‘It must have been awful for you,’ Mum whispers so that Olea can’t hear her.

‘It was,’ I whisper back, pouring water into the teapot. ‘But worse for Marthe, obviously.’

‘Coming out with something like that,’ Mum says. ‘No, poor Marthe. Gosh.’

‘We just have to make the best of it, even if he did show himself up,’ I say. ‘Look after Olea, you know.’

Stein peers at us over his spectacles, finds a piece of his puzzle and pops it into place. I don’t want to look at him. My armpits are sweating. He doesn’t know anything, I think to myself, he doesn’t know anything about Marthe or me or Mum, he doesn’t belong here either, I feel my exasperation growing, why should he be here, why can’t he just leave, too?

I pass Mum and Stein their cups of tea, then pour some cereal into a bowl for Olea and add milk, sit down beside her on the sofa. The kids’ TV programmes come to an end and an advert comes on for a summer talk show airing later today, the presenter is shouting with a big smile on her face, almost too wide, as if she had more teeth than everyone else. She is standing beside a chef who is smiling straight at 127the camera while squinting, he’s wearing a chef’s hat and white apron. They focus the camera on a pan containing a pink shellfish soup. I can see Oslo fjord and Aker Brygge in the background, try to work out where the studio is located, perhaps it’s up by Akershus Fortress.

‘Take a look at this,’ the presenter says, gazing down at the pan.

‘Yes,’ the chef says, ‘not long to go now.’

‘Shall we start getting ready for bed, Olea?’ I ask.

She shakes her head without taking her eyes from the screen. I wrap a hand around one of her feet, rubbing it. Her foot is bare and a little cold, bare and round and as soft as any cuddly toy where it rests in my hand. I run my fingers along the sole of her foot until she giggles and pulls away.

‘Was it horrible seeing Marthe and Dad argue?’ I ask her.

‘A bit,’ she whispers, sucking on her lower lip.

‘Maybe you and I could take a little trip out in the boat before bedtime?’ I suggest. ‘Go fishing?’

‘With a fishing rod?’ Olea asks as she looks up at me, more alert now.

‘With a handline,’ I reply. ‘You can have your own line. We’ll see if we can catch anything.’

‘Can we take the big boat out?’ Olea asks.

‘Sure,’ I tell her.