Marthe had gone into town, she had booked a room in the hotel by the fjord and had planned on staying there until morning. But there was a noisy pub a few floors below, with people shouting at the tops of their voices all night and loud music streaming from the beer garden, she couldn’t sleep, she sat in the hotel bed and watched TV and had to turn the sound up to drown out the music from downstairs, they’d started playing old summer hits, probably the same 142song I’d heard from the boat the other night, and in the end all she could think about was her own bed.

‘Anyway, I had to talk to Kristoffer sooner or later,’ she says, attempting a smile and breaking down halfway.

‘Has he gone to bed?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ she says, waving her hands. ‘Fuck. Ugh, I don’t want to cry anymore.’

She snivels, breathing with her mouth open. I get up and find a blanket for her, the evening air is cold and damp.

‘The worst part of it is the fact he never said anything,’ she says. ‘He just pretended to be happy about the whole thing. He could have said.’

‘But nothing might have come of it all,’ I say. ‘You got what you wanted.’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes. But I didn’t think I’d be sitting here, pregnant with the child of a man who was dead set against the idea,’ she says, looking down at her stomach, as if it’s suddenly unfamiliar to her.

I take another cigarette from Kristoffer’s packet, picture what I imagine Marthe is picturing, Kristoffer laden with the weight of his guilty conscience, a man with no interest in attending antenatal classes, a man bottling up his annoyance with Marthe after the birth, growing more and more exhausted every time the baby wails, Marthe getting up all night long, more often than she can really manage because she’s afraid that Kristoffer will be annoyed if he has to do it, and one day he says it anyway, Marthe, I can’t do this anymore.

‘You can buy me out,’ I say. ‘I’ve thought about it. It’s fine.’ 143

‘Really?’ Marthe says, trying to look indifferent, but she’s pleased, it’s not hard to see it. ‘That’s great.’

I nod. She’s stopped crying, the blanket is pulled up to her chin and her legs are curled up on the chair.

Then I tell her about Sweden, I tell her about the phone call I received yesterday and what the doctor told me.

‘Ohh,’ Marthe says. ‘Does that mean it’s all over?’

‘Don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I think it makes things difficult, at the very least.’

Marthe nods. A branch creaks somewhere in the garden.