Úrsúla laughed. ‘Thanks, Thorbjörn.’

‘Not a problem,’ he said sincerely, and again she saw the depth of sympathy in his eyes, knowing that if she were to throw herself into his arms now he would be good to her, love her with all the sympathy she desperately wanted, with no explanations needed. She felt a spark of heat inside her that grew until it flowed through her whole body.

82

He didn’t notice Stella as he strode with rapid steps out of the minister’s office, even though he looked in her direction and walked right past her, with only a few metres between them. There was something about pushing a cleaning trolley that made someone invisible to most people. A little later the minister herself came out of her office. She said something to her secretary then winked to Stella and nodded her head towards the corridor, indicating that it was time to go out onto the balcony for a smoke. Stella could feel the secretary’s disgust follow her as she followed in Úrsúla’s footsteps. It was the look she had become used to as a teenager when most of her friends’ mothers decided that she wasn’t ideal company for their daughters.

Outside, Stella buttoned her sweater while Úrsúla fished in her bag for a lighter. There was a bitter, dry frost that worked its way into your marrow, and even Esja, the mountain across the bay, seemed to be huddled down to shelter from the worst of it. They lit their cigarettes, each providing the other with shelter from the wind, and as Stella held the lighter up for Úrsúla, who made a 189bowl of her hands around the flame, she noticed the redness that spread from her jaw and down her neck.

‘Hey,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You have a bit of, um, beard rash on your neck.’

Úrsúla stared for a moment at her, as if thunderstruck, and snatched the handbag hanging from her shoulder, cursing to herself in an undertone as she drew out a little packet of wet wipes. She opened it and pulled a few of them out, crunched them into a ball and dabbed at her neck as if this was something she had to wash off as fast as she could. She dropped her handbag and Stella stooped to pick it up, handing it to her. Úrsúla dropped the used wipes in it as if it was a bin, and then rummaged busily for a makeup compact. Her hands shook as she opened it and used a sponge to ladle tan concealer onto the lower half of her face and her neck without being able to see what she was doing. Stella pointed to some heavy marks, and Úrsúla blended them in as directed.

‘It’s not beard rash,’ she said, without catching Stella’s eye. ‘It’s an allergy to something that sometimes breaks out.’

Of course it could have been that, and there was every chance it was a coincidence that her allergy broke out just as the creepy guy strode out of her office. But it was her clumsy reaction with the wipes and the makeup that told Stella that there was no coincidence behind this: the creepy arsehole of a journalist who bought the bags of rubbish was also fucking the minister.