Harry nodded. Looked at her. Had she understood? Had she realised that it wasn’t just his own life that Bjørn had taken? No, her gaze was inward, this was about her own experience. Harry was about to say something when her hand shot out. He didn’t move. Just stood there as a triumphant smile spread across her face. Her hand — clenched to a chisel — was barely touching the skin on his throat.
‘Could have killed you that time,’ she said.
‘Yeah.’
‘You didn’t have time to react?’
‘No.’
‘Or were you banking on me not crushing your larynx?’
He smiled a little, didn’t answer.
‘Or...’ She frowned. ‘Don’t you give a shit?’
Harry’s smile widened. He gripped the bottle behind him, filled up her glass. Eyed the bottle, pictured bringing the end of it to his mouth, putting his head back and hearing the low gurgling sound as the alcohol filled him, lowering the bottle, now empty, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand while she stared wide-eyed at him. Instead, he placed the almost full bottle back in the cooler. Cleared his throat.
‘What do you say we go into the sauna?’
Instead of Shakespeare’s five acts, the National Theatre’s production of
When the house lights came up for the interval, the audience swarmed out, filling the foyers and the saloon, where light refreshments were available. Helene joined the queue at the bar, while listening with half an ear to the conversations around her. Oddly enough none of them were about the play, as though that would be pretentious or vulgar. She became aware of something, a fragrance that made her think of Markus, and she half turned. A man was standing behind her, and he just managed to give her a smile before she quickly faced forward again. His smile had been... yes, what had it been? Her heart was beating faster in any case. She almost had to laugh; it must be the play, psychological priming that guaranteed it was not only her who suddenly thought they saw their Romeo in every other man’s face. Because the man behind her was by no means attractive. Not downright ugly, perhaps — his smile had revealed he had nice teeth at least — but uninteresting. Still, her heart continued to beat, and she felt a desire — a desire she couldn’t remember having felt in years — to turn around again. Look at him. See what it was that made her want to turn.
She managed to restrain herself, ordered a plastic glass of white wine and took it to one of the small round tables along the walls of the saloon. Watched the man, who was now trying to pay cash for a bottle of water while the woman behind the counter was pointing at a sign which read CARD ONLY. To her surprise she found herself considering going up and paying for him. But he had given up his attempted purchase and turned towards Helene. Their eyes met and he smiled again. Then he began walking in the direction of her table. Her heart pounded. What was this? It wasn’t as if it were her first time experiencing a man being so direct. ‘May I?’ he asked, placing a hand on the empty chair by the table.
She shot him a brief and — she assumed — dismissive smile, as her brain commanded her mouth to say, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘By all means.’
‘Thank you.’ He sat down and leaned across the table as though they were in the middle of a long conversation.
‘I don’t mean to spoil it,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘But she’s drunk poison and is going to die.’
His face was so close she could smell his cologne. No, it was quite different from the one Markus had used, more raw. ‘As far as I’m aware she doesn’t drink the poison before the last act,’ Helene said.
‘That’s what everyone thinks, but she’s already poisoned. Believe me.’ He smiled. White teeth. Predator-like. She was tempted to offer herself, feel them bite through her skin as she buried her nails in his back. Jesus, what was this? Part of her wanted to run, another part to throw herself on him. She recrossed her legs the other way, noticing — was it possible? — that she was wet.
‘Imagine I wasn’t familiar with the play,’ she said. ‘Then why would you want to ruin the ending for me?’
‘Because I want you to be prepared. It’s an unpleasant thing, death.’
‘Yes, it is,’ she said, her eyes not leaving his. ‘But isn’t the sum of that unpleasantness only greater when you have to prepare for death in addition?’
‘Not necessarily.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘Not if the joy of living is increased by the knowledge of its not lasting forever.’
There was something vaguely familiar about him. Had he been at the party on the roof terrace? Or at Danielle’s?
‘Memento mori,’ she said.
‘Yes. But now I must have some water.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Helene. And yours?’
‘Call me Prim. Helene?’
‘Yes, Prim?’ She smiled.
‘Would you like to accompany me to somewhere they serve water?’
