I say nothing, drink my coffee and feel sorry for myself, think about what it was like sitting at the table eating a sandwich from a buttercup-patterned plate while reading Donald Duck comic books, the one with the square eggs, and the plastic parasol base that needed filling with water, dark-brown plastic that burned the soles of my feet whenever I rested them on it, and the glass of milk that I often forgot to move into the shade while reading, which left it tasting vile, sun-kissed milk, Daddy would call it, and the yellow of the walls, the yellow they’ve painted over. I’m on the verge of tears just thinking about it, it’s ridiculous, I can’t sit here dwelling on how things used to be, clichéd childhood obsessions, oh, the yellow walls, oh, the glass of 70milk, oh, childhood, oh, parents in love; it’s as if a yellowed, Sixties-style filter descends on my thoughts, I feel drained just thinking about it, I wasn’t even born in the Sixties, I can’t be carrying on like this.

‘And how about work, Ida,’ Mum says, patting my knee. ‘Still chipping away at things, eh?’

‘Yep, same as always,’ I reply.

‘Anything exciting?’ Mum asks, scratching her leg. ‘I think I’ve been bitten already, you know.’

‘There’s no end of mosquitoes here this year,’ Kristoffer says.

‘I’m going to be managing a new project in the autumn,’ I said. ‘A high school in Groruddalen we won the bid for.’

‘Oh, wow!’ Mum exclaims.

I feel the same mixture of pride and irritation that I always do when she makes out that I’m a good girl. Stein nods and raises his coffee cup in a toast, he still hasn’t removed his sunglasses.

‘Very good, Ida,’ Stein says.

‘Am I not good?’ Marthe asks, she’s smiling, posing the question in a feigned, childish tone, but the angry heat in me rises all the same.

‘Oh, aren’t you getting enough attention, my girl?’ Mum says, wrapping an arm around Marthe and planting a sloppy kiss on her forehead. ‘What are you planning for dinner tonight?’

‘I was thinking duck confit this evening, then prawns for tomorrow’s birthday dinner,’ Kristoffer says.

‘Ida’s planning a speech, of course,’ Marthe says, smirking. 71

‘I didn’t say I was going to make a speech,’ I say, getting up, starting to stack the plates. ‘I just said I’d prepared a few words.’

‘You don’t need to tidy up yet, Ida,’ Mum says.

73

Chapter 10