couldn’t have been less concerned about time.
Mike gazed out at the street and wondered if he should give Ylva a quick call, after all. Find out if she was going to come home for supper. He decided not to. For tactical reasons. It wasn’t because he was proud.
A year ago, Ylva had had an affair with one of her clients. A restaurant owner with no notable qualities other than a cheesy grin that Ylva couldn’t seem to get enough of.
Mike had kicked up a storm. It was a soap opera from start to finish, or at least reminiscent of an episode from one. Mike was totally dependent on his wife and would rather that she was unfaithful to him for the rest of his life than be forced to live without her.
And yet, in weaker moments, hate was his companion, it latched on to him and walked beside him, too close, constantly tapping on his shoulder, demanding attention and energy.
Do something, the voice insisted. Do something.
In those moments, the world shrunk. The skies pushed down and hovered right above Mike’s head, like a basement ceiling.
He’d read somewhere that the person who was unfaithful often felt even worse. That it was all about confirmation and projected self-loathing, all that psychology bullshit that only they believed in and used to justify their behaviour.
Mike enjoyed playing the victim, to a certain extent. Not in the sense that he wanted everyone to know he was a cuckold, but in the privacy of his own home there’d be plenty of self-pity and accusing looks.
In the end, he went too far and Ylva gave him an ultimatum.
‘Things are the way they are. Either we put it behind us and move on …’
She was standing at the sink peeling potatoes when she said it. She paused, turned around with the peeler in one hand and a half-peeled potato in the other.
‘Or we’ll need to find another solution.’
Mike had never mentioned the lover’s name again.
The woman pulled Ylva’s hair hard and forced her face up.
‘How does she feel?’ she asked her husband.
She didn’t raise her voice even though Ylva was screaming and crying and talking incoherently about what had happened.
The woman didn’t want to miss a second of her humiliation, the long-anticipated retribution.
‘Like putting your cock in a bucket of hot water? She must be wide, she’s had that many in there.’
The woman pulled at her hair.
‘Well, are you? Wide?’
Ylva was crying and the snot ran from her nose. Her head bounced in time with the man’s thrusts. Her face was twisted with pain.
‘I think she likes it,’ the woman said. ‘She seems to like it. You’ll have to do it again, darling.’
Ylva pleaded with them.
‘Please.’
The woman leaned towards her.
‘I won’t do a thing,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll just watch.’
The movements quickened and then finally stopped. The man straightened up, out of breath, pulled on his pants and did up his trousers.
The woman let go of Ylva’s hair and straightened up as well. She walked in front of her husband and unlocked the door. She let her husband through and then followed.
‘You can be grateful there’s only one,’ she said, and closed the door.
10
Mike cooked the spaghetti and made the red mince sauce. The sophisticated recipe entailed browning the mince, adding Barilla tomato sauce and stirring. The food was served with ketchup and parmesan. Sanna had a Coke as it was Friday and Mike had a glass of red wine, because he felt like it.
‘How was school today?’
‘Okay.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Don’t know, all sorts.’
Sanna put some food in her mouth.
‘But you like school, don’t you?’
Sanna nodded as she chewed, mindful of keeping her mouth closed.
‘That’s good,’ Mike said. ‘You’d tell us if you weren’t happy, wouldn’t you?’
He immediately regretted it. It was a stupid question, leading. Excessive anxiety on the part of the parents that could end up as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Fortunately, Sanna’s thoughts were elsewhere. For once, she was eating quickly and shuffling her bottom restlessly around on the chair.
‘Finished,’ she announced and stood up.
She put her plate by the sink and went back to her film.
Mike cleared up in the kitchen and was struck by the guilt of TV parents. He went into the sitting room and sat down beside his daughter on the sofa. It was a cartoon DVD that they’d bought. Sanna had seen the film a hundred times before and knew it off by heart. For some reason, she liked watching films she’d already seen. As if her greatest pleasure was knowing what was going to happen.
‘This is a good bit,’ she said in advance and leaned in to Mike.
And then she laughed at something funny she knew was coming up. Mike smiled at the luxury of being able to sit beside his daughter and watch an idiotic film that would otherwise simply pass him by.
‘Shall we play a game?’ Sanna asked, as the credits rolled.
‘Absolutely.’
Sanna went and got a pile of spin-off products from various blockbusters. The rules were difficult to understand and the entertainment value zero.
‘Can we build a tower instead?’
‘You always want to build towers.’
‘I like towers.’
‘Oh, okay.’
Sanna sighed as she went over to the play boxes and came back with a plastic tray full of building blocks in various shapes and sizes.
The point was to build the tower as high as possible. They each put on one block at a time, and the one who made it topple was the loser. Mike was careful to lose convincingly. He had no time for parents who competed with their children.
He had discussed this with some colleagues. One of them refused to let his children win. And it was the right thing to do, his colleague argued, because one of his sons had just recently been selected for the junior national handball team.
Mike didn’t understand his reasoning. With the best will in the world, he couldn’t see the point in playing handball for the national junior team.
He and Sanna made towers from building blocks until it was time for bed.
‘When’s Mummy coming home?’ Sanna asked, as she settled down under the duvet.
‘She’ll be here soon,’ Mike said.
‘How soon?’
‘Very soon.’
