Martinsen got back to his office, picked up a phone and dialled a number.
‘Who is it?’ asked a woman.
‘Me. Lars.’
‘Oh, Lars. How super. Where’ve you been?’
He ignored the question. ‘Marvellous to hear your voice, Karen. Listen! Can I lunch with you?’
‘When?’
‘Now. Today?
‘You mean here? Yes, of course. But there’s nothing to eat.’
‘Want me to bring something?’
‘No. Bring yourself. That’ll do. I suppose you know the time?’
‘Ten minutes to one. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’
‘Make it twenty. I’ve got to fix the lunch.’ She laughed. ‘And drag on some clothes.’
‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that.’
‘What, the lunch or the clothes?’
‘The clothes.’
‘You haven’t improved, Lars.’
‘Want me to?’
‘No. See you.’
‘See you, Karen.’
It was over a month since he’d last visited the flat but she hadn’t forgotten the things he liked: strips of raw sild, Jarlsberg cheese, oatcakes and butter, akvavit and beer with which to chase it. He’d brought chocolates. Karen adored them.
As always she’d set out lunch on a coffee table in front of the studio couch. Its cottage weave stirred pleasantly erotic memories.
She was wearing blue slacks, a high-necked white jersey, and looked very desirable. She was, he decided, one of the nicest, most undemanding and unacquisitive women he’d ever known. And always incredibly pleased to see him, notwithstanding the long intervals between visits.
‘Akvavit?’ She raised an inquiring eyebrow.
‘Please. You’ve not forgotten.’
‘No.’ She filled two spirit glasses, passed one to him.
‘Skol,’ he said, raising and lowering the glass in mock ceremony.
‘Skol,’ she inclined her head. ‘Lars, where have you been all this time?’
‘Here and there.’
‘That’s what you always say.’
‘It’s true.’
‘I suppose you tell that to your other girl-friends?’
‘That’s not true.’
‘I won’t cross-examine you. It’s fabulous having you here.’ She held her head on one side, her eyes inquiring. ‘What time do you have to go?’
He looked at his watch. ‘In one hour and ten minutes exactly.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘It’s always the same. Why do I bother?’
‘I wonder about that too. Know something, Karen?’
‘What?’ she challenged, still upset, unsure of him.
‘Nothing really. Sounds silly put into words. Oh hell, I don’t know. But when I’m with you I feel so relaxed. Out of the rat race. In a sort of dream world. You do something for me.’
‘Do I?’ She touched his hand. ‘I like to hear you say that.’
He put down his glass, then hers, pulled her across his knees, cradled her in his arms.
‘Lars,’ she protested. ‘You’ll upset…’ He smothered the rest of the sentence with his mouth.
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘I want you.’
Later in the bedroom, after they’d made love, they lay in each other’s arms talking in subdued tones. Half sentences about their relationship, their emotions, the lives they led, the things they did and hoped to do. Time caught up with them and he was late and worried as he stood in front of the mirror dressing, seeing her reflection as she lay naked on the bed, thinking how attractive she was, how lovely her body. And he thought how good it would be if things were different. If I didn’t have to use her in the way I do.
She, watching him dress, thought what a lean strong body he had, what a resolute face, how marvellously he made love, what good company he was. But I hate using him like this, she decided. I wish it could be different.
When he’d gone she went to the window, watched him come out of the building, hurry up the street, flag down a taxi. After it had disappeared she stood there, naked, thinking. She put on a caftan, went to the telephone and dialled a number.
A man with a North American accent answered.
‘Can I speak with Joe Carless?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ said the American. ‘Hold a minute.’
While she waited she thought of Lars Martinsen. Why, she asked herself, do I have to get emotionally involved with the bloody man when it’s the last thing I want? She didn’t know that at the same moment Lars Martinsen, travelling down Drammensveien in the taxi, was thinking much the same thing.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice on the line.
‘Joe Carless here. Who is this?’
‘It’s Karen, Joe.’
‘Hi, Karen.’
‘Joe, I’ve got that hi-fi catalogue at last. Would you like to collect it?’
‘Why that’s great, Karen. I’ll come right up if that’s convenient.’
‘It is, Joe.’
‘Okay. See you then.’
‘Bye, Joe. See you.’ Her voice trailed away.
‘You all right, Karen?’
‘I’m okay, Joe.’ She replaced the receiver, slumped on to the studio couch, buried her face in a cushion. ‘Oh, Christ!’ she said. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’