Chapter 9 #2
‘Louis?’ I say. ‘You speak French as well as Sudanese, right? Sebastien comes from Norway, but he can speak French too.’
A number of words from Thorsen elicits a shy reply from Louis but, soon enough, the men are speaking freely in French. When Thorsen holds out his hand again, Louis takes it happily.
‘Merci. Merci.’
Thorsen turns to me as Louis walks to the far side of the pool, kneels and pulls out the filter bucket. ‘Can we talk?’
‘What did you talk to Louis about?’
‘His family. Mine.’ Thorsen stands back. ‘Do you want to change?’
I retrieve my Birkenstocks from outside the change room and slip them on. ‘I go to my room like this.’
When he rubs around the back of his neck, he winces.
‘Does your finger hurt?’
A frown. ‘Yes.’
The silence between us lengthens. I can’t get to the door that leads to the lifts without skirting around him. An ornate gold sign hangs inside the beautician’s door. Fancy bottles and expensive boxed candles line the shelves behind the full-length tinted window.
‘How can we work together when you walk out?’
‘The pool closes at ten.’
‘Kingsley said you come here every night.’
‘He’s had too much to drink.’
‘He likes you. So do the others. Robin told me to go easy on you.’
‘Because of Friday?’ I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘That’s over.’
‘Why won’t you tell me what happened?’
‘Why is your finger painful? How did you hurt it this time?’
The briefest of hesitations. ‘At the gym.’
‘Lifting weights?’
‘Rowing.’
‘You push yourself at everything, don’t you? I’m fit too. Why tell the doctor that I’d been unwell?’
‘It could have been relevant.’
‘I know how to handle myself. I know what I can and can’t do. Your colleague Nathan Gillespie saw that. Why can’t you? Why aren’t I what you expected?’
‘You’re evasive. Defensive.’
‘You flinch whenever anyone mentions the air force. Also, you have a fractured finger. Maybe you should have failed the medical.’
Eyes narrowed, he holds out his hand. The sleeve of his jacket pushes up, exposing a snowy white cuff and two smart cufflinks.
‘Give me your opinion.’
A challenge I shouldn’t accept because it means I’ll have to touch him. But also a challenge I should accept because he believes I won’t have the courage to do it.
As I step closer, he lowers his head. Black and white. Fresh linen. Pine soap.
‘An ornithologist’s opinion?’
‘How many bones in a wing?’
‘A humerus, radius and ulna, carpal bones, a carpometacarpus and others.’ When I take his hand in both of mine, my heart rate goes up. I clear my throat, tap on his fingers. ‘A bird also has digits.’
He spreads his fingers. ‘A hand has twenty-seven bones. Eight carpal, five metacarpal, fourteen …’ The hint of a smile. ‘In Norwegian it’s “falanger”. I don’t recall the English.’
‘Phalanges—the bones from knuckle to knuckle. How do you know all that?’
He shrugs. ‘The hand surgeon.’
‘You must’ve grilled him.’
We’re both looking down at his hand when he points to his little finger. ‘The original break was more serious.’
‘Is there scar tissue?’
‘Yes.’
‘What other breaks have you had?’
‘Leg, arms, ribs.’ A shrug. ‘Skiing. Falls.’
‘How long did you keep the tape on your finger?’ My voice is crackly.
‘A week.’
‘It should have been taped for longer.’ The belt of the robe has loosened again. When I pick up an end to tighten it, Thorsen takes it and wraps it around his two fingers. He looks up and our eyes lock.
‘How much longer?’
He’s not tugging at the belt, so why does my body lean towards him? His eyes are deep brown in the shadows. Soft footsteps in the distance. Louis. A door opens and shuts. Silence again.
‘Till it didn’t hurt any more. Then another week.’
‘Felicity.’ Thorsen speaks softly, pronounces every syllable of my name. ‘Why do you shorten your name?’
‘It’s old-fashioned and long. I’ve been Flick ever since I can remember.’
‘In Norway, you could be called Lisse.’
‘Lissa?’
‘The spelling is L I S S E. The pronunciation is “Lissa”.’
‘You shorten your name too.’ I focus on the belt, wrapped around his fingers. ‘Is Sebastien a common name in Norway?’
‘No.’ His gaze goes to my mouth. ‘You don’t call me Seb or Sebastien.’
‘In my head I …’
‘What?’
‘Thorsen.’
He mutters under his breath, then says, ‘You don’t trust me.’
‘I haven’t had reason to. Do you trust me?’
He pulls his hand free of my belt and then holds it out. ‘Take my finger.’
As if on autopilot, I do as he asks, wrapping my fingers around his.
‘Put pressure on it.’
As I squeeze, I look closely at his expression. His eyes are bright. ‘Are you sure that doesn’t hurt?’
‘Yes.’
I open his fingers, fan the fourth and fifth. I take his other hand, compare the two. His grandfather’s ring glistens softly under the lights.
‘Is it silver?’
A slight lift of his lip. ‘In The Lord of the Rings, gold is linked with evil. This made an impression on my grandfather. The ring is platinum.’
‘What were you reading at the airport?’
‘Aldoux Huxley’s Island.’
I trace the H and the T.
When he tenses, I look up. ‘What?’
After briefly closing his eyes, he frees his hand, takes my lapels and pulls the sides of the robe closer together. Then he takes charge of our hands and tangles our fingers. He’s breathing deeply. So am I.
‘Stop avoiding me.’
Is that what this is all about? Making my knees weak and my heart thump so I’ll do what he wants? So I’ll be awed and impressed like Robin and Kingsley and everyone else he comes into contact with?
I yank my hands away. ‘You undermine me.’
‘I’m concerned.’
I spin on my heel and stalk to the door, but when I push against it, it won’t budge. Thorsen stands to the side. His hand hovers over the after-hours green button, but the door stays firmly closed.
‘Open it.’ My voice is sharp.
‘Tell me what happened on Friday.’
When I was taking in his scent and looking at his hand and wondering what he was reading, my fears about tomorrow weren’t a weighted lump of worry in my chest. Now the fears are back, bigger and badder and bolder.
I flatten both hands on the glass. ‘Let me out.’
His eyes are intent. ‘What are you hiding?’
‘Now!’