‘Hey … You know that yesterday was all about the pills?’ she said. Gréta stopped chewing and looked at her enquiringly. ‘If it hadn’t been for the pills we wouldn’t have ended up in the sack,’ she continued.

Gréta looked away, and then down at her plate. She put down her knife and fork, and took a gulp of creamy coffee.

‘Of course not,’ she said, looking up and smiling as if in apology.

‘It won’t happen again,’ Stella said.

It was as well to make that plain right away, as considering the 152vibes Gréta was giving off the previous night and how long she had chased after her with her tongue hanging out, it was worth making sure there were no misunderstandings.

‘No, no. I agree entirely,’ Gréta said, picking up her knife and fork again and proceeding to cut her fried bread into small pieces. ‘I’m chasing this woman I met on Tinder, so anything else isn’t on my radar either.’

Stella was grateful for how well she took it, making the whole thing easier.

‘Yes, definitely. And I reckon it’s best for both of us if we keep quiet. You know, no kiss-and-tell? All right?’

That had to be clear as well. Stella didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. The gossip among Reykjavík’s lesbians was bad enough as it was. Now it looked like Gréta had lost her appetite; she pushed her plate away. She forced a smile, nodding to indicate that she understood. Stella could see that she had hurt Gréta and she felt sick at the thought; it was the usual sympathy that she felt for Gréta, but now there was something more – something about her forced smile and her tousled mop of hair that stuck out in all directions that gnawed at Stella’s conscience. She felt so sorry for her. Or maybe she simply felt sorry for herself for being such a morning-after-bitch.

63

Íris was still in bed and had gone back to sleep. If she hadn’t been so hung over, she would undoubtedly have stormed out by now, banging the door behind her. She had crawled into his bed in the middle of the night, feeling frisky and looking for some fun, but when she woke in the morning she was feeling rough and wanted him to tell her he loved her.

‘I like you a lot,’ he had said. ‘I find you sexy and beautiful, and most of the time you’re fun to be with.’ 153

‘Tell me you love me,’ she wheedled.

‘I like you a lot, little mouse,’ he repeated. ‘But I’ll hold off going further than that until I’m sure I mean it, and that’ll be when I’ve made my mind up for myself.’

She rolled over to face the wall, while he went into the other room and perched on the edge of the sofa, which was the only way to sit on it without falling through it onto the floor.