Page 106 of Short Stack 3

After a minute, I stir. “What’s your most outstanding parental memory?”

He considers the question for a moment and says, “When my mother and father fucked in the room next to where I was having my piano lesson.” I bite my lip, and he nudges me. “Laurie, don’t laugh. It is the reason I’m not a concert pianist.”

“Well, that and you couldn’t carry a tune in someone else’s bucket.”

He drills a long finger into my ribs, and I shout, contorting to get away. “Enough,” I cry until he takes pity on me and pulls me back into his arms.

“There is one good thing about this weekend,” he muses.

“Is it that your family could give Johnny Depp and Amber Heard a good run for their money?”

His lip twitches. “No, it is that I shared it with you. Everything is better when that happens, yes?”

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say softly.

Chapter 2

Copenhagen

Mags’s mother, Frida, reels into the dining room carrying two plates before rebounding off the door with a light thud.

“Dinner is served,” she announces with a slight slur to her voice.

I make a sound of distress as she tilts the plate, and half the meal slides off onto the floor.

“What was that noise you just made?” Mags enquires in a low voice.

I smile up at Frida as she deposits my plate in front of me and watch as she staggers back into the kitchen. Then I sigh as I look at the plate. It contains peas. Rather a lot of them, but still just peas.

“Is she vegetarian, or did the meat drop off in the corner of the room?”

He chuckles. “She’s not vegetarian. She just forgot to cook the meat. I’ll probably find it in the oven or a cupboard later on.”

“Now I know why you put up with my forgetfulness.”

He takes a sip of his wine. He’s been drinking since we got here, and this is his fifth glass. I eye him worriedly. He’s so supremely confident that his rare moments of vulnerabilitymake me ferociously protective of him. I’m careful, though, because he shies away from too much sympathy.

“You are forgetful,” he says thoughtfully. “While she just doesn’t care.”

I pat his hand. “Well, peas are okay, I suppose. Don’t they make you see in the dark? I should eat a vat of them if that’s the case.”

“If we stay longer than a weekend, you will eat that many.”

I prod a pea. “Why this vegetable out of all the world’s vegetables?”

He gives me his crooked smile that is laced with far too much charm for one man. “It fulfils a dual purpose — food and a cold bag to press on her head when she has a hangover.”

“Wow! A true multipurpose food. We should have some on hand for when the judge comes for dinner.”

“That sounds far more interesting than the actual snooze fest he induces.”

I shake my head, amused as ever by him. It’s a fact that whatever party my family throws, you’re sure to find the judge and Mags in a corner arguing the finer points of the law. Neither seems to listen to the other’s point of view, but they both seem happy with this state of affairs.

We look up as his mother enters the room again, her ever-present shadow at her heels. Carl is her current partner, or boy toy, as Mags refers to her companions. He’s slim and dark-haired and has a surly air about him — the tortured artist in residence, I think cynically.

They put down more plates, and I look hopefully at their contents, but it’s still just peas. I slump slightly, hearing Mags snort beside me. I foresee us creeping out to the nearest McDonald’s when this evening is over.

The conversation picks up, and I drift as, despite Mags’s best attempts to steer her, his mother persists in talking aboutmutual acquaintances who I don’t know, and does this in Danish, which I don’t speak, apart from the few rude words and endearments that Mags has taught me. Left to my own devices, I look around. We’re in Copenhagen at Frida’s flat for the weekend. It’s a beautiful place with high ceilings and Frida’s artwork everywhere. Apparently, she’s lived here for years, which is why I find it so startling how few photos of Mags there are.

---