Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [66]
But not any more, four years and eighteen thousand hours of travelling back and forth later.
The nursery really was in an idyllic setting, in an inner courtyard off one of the quietest and smartest streets on Östermalm. Almost all Miranda’s friends there had posh names with ‘von’ or ‘af’.
Okay, so there was a pair of twins with the common name Andersson, but they were the daughters of Sweden’s most popular film actress.
She turned the last corner and was met with a storm of icy shards, making her gasp, ready to admit defeat. She stopped to catch her breath, squinted and could just make out the entrance further down the street, as she leaned against the building at her side.
It wasn’t the wind or sleet that was getting to her, she was well aware of that. And it wasn’t some hideous disease that would end up being named after her either.
It was her job, or rather it was the boiling cauldron of power-struggles that the owners of the company had ignited when they set up TV Scandinavia. Today the family that owned the biggest film distribution company in Scandinavia, and which also happened to own Annika’s bloody tabloid, had sabotaged all the negotiations they had conducted with both foreign and Swedish film companies. The agreements that formed the very foundation of TV Scandinavia had been broken, one by one, starting at half past eight that morning. The owners had been busy over the weekend, scaring the life, not to mention the profit, out of every single independent film company north of the Equator.
I wonder what’s going to happen, Anne thought, closing her eyes against the darkness. Is this television company built on solid ground, or quicksand?
She was desperate to get home; and desperate for a drink, a bloody large glass of vodka with lemon and ice, cotton-wool for the brain, and a chance for her body to relax.
Not in front of Miranda, she thought. She could see Annika’s face in front of her when she had told her about her father’s drinking, how he had made such a fool of himself, falling over and shouting, until he was eventually found dead in a snowdrift a few hundred metres from the works in Hälleforsnäs.
Can’t let that happen, she thought, bracing herself against the wind and setting off again towards the nursery.
A strong smell of small children and wet raincoats hit her as she opened the door. The porch was a sea of brown mud, with the cheery command ‘Hello! All shoes off!’ on a colourful sign above the shoe-rack.
Anne wiped her feet half-heartedly: the state of the doormat suggested that it wasn’t going to make any difference. Then she tiptoed into the hall where all the little blue shelves, an alcove for every child, were full to overflowing with children’s clothes, stuffed toys, drawings, photographs of holidays, birthdays, Christmases.
She took a deep breath, about to call to her daughter, when she caught sight of the woman in the door to the kitchen.
Tall, thin, with long, strawberry-blond hair in soft curls over one shoulder. A Palestinian shawl.
Anne blinked.
So ridiculously medieval, wearing a Palestinian shawl.
The woman stiffened when she saw Anne, her eyes taking on a look of slight panic.
‘I . . .’ she began, collecting herself. ‘My name’s Sylvia, I’m Sylvia.’
She took a few steps forward, and held out her hand.
Anne stared at the woman, nausea growing like a tornado in her stomach, unable to lift her hand or return the greeting.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said. The words sounded brittle and echoey to her own ears.
Mehmet’s new woman, his fiancée, his future wife, the woman who was carrying his new child, she was standing in front of her looking confused and pretty terrified.
‘I . . . was going to pick Miranda up, but she said that you . . .’
‘It’s my week,’ Anne said, unable