I got that wrong, then.
“I’ve talked about him so much with the rest of the family.”
“I understand. What ...” He broke off, suddenly feeling unsure. Perhaps she just needed a little help to get going, to let him in. “What happened when he died? Was he sick?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”
They had said so much to each other, but ... No, Didrik realized:Hehad said so much. He had opened up, exposed his innermost thoughts and feelings. About his breakup, the divorce, his and Lovisa’s relationship. His longing for children, his fucking infertility, for God’s sake. He’d told her that he probably couldn’t have children, while she ... What had she actually revealed about herself?
Once again he got the sense that this relationship wasn’t real as far as she was concerned.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to ...” But she didn’t complete the sentence.
He was at a loss. He’d been about to do something when they started this conversation—what was it? Oh yes, he remembered now.
Didrik went into the kitchen, which was filled with sunshine and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He opened a cupboard hoping to find two mugs, but a box of baking powder fell out instead. He put it back, closed the door, and moved on to the next cupboard, where he found what he was looking for.
What was it that she had said about their night in Paris? That it was a mistake. That they were colleagues, so it wasn’t a good idea. Admittedly it had all happened so fast, he hadn’t been sure, either, that he wanted to embark on something new. But had she just been making excuses for a lack of interest on her part?
He poured the coffee.
“Come back,” she called from the bedroom.
He looked at the clock. Suddenly he wanted to get out of here. He left one mug on the counter and took the other in to Bente.
“I should be heading home.”
“Please stay,” she begged. “We can talk.”
“Talk?” He gave a harsh, toneless laugh that he barely recognized. “About what? You don’t seem to want to talk at all.”
She sat up, fixed him with her gaze. “I do, just not about certain things.”
Really? What exactly had she shared about herself? Anything at all? No. And it wasn’t because he hadn’t asked. He was interested in Bente, curious about her, but he was the one who had babbled away. He’dthoughtthat she had opened up to him, just because she had shown him her Paris. But now he realized the revelations had all been superficial—the apartment where she had lived, the bakery where she had shopped, her favorite wine store.
“The problem is that I knownothingabout you. You don’t tell me anything.”
She didn’t speak, she just sat there as if she were trying to find the right words.
He went on: “I want to get to know you, I want to know more about you, but you only let me scrape the surface. It’s so obvious now. You don’t talk about your dad, or your childhood. You can’t even fucking tell me what your dream job was when you were little. For some reason you don’t think I’m the right person to share your innermost thoughts with.”
“It’s not like that ...” Bente began.
“Maybe not, but that’s how it feels.” He turned away, picked up his pants.
“He killed himself.”
He stopped in mid-movement. Turned to face her. Met her eyes, which were not sparkling now.
“Oh God, I ...” He took a step closer to the bed. “I didn’t know ...”
“No, you didn’t know. Because my father’s suicide is not something I like to talk about. It’s painful, it brings up a lot of hurt, and I don’t tell just anybody.”
“Bente, I ...” He reached out his hand, then realized what she had said. Ah. There it was. Those two words summed it all up. “So that’s how you see this? That I’mjust anybody?”
She didn’t say anything.
“I’d better go.” He sighed. “I’ll be in touch about the trip to Bordeaux.”
