She turned the key in the lock and a powerful smell of detergent 28greeted her. One thing he didn’t economise on was soap in its various forms. Probably people from hot countries, where there were all sorts of bugs and bacteria, had to be more careful about hygiene than was usual in Iceland.

‘The floor’s clean,’ he called out cheerfully as she closed the door behind her.

‘So I see, Omar,’ she said. ‘You work like a Trojan.’

She was about to ask if he had swept the parking lot, but didn’t need to, as the guilty look on his face couldn’t be misunderstood.

‘I went outside and did a little tidying,’ he said. ‘There was so much dust everywhere.’

‘You know how risky that is, Omar,’ she said. ‘If one of the neighbours starts to wonder why your name isn’t on the door, considering you live here, and puts two and two together…’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, gesturing as he spoke, as he usually did. ‘But there was sunshine outside and so, so good weather. It was so good to feel the sun on my skin.’

She smiled. Sometimes his imperfect command of the language sounded so sweet. It went without saying that it had to be hard for a brown-skinned man to do without sunshine. Brown people had to need more sun than white people, and it seemed obvious now that she thought it through. She sympathised with his discomfort at having to stay inside all the time with an old woman like her. He was bursting with energy, pining for life and activity, while all she could offer him was the TV, knitting and card games.

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He was really good-looking, Áróra thought. If anything, he was too cute. He was smooth-shaven and smelled of the particular after-shave that she didn’t recognise but which made her want to press her face to his neck and breathe deeply. She hadn’t been sure if he was going to turn up for their date, and a couple of times had been ready to text him and call it off. But when he stood shyly by the table in the restaurant, she was relieved that she had stuck with it. He seemed so pleased to see her that his eyes shone with happiness, and he even seemed a little nervous when he asked what she would like as an aperitif.

Now that five courses of seafood were behind them and they had reached the coffee and cognac stage, Áróra could feel she was tipsy and told him about her sister and their relationship. Or rather, their lack of a relationship. She told him the tale of how her brother-in-law Björn’s mother had practically slammed the door in her face when she had gone there to ask about Ísafold. The old lady had seemed so angry.