The Nightmare

Автор

Ларс Кеплер

Жанр

Мистика

Год написания книги

2019

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‘If there aren’t enough,’ her mother says. ‘That’s all I meant.’

‘I get it,’ she says quietly.

‘So it’s poor you now, is it?’ her mother asks with barely concealed irritation.

‘It’s just that … Viola is actually an adult, and …’

‘I’m disappointed in you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You always manage to eat my meatballs at Christmas and Midsummer and …’

‘I can go without,’ Penelope says quickly.

‘Fine,’ her mother says abruptly. ‘That’s that sorted.’

‘I just mean …’

‘Don’t bother coming for Midsummer,’ her mother interrupts crossly.

‘Oh, Mum, why do you always have to …’

There’s a click as her mother hangs up. Penelope stops talking and feels frustration bubbling inside her as she stares at the phone, then tosses it aside.

The boat passes slowly across the green reflection of the verdant slopes. The steps from the galley creak and Viola wobbles into view with a martini glass in her hand.

‘Was that Mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she worried I’m not going to get anything to eat?’ Viola asks with a smile.

‘There’s food,’ Penelope replies.

‘Mum doesn’t think I can take care of myself.’

‘She’s just worried,’ Penelope replies.

‘She never worries about you,’ Viola says.

‘I’m fine.’

Viola sips her cocktail and looks out through the windscreen.

‘I saw the debate on television,’ she says.

‘This morning? With Pontus Salman?’

‘No, this was … last week,’ she says. ‘You were talking to an arrogant man who … he had a fancy name, and …’

‘Palmcrona,’ Penelope says.

‘That was it, Palmcrona …’

‘I got angry, my cheeks turned red and I could feel tears in my eyes, I felt like reciting Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War” or just running out and slamming the door behind me.’

Viola watches as Penelope stretches up and opens the roof hatch.

‘I didn’t think you shaved your armpits,’ she says breezily.

‘No, but I’ve been in the media so much that …’

‘Vanity got the better of you,’ Viola jokes.

‘I didn’t want to get written off as a troublemaker just because I had a bit of hair under my arms.’

‘How’s your bikini line going, then?’

‘Well …’

Penelope lifts her sarong and Viola bursts out laughing.

‘Björn likes it,’ Penelope smiles.

‘He can hardly talk, with his dreadlocks.’

‘But you shave everywhere, just like you’re supposed to,’ Penelope says with a note of sharpness in her voice. ‘For your married men and muscle-bound idiots and …’

‘I know I have bad taste in men,’ Viola interrupts.

‘You don’t have bad taste in anything else.’

‘I’ve never really done anything properly, though.’

‘You just have to improve your grades a bit, then …’

Viola shrugs her shoulders:

‘I did actually sit the high-school paper.’

They’re ploughing gently through the transparent water, followed high above by some gulls.

‘How did it go?’ Penelope eventually asks.

‘I thought it was easy,’ Viola says, licking salt from the rim of the glass.

‘So it went well, then?’ Penelope smiles.