her blouse and tied it around her head like a scarf. Henning glanced
across. 'This is like Fellini,' he shouted through the rushing of the air. 'I
drive my convertible through the night with a babe in a black bra!'

    She
leaned forward and turned on the car stereo. The music boomed out as though
they were sitting in a concert hall. Leonard Cohen first took Manhattan by
storm and then Berlin. They exchanged glances. She turned the volume up louder.

    Henning
changed down and accelerated. The speedometer showed 130 km as the road
levelled out. As the yellow street lamps flashed by like disco lights on
Henning's face Katrine felt like they were in a tunnel. The wind against her
body, rock 'n' roll and the urge to cleanse yourself of educated manners, of
social graces, of double entendres and hidden agendas, of clammy hands and
middle- class arrogance. If this party had taken place more than three years
ago, she thought to herself, she would already have been sitting on the floor
with a needle in her arm. She felt a faint yen for that kind of kick even now.
But it was faint, like the longing for a particular kind of sweet you ate when
you were young. And so it will ever be, she thought, but three years ago I had
no control over things, three years ago I wasn't even able to enjoy the
pleasures of rejecting a man I didn't like, of not caring whether people saw me
leaving a party alone, of not caring what others thought or of not caring what
clothes I wore, especially when sitting in an open car.

    Three
years ago the great secret was just a black, impenetrable void. If she thought
enough about the great secret she might be re-born.

    She
smiled to herself. Re-born. Henning would call that kitsch. But then Henning
had never wished he had not been born.