The Gilded Cage. Камилла Лэкберг
Faye crept into Julienne’s room to get one of her exercise books and a pink pencil. She froze when Julienne murmured in her sleep. Was she going to wake up? No, she was soon breathing calmly again.
She went into the kitchen to pour herself some more wine but stopped and pulled out a box of Julienne’s plastic mugs instead. She filled a large Hello Kitty beaker with red wine, one with a lid and a straw. Perfect.
When the key turned in the front door she was sitting looking through The Economist, which Jack insisted on leaving out on the coffee table. She was the only person in the family who actually read it.
Jack put his case on the floor, took off his shoes and inserted the cedar-wood blocks that kept his soft, handmade Italian leather shoes in shape. Faye sat still. Unlike her usual discreet lip-gloss from Lancôme, the pink lipstick felt sticky and smelled faintly synthetic.
Jack opened the fridge carefully. He hadn’t spotted her yet. He was moving quietly, probably thought she and Julienne were both asleep.
She watched him from the gloom of the living room. Like a stranger looking through a window, she was able to observe her husband without his knowledge. Jack was always on the alert otherwise. Now, when he thought no one could see him, he moved differently. He was relaxed, almost careless. His usually upright frame was slouching, only slightly, but enough for someone who knew him as well as she did to appreciate the difference. His face was smoother, without the permanent worry line that was always there these days, even on the social occasions that were closely intertwined with his career, with their life, where the laughter and chink of glasses could be transformed into a multimillion-kronor deal the following day.
She remembered what Jack was like as a young man, when they first met. That cheeky look in his eyes, his happy laugh, hands that couldn’t stop touching her, that couldn’t get enough of her.
The light in the fridge lit up his face and she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She loved him. Loved his broad back. Loved his big hands, which were raising a carton of juice to his lips. Soon they would be on her, in her. Dear God, how she longed for that.
Maybe that longing made her body move, because he suddenly turned his face towards the polished oven door and saw her reflection. He started and spun round, his hand clutching the carton of juice, halfway to his mouth.
He put it down on the island unit.
‘Are you still up?’ he said, surprised. The line between his neatly shaped eyebrows was back.
Faye didn’t answer, she just got to her feet and took a few steps towards him. His eyes roamed across her body. It had been a long time since he had looked at her that way.
‘Come here,’ she said softly, in a high voice.
Jack closed the fridge door and the kitchen receded into darkness again. But the lights of the city outside were bright enough for them to see each other. He walked round the island unit, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward to kiss her. But she turned her face aside and pushed him down onto a chair. She was in charge now. When he reached out one hand towards her skirt she batted it away, only to place it behind her knee a moment later. She pulled her skirt up so that he could see her lace underwear, hoping he would recognize it, hoping he would see how similar it was. To hers. The young girl. The innocent student.
His hand wandered upward and she couldn’t help letting out a groan. Instead of pulling her pants aside like in the film, he tore them apart. She groaned again, louder, bent over the table, swaying gently as he unbuttoned his trousers and tugged them down along with his underpants. He grabbed hold of her hair and forced her lower on the table. He leaned over her with all his weight, nipping the back of her neck with his teeth, and she caught the smell of orange juice mixed with whisky from the flight. He kicked her legs apart forcefully, stood behind her and pushed his way into her.
Jack fucked her hard and aggressively, and with each thrust the tabletop pressed against her midriff. He was hurting her a bit, but the pain was a liberation, it made her forget everything else so that she could concentrate wholly on the pleasure.
She was his. Her pleasure was his. Her body was his.
‘Tell me when you’re about to cum,’ she groaned with her cheek against the cold tabletop, now smeared with sticky lipstick.
‘Now,’ Jack gasped.
She got down on her knees in front of him. He was breathing heavily as he pushed his cock into her open mouth. He grabbed the back of her head with both hands and forced it further in. She fought against her gag-reflex and tried not to twist her head away. Just take it. Always, just take it.
The porn scene was playing in Faye’s mind, and when Jack ejaculated she took pleasure in seeing the same look on his face as the teacher when he took possession of the innocent young student.
‘Welcome home, darling,’ she said with a forced smile.
That was one of the last times they had sex as a married couple.
Stockholm, summer 2001
The first weeks in Stockholm had been lonely. Two years after I graduated from high school I left Fjällbacka behind. Both mentally and physically. I couldn’t get away from that claustrophobic little place fast enough. It suffocated me with its picturesque cobbled streets and inquisitive people who never left me alone. All I took with me was fifteen thousand kronor and top grades in every subject.
I would have liked to get away sooner. But it had taken longer than I expected to sort out all the practical details. Sell the house, clear it, get rid of all the ghosts that crowded around me. The memories were so painful. When I walked around my childhood home I kept seeing them everywhere. My older brother Sebastian. Mum. And, not least, Dad. There was nothing left for me in Fjällbacka. Just gossip. And death.
No one had been there for me then. And they weren’t there now either. So I packed my bags and got on the train to Stockholm without looking back.
And swore never to return.
At the Central Station in Stockholm I stopped by a rubbish bin, opened the back of my mobile phone and threw the SIM card away. Now none of the shadows of the past would be able to reach me. There was no threat of anyone coming after me.
I rented a room for the summer in a flat above the ugly Fältöversten shopping mall, the one the residents of Östermalm shake their heads at and tut about it being ‘the Socialists’ fault, they couldn’t resist ruining our lovely Östermalm’. But I didn’t know any of that at the time. I was used to Hedemyr’s ICA supermarket in Tanumshede and thought Fältöversten was so upmarket.
I loved Stockholm right from the outset. From my window on the seventh floor I could look out across the ornate buildings around me, the leafy parks, the smart cars, and tell myself that one day I would live in one of those imposing nineteenth-century buildings with my husband, our three perfect children and a dog.
My husband would be an artist. Or an author. Or a musician. As different to Dad as possible. Sophisticated, intellectual and worldly. He would smell nice and dress smartly. He would be a bit hard on other people, but never to me, because I would be the only person who understood him.
I spent those first long, light nights wandering the streets of Stockholm. I saw fights in alleyways when the nightclubs closed. Heard the shouting, crying, laughter. The sirens of emergency vehicles, heading into danger to save lives. I stared in amazement at the prostitutes in the city centre, in their 1980s’ make-up and high heels, puffy white skin and needle-tracks on their arms that they tried to cover up with long-sleeved tops and blouses. I asked them for cigarettes and fantasized about their lives. The liberation of finding yourself at rock-bottom. No risk of falling any deeper into the shit. I toyed with the idea of standing there myself, just to understand what it would be like, who the men were who paid for five minutes of sordid intimacy in their Volvo with a child’s seat in the back and extra nappies and wet-wipes in the glove compartment.
That was when my life really started. The past clung to my ankles like a dead