Only ten, a whole day with nothing to do. Only ten, and anxiety is already digging a pit in her stomach.

She turns off the ticking sound. Sits motionless with her hands on the wheel while Redehusgate empties of northbound traffic. Doesn’t move when the last car passes. Then a sharp horn behind her lets her know she’s not the only person trying to exit this damn car park.

Quickly, before she can talk herself out of it, she indicates left instead and turns down towards the New Harbour.

Chapter 27

27

She almost makes it. Just as she’s about to ring the doorbell to the studio, she changes her mind and lets her hand drop. But before she can walk away, she hears a vehicle pull up behind her. Knows before she turns around that it’s a dirty blue van.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

After mumbling something vague about having half an hour between two meetings and how she was in the neighbourhood, Karen helps Marike carry a few buckets of clay inside, declines the offer of coffee, ‘I just had some’, watches Marike measure out water and beans for herself, and tells herself she can hold it together. But once the smell starts spreading through the room, she swallows and swallows again. Then she excuses herself and runs to the bathroom.

When she’s done, she heads into the studio. Marike has stuck a hand into one of the buckets and Karen watches silently while she pulls out a lump of clay and thoughtfully rubs it between her fingers. Just like Karen has seen her do a thousand times before. But something about her tense shoulders gives her away, or maybe it’s her stiff face; Marike’s thoughts are clearly not at all on the clay she has dug up next to her house in Portlande.

She turns around eventually and looks at Karen with eyes that are dark with worry.

‘Are you sick, my duck?’

Just say it.

And then she says it.

‘I’m pregnant.’

There, it’s out.

Speechless, Marike Estrup slowly puts the lump of clay back into the bucket. Karen watches as her mouth opens and closes, as she wipes her hands on a rag. Buying time while she searches for the right words to say.

But she doesn’t find any. Instead, she tilts her head back and laughs. Raucously. Inappropriately.

‘Bloody hell, Karen. How did that happen?’

And for a moment, despondency turns into irritation.

‘The usual bloody way.’

‘Is it Leo?’

‘Who else would it be?’

Another laugh.

‘Your boss maybe? Jounas Sme—’

‘That was one time,’ Karen cuts her off. ‘In September of last year. Do I look like I’m eight months along? Of course it’s Leo.’

‘OK, so what does he say about it?’

‘He doesn’t know. You’re the only one I’ve told.’

‘You have to tell him, Karen. He has a right to know.’