He leaned over the counter and gave me a fatherly look, or perhaps he was trying to hit on me. He was at the age when both were possible, maybe he wasn’t sure about it himself. But then I had to ask him, otherwise I wouldn’t know how to proceed.

“I’m looking for a doctor,” I said. “A doctor. A . . . women’s doctor?”

He drew away from me suddenly, distancing himself, and his smile disappeared. “Right . . .” he said. “I see.”

At first he didn’t say any more, but then, he didn’t need to, because I could see that I wasn’t the first. He had checked in many girls from abroad like me—we constituted a not insignificant segment of the city’s tourist industry at that time. We came alone, we weren’t going to visit Big Ben or Covent Garden; all we needed was a box of painkillers, a hot water bottle, and a quiet room with good soundproofing so we could cry in peace.

“So you need a gynecologist,” he said finally. His tone of voice was neutral, but he didn’t meet my gaze. He stood there for a moment as if he couldn’t make up his mind: Was that a no?

But then he scribbled something down on a notepad, tore off the page, and handed it to me. I accepted it—reckless male handwriting, letters slanting to the left. A name and an address.

I looked up, mumbled thank you.

“You should be married,” he said. “You shouldn’t be forced to do this.”

I couldn’t reply, because I couldn’t say that I wasn’t forced to do this, not the way he meant—that there was still somebody who would probably marry me if I were willing to become the person he desired, but that I didn’t want him and absolutely didn’t want his child. The world didn’t need this child, not another child, at least not our child. If the receptionist had asked me why, I would have said that there was nothing more to explain, it was so obvious: it was the ones who wanted children who should explain themselves, not the rest of us. I had maybe believed otherwise for a while, Magnus had tried to get me to believe otherwise, but after Eidesdalen I knew better than ever that I was the one who was right.

I just thanked him again and lifted up my knapsack, struggling a bit getting it on my back.

The receptionist didn’t lend me a hand. “Hope you enjoy London,” he said, turning away.

I pushed the elevator button and stood there waiting, but it didn’t come.

The receptionist had sat down. He must have seen that I was standing there waiting, but he made no attempt to explain, to say that the elevator was slow or maybe out of order—he just sat behind the desk, completely indifferent.