The traffic has started moving again, leaving a wide gap between my car and the one in front, so I put the phone away and nudge the gas. The drive, which usually takes forty minutes, takes over two hours, and by the time I shut the door to the apartment behind me, breathing in its warm, familiar scent, it’s six thirty. It’s actually rather nice that Eirik is out; I’ve got used to having the apartment mostly to myself. I throw my weekend bag and handbag onto the sofa and decide to run a bath. I’ll pour myself a large glass of red and soak for as long as I want, reading my book or maybe an interiors magazine. I turn on the tap and stand for a while in the bathroom, looking myself in the eye. If I were one of my clients, how would I describe the woman in front of me?

Kristina Moss, thirty-six years old. Married, no kids. A little tired-looking, with harsh blue circles beneath my eyes tonight, thanks to the late night on Friday and last night spent tossing and turning, snatching just a few hours of sleep in the early hours before Birk and Vilja rushed into the room at six like beautiful little hurricanes. My lips are full, my eyes a very dark brown, my chestnut-brown hair is pulled back and fastened in a messy topknot. A long, thin scar runs down my forehead. Strong nose and arched eyebrows from my father. Dimples and straight teeth from my mother, my favorite two things about my face.

A sound separates itself from the flowing water and I stand still, listening. It is a metallic sound, like two components of machinery clashing together, but then I realize it’s my new ringtone and the sound is exacerbated against the marble surface of the lounge table where I’ve left the phone. I reach it before it stops ringing, noticing that it’s a different number from the previous missed calls I haven’t yet returned.

‘Hello?’

There is no response, though I can hear someone is there, breathing into the phone.