‘Sure, but she has to get used to the idea that someone else is going to be joining the family,’ Marthe says. ‘Do you know what she said before we left?’

‘No,’ I reply, standing up. ‘Shall we head back?’

‘She said, Marthe, you’re lazy, aren’t you? Just like that, out of nowhere.’

I follow her back up the path, my feet are freezing and I can feel my bikini bottoms wet and cold under my shorts, my bikini top leaving large, damp patches on my T-shirt, I can see Marthe’s vest top clinging to her bikini in the same way. She has Kristoffer, and soon she’ll have a baby of her own and still she complains, that’s just what she’s like, always expecting other people to put things straight for her. Marthe can go around and be herself, she can do an admin job that she likes well enough, which I don’t think she’s particularly good at, she can say daft things and laugh at all the wrong moments and not even think about it, she can stuff herself with crisps and chocolate when she’s feeling down, give up on exercise, say she can’t be bothered with it, but there’s always someone there to comfort her. 32

Just before we make it back, where the path gets steeper, Marthe stops in front of me and closes her eyes.

‘I need a minute,’ she says.

‘Are you in pain, is it your stomach?’ I ask, and she nods.

I stand behind her in silence and wait. I don’t want to ask her how she’s feeling, I clench one fist as tight as I can. It’s something that happens every now and then, when I talk to Mum on the phone and she tells me she feels sorry for Marthe, trying so hard to get pregnant, and it’s like a blow to the chest, to the head, so forceful and hot that I have to clench my fists, sometimes I pick up a pillow or something soft and throw it at a wall as I carry on our conversation with the same old murmurs, mmm and uh-huh and yeah, but it’s never quite enough, after I hang up I chuck something harder, something that lands with a clatter, like a shoe or even my phone, if I’m not thinking. Always Marthe. Always. Always Marthe.