Page 104 of Pretender

“Indeed,” Jamie says. “Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder, isn’t that what they say?” She cackles as she enters through the small doorway.

“Silly goose,” Sophie says, brushing her hand over her wife’s back.

I chuckle, following Linnea’s clearly overprotective friends into a long, narrow space with a small, well-stocked bar on the right, a number of stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling, and cabinets of bird skeletons and all kinds of weird shit lining the other side. It’s dark, cluttered, and … a little bit fucked up, to be honest.

But I like it.

Jamie orders the original absinthe for us all to share and we sit down at one of the three small tables at the back of the room. There’s a couple in the corner, but they seem to be engrossed in the items on the wall and don’t even glance our way.

“Are you ready for the interrogation?” Sophie asks, straightening up on her little stool across from me.

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” I want to smile, but I reduce it to a smirk. I’m glad Linnea has such fiercely warm friends.

The absinthe is served in two separate, dew-covered glass containers, each sitting on top of a metal woman’s extended arms. There are two taps on each vessel, dripping clear liquid into our glasses through the sugar cubes perched on top.

“I’ve not tried this before,” I say. “Normally my hard liquor is something amber.”

“I’m sure you can handle it.”

“Is part of your trick to get me tipsy?” I ask, moving my gaze from the disintegrating sugar to their faces and catch them exchanging a glance. I laugh. I’ll let them think it works. I don’t need alcohol to share my feelings about their friend.

The absinthe has a fragrant, aniseed flavour. It’s not bad, not my new favourite, but it goes down easily as it’s diluted with ice-cold water.

Jamie and Sophie ask about how I ended up in London, we talk about Cambridge, and we exchange university stories. I enjoy their easy laughs and genuine care for Linnea.

Inevitably, the conversation covers my father passing, Mum working for the Beckers and others in Cambridge, my friends and all the mischief we got into—but I’m sensing they’re trying to steer the conversation onto something in particular as they keep returning to London as a topic.

“Linnea said you’ve been misunderstood?” Jamie asks, or states, I can’t tell.

“How do you mean?”

“With that god-awful blog. All the women?”

Oh, so this is what they wanted to get to.

“Yeah, I bloody hate that blog.”

“How are they allowed to keep writing it? Isn’t it defamation?”

“They’re only ever insinuating things,” I say. “Asking questions. A lawyer wouldn’t get far with that. I’ve tried.”

“So you’re trying to get rid of it, are you? Is it right about you, then?”

“No, it’s not great for business.”

“You digress, Jamie,” Sophie says, jutting her chin to me.

“Ah yes. We wanted to ask: what do you want with Linnea? What’s your end game?”

“My end game?”

“Yes, are you just looking to date her for a bit like your other ladies, see where it goes? Or where is your mind?”

I take a slow sip of my drink. A droplet is left on the rim when I place it back on the table. I trace it around the edge of the glass with my index finger.

“Linnea is on my mind when I wake up in the morning. She’s where my thoughts go whenever there’s a moment’s peace from work, and oftentimes instead of work,” I say, chuckling, keeping my eyes on my glass and the dewdrops that run down the side of it. “She’s the one I want to talk to, dance with, listen to, watch, touch… Any moment I don’t spend with her feels like a waste of time.”

Jamie’s sharp inhale makes me glance back up at her.