I can hear Kristoffer busying himself in the kitchen, glasses clinking and something frying in a pan, Marthe must be out in the garden. I go into Marthe and Kristoffer’s bedroom, 50don’t make a sound, stand by their bed, motionless. They have the parents’ room, Mum and Stein will sleep in the largest of the children’s bedrooms when they come. It smells of Marthe in here, it smells of Kristoffer, their scents are discernible even with the window open. The bed hasn’t been made, there are clothes and children’s books and a tube of sun cream on the floor. I pick up a green dress I haven’t seen before, it smells sweaty. An inside-out T-shirt is lying on the bed, the stripy one Kristoffer was wearing when he came to pick me up earlier, I take a peek inside the wardrobe, several more of Marthe’s dresses and jumpers, some of which I recognise and others I don’t, vast expanses of cheap, loose-fitting fabric. Kristoffer’s shirts and T-shirts, a hoodie. A pair of large sandals have been left lying on the floor. I slip my feet inside them; they look like child’s feet in grown-up shoes. I sit on the bed, on what must be Marthe’s side, try on a pair of glasses that have been left on the bedside table. They’re a stronger prescription than I’d anticipated. I open the drawer of the bedside table, don’t know what I’m looking for, find a few old weeklies, look inside the bag on the floor. I lie on the bed, all the while listening for movement in the kitchen and garden, pull the covers up over me and smell them. It’s a better bed than the one I sleep in. They should change their sheets, they smell used and unwashed, bodies, I wonder if they’ve had sex while they’ve been here, if I can smell that too, or if they’ve just been tired and lain side by side while Marthe has talked about how hard it is to be pregnant. Maybe they spoon one another, Kristoffer holding her from behind, 51maybe he rests a hand on her stomach, her lower abdomen. I turn to face Kristoffer’s side, stare at his empty pillow, try to imagine that it’s me lying here with him, that every evening we come and lie down here together, the window open, spooning, Olea can sleep in my room, and the new baby can be in a cot in our room, and Marthe, Marthe isn’t here. Goodnight, Kristoffer, I say. Goodnight, Ida, I reply.

I could fall asleep here, but I mustn’t, imagine if Kristoffer were to walk in on his way to fetch something, imagine Marthe were to come in to get changed, I stand up, realise that I’m freezing, I just want to lie back down again.

53

Chapter 7