“You’re a sweet, generous man. And an idiot. I am not having an affair.” How easily she laughed as she crossed to the sink to pour herself a tumbler of water. She turned, leaned against the worktop, made sure she looked me in the eye once more.

“We don’t have affairs,” she said. “You don’t. I don’t. Affairs are not who we are.”

How comfortably she held my gaze. How lightly she said the words, though she set down the glass so hard that I thought it might break.

Still, anybody watching would swear she was telling the truth.

Twenty

Midwinter was unseasonably warm. By evening the pavements were slick with meltwater. I was already cursing myself for agreeing to meet Jo at the Muscular Arms. But Elsa had insisted: “We both need time away, once in a while.” She was right. We were together for days on end, and the ground between us was fissuring and eroding.

The sounds of the city were distant, damped down. Snow on water, water on ice, ice on frozen ground. I fell twice on the short walk from the station.

The Muscular Arms was half-empty. The upholstered booths were threadbare, the wooden tables chipped and pitted. Jo bear-hugged me as I crossed the threshold, his stubble scraping mine, and at once I felt like his long-lost friend. Soon we were drinking hard, talking and laughing about soccer and darts.

Three beers down, Jo set down a new glass in front of me. I raised it to my lips, took a long swig. Oslo porter, dark and sharp and strong.

“Not a bad half liter,” I said.

Jo shook his head. “It’s a pint, mate. Why do you think we’re sitting here? Proper working pub. London-style.” He gestured around him. Settlement cracks ran the length of the ceiling. The walls were painted yellow, the floor tiles crazed and split.

“And just so it’s out of the way,” he said, “the police interviewed me about my relationship with Licia.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know they ask some pretty intrusive questions.”

“It’s got to happen, mate. They’re being thorough for once. Skål.”

We toasted each other the Norwegian way, holding eye contact as we drank.

“How are you guys bearing up?” he said as he set his glass down.

“Did Elsa ask you to invite me out?”

He laughed, shook his head. “I . . . thought you might like a drink.”

“You’re a mensch,” I said.

“Plus Edvard’s not a big beer drinker. Doesn’t really get this place.”

He took another long, appreciative swig.

“How are things with Edvard?” I said.

A pained look crossed his face. “God,” he said, “where to start?”

“Hei.”

We looked up. Two women, both in their early thirties, each carrying a pint.

“Hei,” said Jo, turning back to me. “I did a stupid thing, Cal.”