She crept warily under the duvet, as though her body were made of glass and she was afraid it would break.

Before settling her head on the pillow she looked me straight in the eye and said: ‘And I mean it.’

‘I didn’t say a word,’ I mumbled.

‘Goodnight,’ she said.

‘Goodnight.’

After a little hesitation she pecked me on the forehead. Then she made herself comfortable, a wedge of the duvet in the empty space between us, her neck turned resolutely in the opposite direction.321

For a while I lay listening to her tense breathing. Jakob had made love to her. So had Johnny Solheim. Even Berge Brevik, on one solitary occasion. But as for me … who had … I had … for so many … years … I wasn’t going … to get…

Then I drifted off, on the rolling swell of waves, rocked to sleep by a dream near a beach.

My sleep was full of images. Once when I had half woken, she was lying with her back to me, I had my arms around her and could feel her long, slim bottom against my raised, stiff antenna and I drifted off again. Another time she had turned over and was breathing against my neck. Her hair was burning like a fire on the pillow and I lay with my trunk in the air ready to extinguish the flames. Then she was on the floor, with her back to me, naked. And finally … finally …

…she was gone.

I sat bolt upright in bed, surprised by the daylight around me.

The room was empty and on the desk she had left me a note. At first she had written Thanks for…, but she had crossed it out. Then she had written Talk later…, but she had crossed that out too. She had finally opted for: Leave quietly so you don’t disturb Helga. Bye. Rebecca.

I got up, aired the bed, dressed and tore two pages out of the newspapers she had found for me. Before I left I took a deep, deep breath to see if there was a trace of her fragrance left. But all I could smell was stale bedroom air and in my mouth the bitter taste of failed kisses.

I was as quiet as I could be, but to no avail. Helga Bøe was sitting at the kitchen table glaring at me, fully dressed with a slice of dark rye bread in her hand. I made a vague flourish with my arm and tried to pass her quickly, on my guard against ambushes.

She turned, grabbed a tomato knife and half-rose from her 322chair brandishing the weapon in my direction. ‘If anyone hurts Rebecca, they’ll have me to deal with. Have you got that?’ she said, and fell back heavily.

I stood staring at the knife. ‘Is that … with retroactive effect as well?’

She didn’t answer, and I left.

Outside, the day waited like an unopened window in an advent calendar you never received.