Life for me is the same as it was five years ago, ten, even; I have a slightly larger apartment, a slightly better salary, slightly more projects to juggle at work, slightly duller skin, a few more grey hairs that I pay my hairdresser two thousand kroner every three months to make disappear. I sleep alone and I wake up alone and I’m alone when I go to work and alone when I get back home, I won’t moan about it, you don’t want to become one of those people who moans on and on about things. But being alone is a circle that only ever expands, and if a boyfriend doesn’t turn up, if no one turns up with whom I can use the eggs in the bank, there might be five or ten or twenty or thirty years ahead of me just like this, all the same from here on in. 47

And yet I sit here in my chair with Olea in my lap, nothing shifts within me, nothing stirs, the wind gathers pace and the trees rumble and I look down at Olea’s slender back in her pink vest and pick at a little insect that’s landed in her hair.

‘You can read me another book tomorrow,’ Olea says.

‘Thank you,’ I say, then glance over at Marthe in the hammock and whisper to Olea: ‘It was clumsy of Marthe to hit you on the head earlier, wasn’t it?’

Olea sniggers and turns around.

‘I’m not allowed to say that,’ she whispers.

‘I give you permission,’ I whisper back, and we steal a glance at Marthe in the hammock. Marthe is wearing sunglasses and we can’t tell what she’s looking at, one hand is resting on her stomach. Why does she touch her stomach so much when it’s so tiny, has she consciously assumed this sort of pregnant body language, has she studied the gestures on YouTube, the way you’re supposed to sway back and forth and rest a hand high up on your stomach?

‘We’re only joking,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ Olea whispers, she claps a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from giggling aloud.

‘When you’ve got a baby in your tummy, you end up looking like this,’ I whisper, pulling my head back to create a double chin and puffing out my cheeks.

Olea’s eyes grow wide, glee and horror rolled into one at being allowed to do and say these things, and with Marthe only a few metres away.

‘Marthe says things like, ohhh, I’m sooo tired,’ she whispers.

I laugh. 48

‘We don’t say things like that,’ I say, and then I wink at her.

‘What are you two whispering about?’ Marthe asks. She takes off her sunglasses, as if she’s caught us looking in her direction.

‘We’re just chatting,’ I say.