working class. The intention was that the workers would leave their tenements in favor of bigger houses with their own patch of garden, but it didn’t take long before the better-off hijacked the idyll. Since then house prices in the area have been among the highest in Oslo.
It’s a lovely part of town, Henning thinks, as the cab comes to a halt on John Colletts Plass. Living in Ullevål Garden City bestows a certain status on its residents even though he doesn’t think that was the reason Tore Pulli and Veronica Nansen bought a home here. The properties are well maintained, plants climb up the walls, and the whole neighborhood is characterized by expensive gardens and attractive cafés.
It doesn’t take him long to identify the brick building where Nansen has chosen to remain despite her husband’s jail sentence. Perhaps it’s about holding on to what they had? Henning rings the bell and is admitted immediately. He wheezes as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, where the front door has been left open for him. He enters a hallway where a large wardrobe is concealed behind spotless mirrors. Further into the flat a chandelier sparkles from the ceiling even though no light is coming from its bulbs.
Veronica Nansen, wearing loose-fitting gray jogging pants, a pink top, and a thin gray zip-up hoodie, appears in his field of vision. She has a pink baseball cap on her head and her ponytail dangles from the back.
“You found it, I see,” she says and smiles briefly.
“Oh yes,” Henning says, still panting, and smiles. His scarsstretch and he is aware of her looking at them as they shake hands. His skin feels young, like the skin of a child.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Yes, please,” Henning replies and follows her into the kitchen. There are warm gray slate tiles on the floor, an integrated wine storage unit, a heating cupboard for plates, a steam oven, a sophisticated espresso machine, and two stainless-steel ovens, one of them extra wide. The island in the center of the kitchen alone is bigger than Henning’s bedroom.
“Let’s sit down here,” Nansen says, indicating tall slim bar stools with shiny chrome legs and bright yellow seats and backrests. “The living room is a mess,” she says, and it sounds like an apology. Henning, who always feels ill at ease in the presence of expensive objects, scales the chair and tries to make himself comfortable. Clumsily, he rests his elbows on the surface of the table where a bowl of brightly colored fruit is tempting him.
“Nice house,” he says. “Or rather—nice flat.”
“Thank you.”
Her voice is devoid of enthusiasm. She is probably used to being complemented, Henning thinks and watches her while she starts the espresso machine and finds two cups. She is shorter than he had imagined and refreshingly free of makeup. He had assumed that a woman for whom every pavement is a catwalk, or at least once was, would make an effort to pose in male company, but Veronica shuffles her feet and slumps slightly. Her hunched shoulders make her look as if she has a puncture. Perhaps her guard is down when she is at home? Henning thinks. Perhaps that’s the one place where she allows herself to be exactly who she is.
Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee spreads across the kitchen. Henning thanks her when she puts a cup in front of him.
“Tore said you’re a journalist?” she says, half-asking half-accusing, and sits down opposite him.
“Yes. I work for 123news.”
“‘ 1–2–3 News—as easy as 1–2–3 ?’”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Henning replies.
Nansen takes out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her hoodie. She offers Henning a cigarette, but he shakes his head.
“Good place to work, is it?”
“No,” he replies and smiles quickly.
“Why not?” she says and lights up. Henning stares at the flame.
“I don’t know if I would like it anywhere in the media, to be honest.”
“So why are you in this line of
It’s a lovely part of town, Henning thinks, as the cab comes to a halt on John Colletts Plass. Living in Ullevål Garden City bestows a certain status on its residents even though he doesn’t think that was the reason Tore Pulli and Veronica Nansen bought a home here. The properties are well maintained, plants climb up the walls, and the whole neighborhood is characterized by expensive gardens and attractive cafés.
It doesn’t take him long to identify the brick building where Nansen has chosen to remain despite her husband’s jail sentence. Perhaps it’s about holding on to what they had? Henning rings the bell and is admitted immediately. He wheezes as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, where the front door has been left open for him. He enters a hallway where a large wardrobe is concealed behind spotless mirrors. Further into the flat a chandelier sparkles from the ceiling even though no light is coming from its bulbs.
Veronica Nansen, wearing loose-fitting gray jogging pants, a pink top, and a thin gray zip-up hoodie, appears in his field of vision. She has a pink baseball cap on her head and her ponytail dangles from the back.
“You found it, I see,” she says and smiles briefly.
“Oh yes,” Henning says, still panting, and smiles. His scarsstretch and he is aware of her looking at them as they shake hands. His skin feels young, like the skin of a child.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Yes, please,” Henning replies and follows her into the kitchen. There are warm gray slate tiles on the floor, an integrated wine storage unit, a heating cupboard for plates, a steam oven, a sophisticated espresso machine, and two stainless-steel ovens, one of them extra wide. The island in the center of the kitchen alone is bigger than Henning’s bedroom.
“Let’s sit down here,” Nansen says, indicating tall slim bar stools with shiny chrome legs and bright yellow seats and backrests. “The living room is a mess,” she says, and it sounds like an apology. Henning, who always feels ill at ease in the presence of expensive objects, scales the chair and tries to make himself comfortable. Clumsily, he rests his elbows on the surface of the table where a bowl of brightly colored fruit is tempting him.
“Nice house,” he says. “Or rather—nice flat.”
“Thank you.”
Her voice is devoid of enthusiasm. She is probably used to being complemented, Henning thinks and watches her while she starts the espresso machine and finds two cups. She is shorter than he had imagined and refreshingly free of makeup. He had assumed that a woman for whom every pavement is a catwalk, or at least once was, would make an effort to pose in male company, but Veronica shuffles her feet and slumps slightly. Her hunched shoulders make her look as if she has a puncture. Perhaps her guard is down when she is at home? Henning thinks. Perhaps that’s the one place where she allows herself to be exactly who she is.
Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee spreads across the kitchen. Henning thanks her when she puts a cup in front of him.
“Tore said you’re a journalist?” she says, half-asking half-accusing, and sits down opposite him.
“Yes. I work for 123news.”
“‘ 1–2–3 News—as easy as 1–2–3 ?’”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Henning replies.
Nansen takes out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her hoodie. She offers Henning a cigarette, but he shakes his head.
“Good place to work, is it?”
“No,” he replies and smiles quickly.
“Why not?” she says and lights up. Henning stares at the flame.
“I don’t know if I would like it anywhere in the media, to be honest.”
“So why are you in this line of