She took her time answering. ‘I have to admit, between you and me, and I’m holding the wine to blame if I regret this conversation later, that I could have had a happier childhood, though whether being fostered would have solved the problem is impossible to say. What I do believe, what I’m sure of, is that my life would have been better if I’d been allowed to stay with my mother from the beginning. I know children aren’t supposed to remember anything about their first few years, but remembering is one thing, sensing is another. I believe I picked up on the insecurity and that it’s affected me all my life. I also believe that my poor mother felt guilty from the moment she handed me over to her dying day. And guilt can be a heavy burden.’
‘I’m sorry, Hulda, I didn’t mean to be … intrusive.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m through being over-sensitive about the past. What’s done is done. No point crying over spilt milk, and all that. Though, inevitably, you do regret some things: they’re always lying in wait to ambush you in your dreams.’ Hulda allowed a silence to fall, her gaze wandering around the handsome living room, reflecting not for the first time that Pétur had never known what it was like to go without.
He opened his mouth to speak but she got in first: ‘You’re always asking about me.’ She smiled to show that this wasn’t intended as a criticism. ‘Let’s talk about you now. Did you and your wife build this house?’
‘Yes, we did, as a matter of fact. It’s been a wonderful place to live. A good location, of course, a nice area. We came very close to selling it at one time, but I’m extremely glad we didn’t. I’m very attached to it. It holds so many memories – both good and bad, of course – and I have every intention of staying put, although it’s far too big.’ After a beat, he added: ‘Too big for one person, that is.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why did you come close to selling it?’ Her detective instincts alerted, she had pounced unerringly on that hint of evasiveness.
Pétur didn’t answer straight away. He got up and fetched another bottle, then settled on the sofa again, still at a polite distance.
‘It looked as if we were heading for a divorce at one point, about fifteen years ago.’ Hulda could tell that it was an effort for him to talk about this.
She waited without speaking.
After a lengthy pause and another sip of wine, Pétur elaborated: ‘She had an affair. It had been going on for several years without my having a clue. When I discovered by accident, she moved out. I sued for divorce, and it had almost gone through when she came round to see me and begged for a second chance.’
‘Did you find it easy to forgive her?’
‘Yes, I did, actually. Perhaps because it was her and I’d been in love with her all those years. That never changed. But I think it’s just my nature. I’ve always been quick to forgive. Don’t know why.’
On hearing this, Hulda reflected that maybe they weren’t as well suited as she’d thought. Because she was certainly not quick to forgive.
‘You mentioned you used to live out on Álftanes?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Did you have a house there?’
‘Yes, it was …’ She paused to choose her words carefully. ‘It was a gorgeous spot, right by the sea. I still miss the sound of the waves. How about you? Have you ever lived by the sea?’
‘At one time. My father was a doctor out east, but I’m a city boy, really. Grew up to the roar of traffic rather than surf. Did you sell up when your husband died?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t afford the upkeep.’
‘You said he died quite young, didn’t you?’
‘He was fifty-two.’
‘Awful, just awful.’
Hulda nodded.
Despite the gloomy subjects they were discussing, the sitting room seemed like a haven of tranquillity. Outside, the night was as dim as it ever got in May. But at that moment her phone rang, shattering the peace with its loud, intrusive racket. With an apologetic glance at Pétur, Hulda scrabbled in the depths of her bag. It came as a surprise, to put it mildly, when she saw who was calling, especially since it was past midnight. It was the nurse who had knocked down the paedophile; the woman Hulda had given such a big break to by pretending that her confession had never taken place. She had hoped never to hear another word about the incident.
Hulda cut off the call without answering it. ‘Sorry, never a moment’s peace.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Pétur smiled.
Hulda put the phone on the table beside the new bottle of red. Clearly, they weren’t finished yet; there was plenty of wine left.
Her phone rang again.
‘Damn it,’ Hulda muttered, louder than she’d intended.
‘Go ahead and answer,’ Pétur said kindly. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’
But Hulda had absolutely no desire to speak to the wretched woman, who was probably still in a state about the crime she had committed and desperate to relieve her conscience by unburdening to the only other person who knew the truth. Hulda had no intention of acting as her confessor, especially not now. She was enjoying Pétur’s company and there was no reason to go and ruin the atmosphere.
‘No, it’s nothing urgent. In fact, I can’t understand why she’s ringing this late. So inconsiderate.’ Hulda cut the call again, and this time switched her phone off. ‘There, perhaps we’ll be left in peace now.’
‘More wine?’ Pétur asked, eyeing her half-empty glass.
‘I don’t mind if I do, thanks. It had better be my last, though. I’ve got to work tomorrow, remember.’
Pétur filled her glass. There followed rather a long silence. Hulda had nothing to say; she was too tired, and the alcohol didn’t help.
‘Was it a deliberate decision on your part not to
