Jorge checked out map books in the bookcase. The scale was too bad. He checked the back pages of the phone book-he wanted to know how to get back to this cottage when he’d completed his mission in the city. Looked for Dyvik.
Considered boosting a car.
20
It was, without a doubt, the bash to break all bashes-the year’s most prestigious, profligate private party.
JW lived off the hype several days beforehand. It was high-gear, high-class, high-line. Most of all, it was so goddamn jet set.
Carl Malmer, alias Jet Set Carl, alias the Prince of Stureplan, was turning twenty-five and was having a courtly revelry in his four-room, sixteen-hundred-square-foot apartment. The apartment was on Skeppargatan and the rooftop terrace’d been booked for months.
The hottest chicks were booked; the kids from the best families were invited; the bottles and models set would naturally be featured at the party.
JW arrived with Fredrik and Nippe. They’d pregamed at Fredrik’s. It was eleven-thirty. Overflowing coatracks stood in the foyer, as did an enormous black dude without bouncer tag but sporting a spot-on style: black leather jacket, turtleneck, dark jeans. Fredrik grinned. “A bouncer at a private party?”
The bouncer checked them off a list and waved them through.
They hung up their coats and walked in.
Heat, perfume, party din, and the smell of eau de cash hit them as richly as at the velvet-roped entrances of Stureplan’s best clubs. They made their way through a crowd of underage girls who seemed to have just arrived- they were fixing their faces in front of the mirror in the hall. Nippe was drooling, couldn’t help himself; started flirt- chatting with one of the girls. Fredrik asked where Carl was. Someone pointed toward the kitchen. They pulled Nippe with them.
The kitchen was nearly six hundred square feet. An island remade as a bar filled the middle of the room. Two guys in bandannas mixed drinks. The place was packed. The music from the speakers: the Sounds. In the middle of it all was Jet Set Carl himself, wearing a white tux and a blinding smile.
“Hey, boys.” Carl hugged and welcomed them. Introduced them to the two chicks he was talking to. Top-tier superbimbettes. Fredrik made conversation and Nippe pulled his telltale tail tales. JW looked around with a bored expression. Had to keep the surface ripple-free, couldn’t show how impressed he was.
He thought, Carl must make a killing on his parties and club gigs, almost better than you make on C. The kitchen area was redone. Boffi, Italian design for people with black cards. Corian countertops. Slim, discreet cabinet handles. Oven in brushed stainless steel, Gaggenau-four gas burners and a built-in grill. Tap and levers in stylish chrome floated like a swan’s neck over the sink. The fridge and freezer were of stainless steel, American extra-wide size, with round, wide handles. To the left of the fridge was a wine cooler with a transparent door, filled with bottles. Having a kitchen like that scored more adult points than having kids.
Right mix of A-, B-, and C-list celebs in the crowd. Bloggers, actors, models. Scenesters and artists. Princess Madeleine plus entourage. He glimpsed former Social Democratic minister Leif Pagrotsky smack in the middle.
Nippe was swallowed up, disappeared on a mingle crusade. Fredrik lit a cigarette.
Jet Set Carl turned to JW. “Good to see you. You haven’t been here before, have you?”
“No, but it’s a damn nice apartment you’ve got.”
“Thanks. I like it myself.”
“How many people did you invite tonight?”
“Many. I’ve booked the rooftop terrace, too. Probably hundred and fifty people up there already. Gonna be wild. You’ve got to go up and check it out; that’s where the food is. There’ll be some stuff happening on the roof later, too.”
“What about your neighbors?”
“I booked rooms at the Grand for the families next door and below me. They were happy as hell.”
“Who wouldn’t be for a free night at the Grand Hotel? Everything cool with the stuff?”
“Sure thing. Sweet that you could get it on such short notice. It’s in the bedroom.”
“Sophie here?”
“Yup, check the terrace.”
JW thanked him, moved on. Felt good that he and Carl were starting to become tight.
He walked out through the foyer, nodded to the bouncer, and took the stairs up.
The terrace looked like a forest of metal mushrooms-gas-powered heaters to soften the October chill. Carl didn’t take any risks-a third of the terrace was covered by a party tent. But there were no rain clouds tonight. The gas ’shrooms spurted heat and the girls felt good in their tiny tops and bling. JW was scanning the scene for Sophie. The crowd pushed from all sides. Enormous speakers blared Robyn’s latest hit.
A dozen or so girls stood in the middle of the crowd, trying to get the dance party going. Maybe it was too early; in an hour, the terrace would explode. People just needed more booze and a noseful of blow.
The buffet was stylish. Tiny portions on tablespoons: a crouton with fois gras, sour cream with fish roe and red onion, potato salad topped with Russian caviar. You just cleaned the spoon with one bite, tossed it in a bin on the table, and then chose a new gourmet spoon to your liking. Farther down were plates with wineglass holders attached. The buffet consisted of lime-marinated chicken kebobs, tabouleh, and sweet-and-sour chili sauce. The catering crew worked efficiently. The morsel-laden spoons were quickly replaced with new ones; the bucket was emptied in time with the filling of wineglasses.
Real New York vibe in the Stockholm night.
There were ads for Kharma posted everywhere. Jet Set Carl was no dummy-he’d write off this entire party as a company expense.
Sophie was standing at the far end of the terrace, where the party tent began. JW made his way to her. She was talking to a tall guy in a pinstriped blazer and skinny jeans. The guy had some sort of trendy image painted on the back of the blazer. He was unshaven, with hair as short as his stubble. JW recognized him. He was a famous ad guy with a cheesy smile permanently glued to his face. Named Sweden’s seventy-third-sexiest man by Elle a couple of years ago. Generally infamous cunt-catcher. A total tool.
He positioned himself near them, wanted to be introduced. Sophie dissed him majorly, kept talking to the trend tool. JW shoved his hands in his pockets, made a serious effort to nail the disinterested look again. His couldn’t-care-less chin hung.
She looked right through him.
He gave up, skipped her. Played the game and went downstairs to the living room.
A single word in his head: fuck.
Something was wrong with Sophie. JW worried. Did she see through him? Would she call his bluff? Predetermined tracks were hard to hide. A guy from Robertsfors just couldn’t make it with the Stureplan scene’s coolest chic.
A thought: What’s my yearning for Sophie about anyway? Maybe Sophie was like an incarnation of Camilla. A party girl with brains. Something’d happened to his sister, something he repressed. And still he was doing what she’d done. Moved to the city, partied, spent money. Was falling for girls who looked like her. Was faking Life, like she’d done. Camilla’d lived some kind of double life, definitely in front of his mom and dad, but also in front of JW. That had become apparent after he saw the pictures of her riding in the Ferrari, though she’d never told him about the car. She’d only hinted to JW once. Said, “I make more dough in two months than Mom does in a year.” Why? And how was it possible that she’d only had one friend at Komvux, Susanne? JW remembered her as Robertsfors’s number-one socialite.
The thoughts churned. He thought about what he’d found out three days ago from Jan Bruneus.
It was all so shady.
He had to know more.
The living room was more crowded than a late subway car on a Monday morning. In one corner, a
