I sit and he sits in the next one over. There are three armchairs in this room, all pointed at the TV. No sofa. No bookshelves.

‘Press the button,’ he says. He presses his and his chair reclines and his feet shoot up on some fabric-sheathed platform.

I do as he says and smile as my chair transforms into a magnificent, kitsch thing, similar to the one Dad used to own.

‘How long have you lived here in Visberg?’

‘Since I was born,’ says Emil.

Two small doors on the far wall burst open. Some kind of hatch. Margareta is there, cigarette in hand, pushing through two drinks.

‘Bottoms up,’ she says, and then she does some kind of move. I think she contorted herself to lift her bottom but the wall is obscuring the view.

Emil resets his chair and gets up to bring the drinks over.

‘One for you,’ he says, placing down my drink on a faux-mahogany shelf that swivels out from my chair. ‘And one for me.’

His looks like Coke and mine looks like a margarita, with crushed salt or sugar crystals lining the lip of the glass. The liquid is semi-frozen. Nuclear pink. Finished with a slice of blood orange and a tiny umbrella, and a grape skewered with a cocktail stick.

‘Chin, chin,’ says Emil, his candy bracelet jingling on his wrist.

We watch the show.

Frasier’s sat at the bar. The audience laughs. Emil sniggers. I take a sip. Sweet to the point of being too much, but it’s not bad. Potent. I’ll drink a third because I have to face that steep hill back down to Toytown later tonight.

Margareta carries through a silver tray. Three plates. She gives one to Emil, one to me, and takes one for herself. She hands out cutlery and paper napkins. We sit side by side. Three adults watching Cheers in a self-storage warehouse in hill town.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ I say.

‘Shhh,’ says Margareta. ‘Eat up before it gets warm.’

I look at the shrimp cocktail. A shallow champagne glass filled with peeled shrimps and chopped lettuce. Five shrimp hang over the edge of the glass like pale fingers. The pink sauce is speckled with paprika.

‘Mum’s sauce,’ says Emil, facing forwards, eating a shrimp with his fingers. ‘Million Islands dressing.’

‘Ketchup and mayo,’ says Margareta. ‘Plus a dash of Tabasco.’

Emil looks over at me, a drop of pink sauce on his moustache whiskers and says, ‘Spicy.’

Margareta clears the plates and bangs around in the kitchen and yells ‘Shit balls!’ loud enough for me to hear it in here.

She brings through more plates and I say, ‘Can I help you in the kitchen?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Sunday dinner is gospel in the Eriksson household. I cook, you enjoy.’

Another episode of Cheers starts.

‘Series two, Mum.’

‘Episode four. Some of Ted’s best work,’ says Margareta, walking in and placing down the plates.

‘Mum loves Ted Danson,’ says Emil.