A blessed sanctuary where she was completely alone. For a long time it had also been an important source of income: some of the speculation in shares had been especially profitable. They were easy to live with, simpler than betting and cards. In every way. Jesso knew about a good deal of Selma’s so-called wise investments, and had always admired her for everything in which she had learned the ropes.

The very first pure bet was also met with enthusiasm by Selma’s social circle. She had been in London with a group of girls in the late winter of 1992 and managed to put a hundred pounds on Denmark becoming European Champions in football that summer. Since they hadn’t yet qualified for the tournament, the odds were staggering. Selma had a vague notion that the blood-bath in the Balkans might also have consequences in sport, and risked all she could afford to lose. Only ten days before the final stage of the competition kicked off in Sweden, she was proved right. UEFA acceded to a request by the UN not to allow any involvement in sport by Yugoslavia, then ravaged by civil war. The country was disqualified and Denmark, runner-up in their group, was awarded the last place in the tournament.

And beat Germany in the final.

Selma travelled back to London and picked up a larger sum of money than she had ever had in her hands. Everyone knew about it. Friends and teammates laughed with delight. Jesso went almost mad with excitement. Selma’s own reaction was both frightening and exhilarating, and she concealed it from everyone. Smiling broadly, she allowed herself to be congratulated, but kept the rest to herself.

The stimulation. The delightful, suffocating, intoxicating feeling that life itself was at stake when Denmark scored their second goal in the final. The amazing elation until the whistle blew and it was all over and she suddenly realized that her impulsive bet’s highest value was not all the money she had won.

It was the feeling that something had been at stake the whole time.

From the moment she had handed over the hundred pounds in exchange for a receipt from a bookmaker in South London, she had felt it. Everything was exciting. What the UN would decide to do. Whether UEFA would follow it up. Whether Sweden would manage to beat England in their final game, which Denmark depended upon in order to progress. For weeks and months she had gone around with an unfamiliar, euphoric sense of being present in her own life. The entire time.

An interminable Olympic thriller of a final without any greater potential loss than one hundred pounds sterling. That brought a dizzying profit and an intense craving to do it all over again.