Page 46 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)
The cool lighting in the garden makes the white brick facade, the window frames and woodwork look like the icing on a gingerbread house.
Towards the bottom of the slope, a sailboat with a rusty keel is chocked up beneath a tarpaulin.
Linus watches Ida reach for her bag on the passenger seat and close the door. Her leather coat is unbuttoned over her burgundy dress.
The air is crisp and cold as he gets out of the car, locks up and follows her over to the house, the neighbourhood so quiet that he can hear the frigid wind blowing through the bare branches of the trees in the distance.
Ida drops her keys, and they jingle as they hit the cracked paving stones.
‘Nice place,’ he says, pausing behind her.
She bends down to retrieve the keys, then opens the door and turns off the alarm. After dumping her bag on the sideboard, she turns on the light and hangs up her coat.
‘Remind me where Sven Erik is,’ says Linus.
‘In Tenerife, on a golf trip,’ she replies without looking at him.
‘Right, right.’
As Linus takes off his shoes and puts his jacket down on the floor by the wall, Ida makes her way through to a large lounge with a scratched floor.
*?*?*
Ida Forsgren-Fisher is a twenty-six-year-old graphic designer at an ad agency, with wavy blonde hair and pale-blue eyes.
She flicks the switch on the floor lamp, casting a warm glow over the coffee table, then turns around and studies Linus in the hallway.
He has a hole in one of his socks, and she watches him twist the fabric so that it is hidden beneath his foot.
She turns on the patio lights.
The reflections in the glass always create the illusion of inside and out switching places, and it looks as though Linus is walking across the yellowed grass towards the house, when in actual fact he is making his way down the hall to the lounge.
They are both members of the Engelbrekt Church chamber choir, Ida a high soprano and Linus a baritone.
They were rehearsing a work by Hildegard av Bingen earlier this evening, and the music and lyrics from the twelfth century had risen towards the vaulted ceiling in the chancel.
‘Can you see the lake .?.?. or the sea, or whatever it is, when it’s light?’ he asks, gesturing vaguely towards the floor-to-ceiling glass.
‘Yeah, from every window. Feels like this place was built for the views,’ she replies.
Linus is four years older than Ida, with a master’s degree in literary studies, but he shares her passion for the Pitch Perfect films. His parents are from Estonia, and he is incredibly blond, with pale brows.
He often radiates a nervous, slightly jittery energy, though he really opens up once you get to know him.
Ida can feel the music from choir practice lingering in her as if some sort of wistful anxiety, but that could just be down to what they are about to do.
‘I need wine,’ she says.
They head upstairs, and she realises that her legs feel slightly shaky. Through the gaps between the worn treads, she notices her son’s missing soft toy on the floor by the door to the boiler room.
When they reach the landing, she turns on the cabinet lights in the open-plan kitchen and leads Linus over to Sven Erik’s new wine fridge.
‘You’re the expert, you pick,’ she says as she takes out two glasses.
‘Expert is a bit .?.?. Uff, my voice sounded weird there,’ he says nervously. ‘Expert is a bit much, but I’ll happily take a look .?.?.’
‘Red,’ she says.
He opens the tall door and takes out a couple of bottles to study the labels.
‘Great wines .?.?. What do you fancy? A Pomerol?’
‘Don’t mind. You pick.’
‘A 2016 Chateau Lagrange,’ he says.
Ida catches sight of herself in the large mirror on the wall, and is taken aback by the intensity on her face.
Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted.
She hears Linus pull out the cork and pour the wine. He runs an antiquarian bookshop-cum-wine bar, and often says that it is easier to sell old wine than old books.
Ida turns to him with a smile and whispers a soft thanks as she takes the glass he holds out to her. They toast and both take a sip.
‘Very nice,’ he says quietly, holding the wine up to the light. ‘But it’ll be even better once it’s had time to breathe.’
She strokes his arm. ‘I read the book you gave me. It was .?.?.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I liked it, a lot.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that .?.?. God, I sound like someone out of a Bergman film again,’ he says, laughing a little too loudly.
He gave her a copy of This is How You Lose Her , a collection of short stories by Junot Díaz, last week, and she devoured it over the course of two evenings.
Ida reaches for his free hand and presses it to her cheek. She holds his gaze and hopes that they both start to feel a little more relaxed soon.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asks, leaning back awkwardly against the island, where the wood veneer has started to bubble.
‘This. Us .?.?.’
Linus looks down and swirls the wine in his glass, high up the curved sides. He lifts it to his nose and inhales, then takes a small sip with a frown.
‘Incredibly good Merlot,’ he says.
‘You really do like wine, don’t you?’
‘Does the hat wear a funny Pope?’ he replies, glancing up with a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Did I just say what I think I did?’
‘I thought it was a joke.’
‘Good .?.?. let’s pretend it was.’
‘Does the hat wear a funny Pope?’ she repeats with a smile.
‘Stop.’ Linus laughs.
Ida pours herself another glass. He has barely touched his, she notices, and she puts the bottle back down on the moisture-damaged counter and checks her phone to see if she has any messages.
‘I’m just going to nip to the loo,’ she says.
She goes through to the main bathroom, locks the door behind her, lifts the toilet lid and looks down at her phone as she pees.
Ida met her husband, Sven Erik Fisher, through work.
He was the managing director of a large payment services company that hired the ad agency where she was a graphic designer, and once the campaign was over, he invited her out to dinner.
She felt flattered by the attention, ended up drinking far too much, went home with him and wound up pregnant.
Their son Oliver turned five this summer.
Ida is twenty-six, and Sven Erik is sixty-eight and retired.
It often feels as though she is just pretending to be an adult – playing families in this strange house – when what she really wants is to catch the train back to her parents’ place in Katrineholm, put on some comfy clothes and let them fuss over her while she watches TV.
Sven Erik has been married three times, and has four adult children. He has lived in South Africa and California, and once drove across Australia on a motorcycle.
Ida was only twenty when they met, and he was the third man she had ever slept with.
She doesn’t want to hurt him, but nor is she prepared to be old before she even turns thirty.
She has spent a lot of time thinking about this, and is convinced he would rather she cheat on him than lose her entirely – though of course she can’t know for sure.
Ida has tried to ask for advice from various places, but she hasn’t managed to get any answers.
She fills the toothbrush mug with lukewarm water, rinses between her legs and dries herself off with a hand towel. She then wipes the toilet seat with paper, flushes and washes her hands.
She first started flirting with Linus towards the end of August, and so far they have held hands in secret, gone out for a drink after choir practice three times, and kissed twice.
But tonight is the night it finally happens. Sven Erik is away, and Oliver is sleeping over at his best friend’s house. The thought gives her butterflies.