March, 2018

At first, Ian couldn't recognise the ceiling when he woke up. He blinked a few times but the image above him didn't change. Then he slowly remembered he'd left the art show venue with Michelle, only intending to see her to her hotel, but somehow ending up in her bed.

He sat up and could just about distinguish her sleeping profile beside him. He didn't want to sneak out behind her back and make a run for it, but he couldn't think of what else to do. Whatever had happened between them throughout the night now felt to him more like cheating than his relationship with Ingrid ever had.

That train of thought made him wonder what Ingrid had got up to. He clearly recalled scanning the venue for her before leaving, to let her know he'd take Michelle back to her room and return to the house. Except she'd been nowhere to be seen and never replied to any of his texts, either.

Ian reached for his phone. Caitlin had written that she'd last seen Ingrid chatting to some Danish dude named Magnus. His eyebrows jumped. Magnus? What was he, a stripper? Shaking his head, Ian set his phone aside and swung his legs out of bed.

It struck him, as he showered, that Michelle was now a widow, too. A strange thing for his lovers to have in common. He chuckled to himself. A married man sleeping around with widows. Not something he would have ever imagined himself doing. Not something he looked forward to ever confessing about.

Ian towelled himself dry and tried to pinpoint the exact origin of his tumble in the hay with Michelle. The tension had been there from the moment Ingrid's neat little trick had brought them together last year, at the meeting that could have made or broken the future of his company. Another layer was added to it following his intimate conversation with Michelle, while jointly looking after her baby niece.

Then the other night... She had come on to him. Strong. It flattered him and he entertained her flirtatious banter – which reminded them both of bygone youth. He almost refused when she invited him to a nightcap. The promise of getting drunk on reminiscences convinced him.

Michelle got ever bolder with every glass of red wine she consumed. He'd had to fight the urge to kiss her on several occasions. Until she didn't. It scared him, at first. He wasn't sure he wanted to lose the memory of her beautiful young body – flawless in hazy retrospect – and have it replaced with the real version of it, aged and imperfect.

Wasn't sure he wished that for her, either. Ingrid had praised his physique in no uncertain terms, but surely his twenty-year-old self must have had a lot more going for it. And maybe Michelle had also stored some idealised version of him in her recollections.

Before he knew it, though, he'd given in. Michelle had a way of coaxing him out of his head and into her own. Briefly, he'd thought of Ingrid and felt he was betraying her when she was at her most vulnerable. But then, Michelle made him feel wanted – in ways that Ingrid never could have.

Ingrid wanted him, all right – but she only wanted the flesh. How had she put it? The sausage without the pig.

Michelle wanted him differently. She wanted all of him and gave all of herself in return. And he accepted her, cherished her sincerity, opened himself up wholly to her.

The bedside lamp was on in the room as he stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped up in a complimentary bathrobe. The first traces of sunrise had also started to emerge.

"Good morning," Michelle greeted. She was sitting up against the headboard, scrolling through her phone.

"Morning," he mumbled.

"Are you mad at me?"

His head whipped round. Was that the impression he was giving?

"Mad? At you?" He began to sort out his clothes. "No, if I were mad, it'd have to be at myself, really."

"Why?"

Should he play the faithful husband card? Decided firmly against it. Way too far gone for that bald-faced lie.

"It's just... it's complicated, Michelle. I'm sorry. It's definitely not you, it is very much me."

"Is it because of Ingrid?"

Ian froze as he bent over to put his trousers on. Slowly straightened up.

Michelle sighed. "You know, all those years ago, when Shannon was batting her eyelashes at you and making you swoon with her femme fatale moves... I told you, didn't I? That she was after the money."

"Yes, I remember." He buckled his belt with more force than necessary. "You also said the kid might not even be mine."

"I'm glad I was wrong about that one. Your daughter's lovely. At least Shannon's got that much going for her."

Ian began to button up his shirt. "You're still bitter about it?"

"Bitter? That you didn't want me because I was richer, smarter, stronger than you? Ian... you overestimate yourself."

"My masculinity was fairly fragile at that age, wasn't it?" He carelessly tucked his shirt in, forewent tie and waistcoat and slid into his jacket.

"So you feel it's improved since?"

"You think it hasn't?"

"I don't know what to think, really. I mean, as much as I like Ingrid, it's rather telling that she's got you wrapped around her little finger."

"That's not true." Except, of course, it was.

Michelle raised her eyebrows at him. "You aren't?"

"I..." A reluctant gulp. He stood watching the wristwatch in his hand. Flipped it over to reread the dedication on the back. "I love her," he whispered, as if to convince himself of the fact. "I really do."

"Why are you here then?"

Good question.

"Listen, Ian."

Michelle put her serious mien on. The one that meant business.

"I like you. You know I do, I always have. And Ingrid's an intriguing character. Hot young blood. With a hell of a brain to boot. And apparently way more baggage than she can carry. And maybe you're helping her. I really hope you are. I hope she's helped you, too. But right now, it doesn't seem like the load is balanced. Doesn't feel like you're equally sharing your burdens. And that's not sustainable. You know it isn't. I'm not letting you be stupid again."

"So, what, are you saying I should just kick her to the curb?"

The thought sickened him. Michelle didn't know what she was asking. She hadn't seen Ingrid hurting – shedding bloodcurdling tears. Hadn't had to hold her through endless nights of panic and terror. Hadn't saved her from drowning in chlorine-infested waters.

"No, of course not," Michelle said. "I'm saying you should get your shit figured out once and for all. You're running out of time – we are running out of time. Your forties is not the time to be drifting. Wallowing in self-pity. No. It's the time to act. Seize control of your life while you still can. Are you in control of your life, Ian? Or are you just going with the flow, too afraid to break out of the comfort-zone bubble you've built for yourself?"

*

Ingrid couldn't help giggling as Magnus blew raspberries on her belly before kissing his way up to her left breast, where he paused for a moment and planted a smooch on her heart. She threaded her fingers through his loose locks, her other hand resting on his shoulder. His lips then marked her collarbone, her neck, her jaw... until they found her mouth and captured it.

Her arms moved along his lithe torso, settling around his waist. Magnus plopped down on his side next to her, a hand on her hip. Hers came up to his tattooed chest.

"That's new," she murmured, tracing the ink.

It pictured a tree, its twisting bare branches sprawled across the lower half of his pectorals and its tangled roots ending below his sternum.

"Yeah."

"What is it? I mean, what is it supposed to represent?"

He stared down at himself. "It's Yggdrasil. The tree of life in Norse mythology. The centre of the cosmos." He reached for her hand and brought their palms together. "The entire universe is built around it and it connects all Nine Worlds." He intertwined their fingers and looked her in the eye.

"The most charming Viking, as ever."

Magnus chuckled and leaned in to kiss her long and soft on the forehead. "I wanna show you something," he said. "It's a little film I'm working on. I'm too late to submit it to Tribeca but maybe they'll have it at the Toronto film fest. Was considering Venice but we're no longer on the same continent."

Ingrid sat up as he got out of bed to fetch his computer, which he opened on his lap.

"I'm calling it, well..." An uneasy snicker. "I'm calling it Ingrid. And no, it's not necessarily named after you, it's a common Scandinavian name. A queen consort of Denmark was called Ingrid – the mother of the actual Queen of Denmark. Besides, of course, Ingrid Bergmann. And you know what it means?"

Ingrid shook her head, frowning. "No, I don't think you've ever told me."

"It means 'Ing is beautiful' or 'loved by Ing.' And Ing is... Lemme look it up real quick, 'cause it's a lot of things." He googled it and pulled up a short Britannica article about it. "Here we go. The god Freyr, also known as Yngvi or Ing, was the ruler of peace and fertility, rain, and sunshine and the son of the sea god Njörd. And his sister Freyja was the goddess of love, fertility, battle, and death."

"Wait, what's that again? Peace and fertility, rain and sunshine, son of a sea god? What an eclectic mix!"

Magnus smiled. "Quite. Which is what I'm trying to convey in my short film. You'll see."

He settled back against the headboard and balanced the laptop on his thighs as Ingrid snuggled up next to him.

"The cuts are still a bit choppy and I still have to put some scenes in, but the gist of it is there. Might change the ending a bit."

He put his arm around her shoulders and Ingrid made herself comfortable at his chest.

The film opened with a dreary wide shot of rain on the beach. The dark, heaving sea stretched in the distance below grey skies. A single fallen tree lay on the rocky shore, old, bare and broken. The camera turned, showing a woman in a messy suit, with a nearly empty bottle of liquor in one hand, and a small, decrepit cabin behind her. It looked like she'd been standing in the rain for a while – she was soaked through. Had dark circles under her eyes.

The setting then abruptly changed to a tense family dinner. The same woman, in the same clothes, except dry. From the little Danish she could remember, Ingrid deduced they were talking about the woman's failed marriage and a job she'd quit. Something about a queen. The Queen of Denmark? They kept saying 'Ingrid.' The woman looked like she was about to snap.

She didn't but upon leaving her parents' house, she went straight into a bar where she ordered an entire bottle of whiskey. Magnus explained on the side that the Ingrid from the film was discussing the origin of her name with the barman – she'd been named after the current queen's mother, the queen consort Magnus had mentioned previously, in hopes she'd be destined for equally great things.

Except Ingrid the commoner had just left her seemingly perfect husband and her soul-numbing job at an important bank. A brief scene of rough sex in a dim back alley with the barman. Drunk and dishevelled, she wandered the streets at night, cars speeding past, headlights closing in and moving on.

The film cut back to the rainy seaside. The woman dropped the bottle and stripped on the beach. Braved the waves and struggled to stay under. But the sea wouldn't have her. She fought the foam and swallowed salty water, breathed out bubbles, drifted for a few calm moments, closed her eyes and waited to be taken away...

Another wave hit and washed her ashore.

A swift montage of happier times – with her husband, with her friends and family. Making love, traveling, celebrating. Then several short scenes punctuated each of her perceived failures, driving home the desolation that resounded within her. Heated fights with her parents and her spouse. Crying in bars. A fit of rage in her car.

All of that, muted, until the sound of the crashing waves began to seep in. Her face filled the screen. Her eyes twitched open as the clouds floated apart, letting sunlight filter through. The sky cleared more and more and she smiled as the sun shone down on her. The smile slowly trickled into laughter, which gave way to streams of tears on her cheeks.

Cut to black.

Ingrid found herself battling tears of her own at the end of the viewing. It felt like her very heart ached in her chest.

"What do you think?" Magnus asked in a sombre whisper.

"You Scandinavians and your bleak filmmaking," she commented, not quite meaning it.

"Well, it ends on a hopeful note, doesn't it? She accepts Yngvi's love and, at peace with herself, smiles at the sunshine. Rain, peace, sunshine," Magnus counted on his fingers.

Ingrid slid down under the blanket. "Hope dies last, doesn't it?"

"Something like that. There's always hope for tomorrow."

Ingrid closed her eyes and sighed, her ches trising high and dropping slowly. "Not always, though, is there? There's not always a tomorrow."

*

song of the chapter: memories by maroon 5