‘Bokelund Castle lies on an island surrounded by a moat, created in the seventeenth century by diverting water from the nearby Tornaby marsh, which is one of Skåne’s largest wetlands. It is also a Natura-2000 area, supporting a wide range of flora and fauna.’
Switch to a shot of deer with the light behind them, ferns, moss, a dragonfly dancing over a tranquil pool, a skein of geese crossing a blue sky.
Back to the drone. A new angle, this time a variation on the opening image, finishing at the top of the stone steps where she and David are now standing.
‘Since 1996 the castle has been owned and run by the Bokelund Foundation, which was started by Count Rudolf Gordon, the last private owner. The foundation is unique; its aim is to benefit the Tornaby area and its residents. Among other things, it funds a bus service and a local medical practice, and also awards grants. The castle has recently been restored to its former glory.’
End.
‘What do you think?’ David looks both eager and nervous at the same time. ‘They’ll add the interview we’re about to do.’
‘Great,’ Thea says, and immediately regrets her choice of word when she sees his expression. ‘Professional,’ she adds. ‘Extremely professional.’
David looks happier. He closes his laptop and places it on the stone balustrade.
‘The producer just sent it to me.’ He points to the short man in the baseball cap who’s standing a short distance away, talking to the cameraman and the sound guy. ‘There’s a bit of tweaking to do, plus the music track, but they’ll put that on after the interview. I think it’s going to be fantastic – as long as the weather holds out.’
He glances anxiously at the sky. It’s warm for the second half of April, and the spring sun is shining, but a band of grey has begun to grow on the horizon.
‘This has to be perfect,’ he mutters, probably as much to himself as to Thea.
She places a hand on his arm. ‘It will be. Don’t worry.’
David nods, forces a wry smile. He’s wearing spotless chef’s whites. His beard, peppered with grey, has been neatly trimmed along his jaw line, and his blond hair is neatly slicked back.
A woman with a make-up kit attached to her belt comes up to them.
‘Hi – can I just powder your forehead?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
The make-up artist is around thirty, a good fifteen years younger than both Thea and David. She’s also very attractive. Not so long ago David would already have switched on the charm, given her the confident, wolfish grin that’s so difficult to resist. But David is not his usual self. From time to time he nibbles, apparently unconsciously, at one thumbnail; the flesh around it is red, and the make-up artist has to work hard to disguise the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
She turns to Thea.
‘Are you appearing on screen?’
‘No,’ David answers for her. ‘My wife is a little shy.’ He winks at Thea as if to reassure her that everything is OK, that there will be no more arguments; he respects the fact that she doesn’t want to appear on TV. Thea knows it isn’t true.
‘David, can I have a word?’ the producer calls out.
Thea moves over to the wall. She would really like to slink down the stairs, sneak off home to the coach house, stay as far away from the camera as possible, but the TV feature is a big deal for the castle. At the very least she has to stay around and look interested.
‘How’s it going?’ says a voice behind her.
‘Fine.’ Thea tries to hide her surprise. In spite of her height, David’s mother has an unfailing ability to materialise unexpectedly. Ingrid is tall – taller than Thea. Straight back, broad shoulders, no hint of the stooping posture that often creeps in after retirement. Her steel-grey hair is cut short, her eyes sharp behind her glasses.
‘The weather looks promising – that’s good.’
Thea nods in agreement.
‘What time is Dr Andersson arriving tomorrow?’ A quick change of subject. That’s how Ingrid operates.
‘Nine o’clock,’ Thea replies, even though she’s absolutely certain that Ingrid knows exactly what her timetable is.
‘And she’s going to take you around the area. Show you the surgery, explain how everything works.’
Statements, not question.
‘Mm.’
‘Sigbritt Andersson is an excellent GP,’ her mother-in-law continues. ‘She’s meant a lot to Tornaby.’
Thea waits for the reservation that is hanging in the air. And here it is, right on cue.
‘But Sigbritt has always been nosy, ever since she was a child. You have to think about what you say in her company, if you know what I mean. Particularly when it comes to personal matters.’
Ingrid pauses for a couple of seconds – just long enough for another abrupt change of subject.
‘I hear you’re off the medication. Glad you’re getting better.’
Thea says nothing. Silently thanks David for overstepping the mark.
‘You and David need each other.’ Ingrid nods in the direction of her son, who is talking to the producer and the interviewer. ‘You need a chance to recover. Get away from everything that’s happened.’ She continues to nod, emphasising her words. ‘By the way, I’m working on the guest list for the preview dinner. So sad that your parents are no longer with us.’
The new topic of conversation seems innocent enough, but it’s always hard to tell with Ingrid.
‘Yes,’ Thea replies. The lie is so well-practised that it doesn’t even feel untrue.
Ingrid touches her arm. ‘You should know that Bertil and I regard you as our own daughter.’
The gesture surprises Thea, and she doesn’t really know what she’s expected to say. She and David have been together for a number of years, on and off, but they’ve only been married since last November. She can probably count the number of times she’s met her in-laws on the fingers of one hand, and Ingrid Nordin is not the kind of person who’s in the habit of showing her emotions or
