Happy New Year

1. Fredrik

When Nina walks into the bedroom, I’m standing at the wardrobe.

‘Does this make me look fat?’ she asks.

I shoot my wife a hasty glance. ‘You look great.’

My gaze returns to the wardrobe and the three ties hanging inside. Obviously the mint-green one from my high-school graduation is out of the question. The funeral tie matches my mood but not my shirt. With a sigh I take out the pale blue one with silver stripes, a Christmas present from my mother-in-law that felt outdated even when she gave it to me five or six years ago.

‘You hardly even looked at me.’

Nina has moved over to the full-length floor-mirror. She twists this way and that as she examines herself, her forehead creased.

‘It fits you perfectly,’ I say.

Nina tugs at the green fabric of the dress. I join her at the mirror, smell her familiar scent. My wife has been wearing the same perfume for years now, so long that even I remember what it’s called: Acqua di Giò. She tugs at the fabric again, snorting and muttering something I don’t catch. I try to sort out the knot in my tie but don’t get very far.

‘You’re wearing that one again this year?’

Nina is still facing the mirror, but her focus has turned to my tie.

‘It’s all I’ve got.’

She takes a long step over to the wardrobe but gives up when she sees the options left on the hook.

‘You really need to invest in a new one for next year.’

I nod just as I hear the doorbell ring.

‘That must be Jennifer.’ Nina turns to the open door.

‘Smilla! Will you get that?’

There’s a sudden racket from upstairs; Smilla’s feet thud down the stairs, and soon two voices reach us from the front hall.

Nina looks at me. ‘What time is it?’

‘Twenty past five.’

‘Twenty past?’ She hurries to the dresser and starts rummaging through her sock drawer. One pair after the next lands on the floor at her feet. ‘Shit. Why do I always forget to buy nylons?’

A moment later, Nina leaves the room with something black in one hand.

‘What’s up with the boys?’ she asks on her way into the hall. ‘Are they ready?’

‘I’ll go see how they’re doing.’

‘Vilgot has to wear his dress shirt!’ Nina calls from the bathroom. ‘It’s hanging on the chair.’

I button my pants, put on my blazer and inspect the result in the mirror. The tie makes me look like a clown. All that’s missing is the red nose.

Vilgot and party clothes are a bad combination. Our six-year-old would be happy to live in sweatpants, and sometimes I wonder why we insist on dressing him up. Anton has become more compliant in this arena. He likes to wear nice clothes, and these days he spends time in front of the mirror each morning, fixing his hair. The junior-high-school effect.

‘Nice shirt,’ I say as we go downstairs.

Anton shrugs but flashes me one of his rare smiles.

As we reach the kitchen, I stop short. I take in the two girls at the counter and try to calm my racing heart. Jennifer is not a monster; she is my daughter’s friend. A perfectly ordinary teenage girl. I have to clear my throat more than once before my voice will work.

‘Goodbye.’

Jennifer doesn’t react; it seems like she’s made up her mind not to hear me. She just keeps chopping lettuce, her back facing me. Her short, tight dress leaves very little to the imagination, and I do everything in my power not to let my eyes linger in the wrong places.

Still, I feel like I’ve been caught in the act when Smilla turns around. Her face lights up; she turns down the volume on the portable speaker and comes over to me.

‘Bye.’ I receive a firm hug. ‘Thanks for helping talk Mom into this.’

As if I had any choice.

With my arms around my seventeen-year-old, a ridiculous but recurring thought pops up: how I wish it were possible to make kids stop growing when they reach the age of nine. Nine-year-olds are perfect beings. They are smart and reasonable, but they still have that unshakeable belief that their parents can fix anything. An afternoon at Leo’s Play Centre is all it takes to appease the need for some excitement in their lives.

‘You know the deal.’ I take a step back and meet my daughter’s eyes. ‘Don’t let in anyone who wasn’t invited, no –’

Smilla covers her ears.

‘I know!’ She lets her hands fall. ‘You and Mom haven’t shut up about it for two weeks.’

I let go of her.

‘We just want you to be safe.’