All three of them ordered boeuf bourguignon accompanied by a robust red wine. Then they moved on to a wine bar where they drank a fruity red Beaujolais that Didrik loved.
When Bente went to the bar to order, Didrik accompanied her. His hand rested on her hip, which sent tingles all the way down her leg. She looked over at their table, where Elnaz sat watching them. She gave Elnaz a quick smile.
After that, they went to yet another wine bar. Bente would remember the next two hours only as a series of snapshots. They stayed in the bar’s outdoor area, where people were drinking wine in the chilly spring evening. It was necessary to move closer to one another to be heard through the hum of conversation. The warmth of Didrik’s body was tangible to Bente. And his smell. That fragrance.
They ended up in a club with low ceilings, where thecrémantwas served in tumblers. The sensation of bubbles on her tongue. Didrik moving even closer. A cover band playing nineties music. Bryan Adams’s “Summer of ’69,” Oasis’s “Wonderwall.”
When they lost Elnaz in the crowd, his hands clasped both her hips. Standing with her back to him, feeling his warmth enveloping her whole body, she felt as if she were on fire. He drew her to him as they listened to the band. Sang along to “Lemon Tree” by Fools Garden.
Elnaz returned long enough to say she was going home with a tall blonde. When the band finished playing, Bente and Didrik left the club.
“They were surprisingly good,” Didrik said.
“Really good. But then everything about the nineties was good.”
Didrik considered this assertion. “You could be right. Movies and music—the best was created in the nineties.”
Bente nodded in agreement.
“The movies are clever, well made, and brilliant, and ... most important of all, good storytelling,” he went on. “And maybe that’s the magic of it all. It was a special time, I still remember when my brother and I first sawThe Usual Suspects.” He smiled and took her hand.
“We used to go to the movies once a month, always on a Friday.” Bente smiled as the memories came rushing into her mind like a spring flood. Memories of Dad. Maybe it was the wine, the reminiscences about the nineties, or simply the effect Paris had on her. She felt melancholy and happy at the same time.
“Fantastic—the whole family?”
“Yes. I loved our movie Fridays. But most of all I loved Saturday afternoons with my dad in the kitchen. While he cooked dinner, he danced and sang along to Springsteen, always with a glass of red wine in his hand.” The memory made her smile. “I danced, too, and helped out. Mom would join us later. Sometimes we had people over, sometimes it was just us.”
She fell silent. Realized what she was doing. She didn’t usually babble about her father like this.
When Didrik had asked about him before, she had answered with practiced ease, said what she always said so that the first question wouldn’t lead to more. Now the words were bubbling out of her. At least she had stopped herself in time. It wasn’t that she couldn’t talkabout her father. It was simply that she didn’t want to go into everything with just anyone. Did Didrik even want to hear her story? He was on a work trip, he was trying to get over his wife. Yes, there was chemistry between the two of them, but that didn’t mean he wanted to listen to Bente’s life story.
“So what’s your favorite nineties movie? Is itThe Usual Suspects?” she said in an attempt to change the subject.
“It’s a strong candidate, obviously. But nothing can match a really good American teen movie.American Pie,Dazed and Confused. Those were fantastic.”
“American teen movies . . .”
He squeezed her hand and she stopped.
“There’s just something about those adolescent emotions, those carefree American teenagers,” Didrik said, turning to face her.
Maybe it was the reference to tumultuous teenage feelings, or nostalgia for the nineties, but something had made the air between them vibrate. When he took a step closer, she drew him to her and kissed him. His lips were soft, his tongue cautious as it sought hers. A shiver ran through her entire body when the tips of their tongues met. Although she had dreamed of and wondered about his kisses, she hadn’t been prepared for what it would actually be like. He really did taste of peaches—but also of cherries, from the wine. And honey and a hint of saltiness.
He kissed her hungrily, much more intensely than she had imagined, and it was impossible not to respond to that hunger.
They were standing by a doorway, and even though she knew she shouldn’t—she had to stop now, they were colleagues, he had to get over his wife—she pulled him into the opening. Pushed him up against the wall and kissed him even harder.
He was soft, smooth, warm. Totally, totally glorious, and it made her wonder why she had wasted her kisses on other men all her life, when Didrik Holgersson had existed all along.
The door opened, a young girl came out, and they quickly stepped apart.
“God, I feel like a character in one of those teen movies—caught in the act,” Bente said, allowing the girl to pass. The girl looked horrified, which made them both burst out laughing, and Bente kissed him again, kissed him while he was laughing.
She drank his smile. And she wanted more.
He pulled her along with him in the direction of the hotel, and soon they were in the foyer. He was still holding her hand. They half ran up the stairs, with him leading the way, and Bente had barely enough time to tell herself again that this was a bad idea. He was just about to divorce, he was going through a breakup. And she ... She was supposed to be professional, making a serious TV show. She couldn’t jump into bed with her cohost.
And yet: It wasn’t forbidden. Definitely not. They were two adults, free to do exactly what they wanted.
