“Bonjour, Maman.”

Isobel kissed her mother’s smooth, powdered cheek.

“You’re sweaty,” said Blanche.

“Sorry,” Isobel meekly murmured before they walked in through the wide entrance to Nordiska Kompaniet together. They moved through the luxurious department store, between well-kept Östermalm youths, upper-class men and women weighed down with bags, and affluent tourists, toward Café Entré on the street level.

“Blanche, wait!”

A man around Blanche’s age stopped them. Isobel recognized him from the tabloids as a count and friend of the king. Blanche’s face lit up. They launched into a conversation in French, and Isobel waited impatiently. Blanche Sørensen was still a well-known face, and people often wanted to get her attention to talk. Sometimes Isobel wondered whether it was her mother’s way of keeping her anxieties about growing old at bay—allowing herself to be admired by men. Blanche held out her hand and the gray-haired aristocrat kissed it elegantly before he dipped his head to Isobel and disappeared.

“He called on me when your father died. Now he’s married to a woman thirty years younger than he.” Blanche shook her head. “Men.”

Isobel laid her jacket over the back of her chair.

“What would you like, Maman?”

She had thought about canceling their coffee date at the last minute, but she hadn’t dared. What did that say about her? A grown woman who didn’t dare say no to her mother.

“Just a coffee,” said Blanche. “I’m not hungry, though I haven’t eaten since breakfast. But I’m not much of one for food, as you know.”

Ordinarily, Isobel would have pointed out that her mother needed to eat, following which Blanche would say something about how little and seldom she ate, how uninterested she was in food, before she went ahead and ordered a sandwich that she would then devour. But Isobel didn’t have all the time in the world today, so she simply fetched coffee for both of them. She cast a glance at the clock behind the counter. She was meeting Alexander in three hours, and she had one last thing to pick up. Had she ever felt more expectant or terrified? Felt more alive and reckless, like an exciting, sexy, attractive woman? Stupid question, of course. She knew the answer was no, no, and no. She set down the coffee cups on the table. She didn’t really need any caffeine, if she was honest; her body was jittery enough already.

“It’s been a while. What’s so important that you don’t even have time to see your mother for days?”

“I called,” Isobel pointed out.

“If you think that’s enough, then …”

Isobel weighed her words as she studied Blanche’s pale green dress. An item of clothing like that probably cost enough to pay many of Medpax’s bills. “I was at your dinner,” she reminded her. “And since that, I’ve barely been at home. I don’t know if you heard about Chad, but it was tough. I ended up in the middle.…”

“This coffee is cold,” Blanche interrupted her, putting down the spoon. “I like my coffee scalding hot, you know that. Can’t they even manage to make a decent coffee anymore? What’s wrong with people?”

“I’ll get another.”

Isobel got up, fetched a new cup, and sat back down. She cast another glance at the clock.

“Can’t you make it five minutes without looking at the clock? Do you do this with everyone, or is it just me? It’s very impolite.”

“Sorry. Is the coffee better?”

But now she had managed to annoy her mother.

“I don’t know why it always has to be so difficult to spend any time with you. All of my friends have such fun with their daughters. Anne af Scheele goes on vacation with her daughter. Nina Bengtzén’s daughter is so kind and considerate. Why do I have to have a daughter who can’t even sit still and drink a cup of coffee?”

“Maman, I …”

“And what have you done with your hair? Aren’t you too old for that hairstyle? It’s nicer when you have it up, more classic. It’s all over the place now. Considering your big bone structure, you should think about things like this.”

She refused to get into a discussion about her appearance. She loved her curls, loved wearing them loose and free.

“Please, Maman. Could we talk about something else? We never agree on these things anyway.” She smiled as accommodatingly as she could. “I’ve just been in Chad. Don’t you want to hear about the hospital?”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize this conversation was only going to be about you.”

Isobel blinked. Even for her mom, that was unusually spiteful. But she couldn’t win, because Blanche was never consistent in her criticism. If she went to Chad, it was the wrong thing to do. If she traveled with Doctors Without Borders, it wasn’t right either. The whole point of most of their conversations was that she could never make her mother happy.

“Your dinner was really nice,” she said quickly.

Please, God, if we don’t start to argue, I’ll never ask for anything ever again.

“I suppose so. It wasn’t anything special.”

Blanche sipped her coffee.

“I met a man I think you know a while ago,” said Isobel, well aware that men were the topic of conversation Blanche loved most after talking about herself. “Eugene Tolstoy. He knew Grandmother, he said. Do you know him?”

“I think we met. I know who he is. Ebba De la Grip’s brother, n’est-ce pas? That woman is something of a goose, but Eugene is handsome, if I remember correctly.”

“I know his nephew, Alexander De la Grip,” she said quietly, holding her breath, and regretting the words almost instantly. But she had to say something about Alexander before she burst.

“The playboy? Why on earth?”

“We get on rather well actually.”

Blanche furrowed her smooth brow. “But I don’t understand. Why does he want to spend time with you?”

And here I thought it would be a bad idea to tell Mom about Alexander. Hah!

“Isobel, I’m only saying this for your own good. Don’t be stupid and think a man like him is interested in you. Men can’t be trusted, and certainly not that one.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

Way to go, Isobel.

“He only wants one thing, you know that, don’t you? Men aren’t like us women—they do what they want. Just be careful.”

Keep quiet now. Just. Be. Quiet.

“Things aren’t always black and white,” she said. Apparently she was entirely incapable of keeping her mouth shut today.

“You’re naïve if you believe that. And you’ll get hurt. Unfortunately, I can promise you that.”

“Don’t you think there are men you can trust?”

“No. Say what you like, but life has taught me that.”

Isobel knew that in some way that barb was aimed at her. Because Blanche had been careless enough to get pregnant with Isobel. Because Blanche, as a Catholic, hadn’t been able to have an abortion and married Isobel’s father instead. There was only one picture from the ceremony; Isobel had found it at her grandmother’s house and kept it. A stiff-looking Hans Sørensen and a three-months-pregnant Blanche. Unhappy faces, unhappy marriage. And a daughter who would be dumped with her grandmother as soon as possible. A child who would always long for her mother, the beautiful creature who swept in every now and then, with French expressions and exciting scents, and for her father, who barely turned up at all. She had heard them fight about it once, her mom and her grandmother. About whose responsibility Isobel was.

“You don’t need to care about what I say,” Maman continued, and Isobel shook off her old sorrows, brushed them away like dust from her shoulder. They were old wounds, and they didn’t actually hurt as much as they used to. “But I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been around longer than you, and you’ve never understood men, not like I do.”

Isobel looked down at her cup. She had to leave soon, otherwise she would end up saying something she really regretted.

“I know I said I could stay, but I have to go,” she said quickly. “I have a meeting. With a seamstress.”

“I should do that too. Once, I only needed to enter a room and all the men would look at me. You can’t understand how that felt. How difficult it is to grow old.”

“Everyone grows old, Maman,” said Isobel. “And you’re still beautiful,” she pointed out, because despite everything, it was true. “There isn’t a man in here who hasn’t looked over this way at you.”

“It’s hard to have had something and then lose it. I wonder if it won’t be easier for you. I’m your mother, and in my eyes you’ll always be beautiful. But you know what I mean.”

Isobel had to stand up. If she didn’t leave right now, her mother would manage to destroy all of her self-confidence.

“I’m sorry, but I really need to go.”

“Go on, then. It’s not my place to have opinions on that.”

“Maybe we can do something next week?”

“Call me. I’ll just be at home,” Blanche said, as she always did, though it wasn’t at all true. Her mother had a packed social schedule. If Isobel had been in a more quarrelsome mood, she would have pointed that out, but she had faced enough criticism and digs for today. Surely she couldn’t be expected to tolerate more than this per meeting?

“Are you going to stay here?” she asked.

Her mother adjusted her scarf, touched her earrings. They were her grandmother’s, Isobel realized, the diamond ones, antique and glittering—the ones her grandmother had promised her.

“I’m staying. A friend is coming by, if you’re leaving anyway.”

So, she had arranged to meet someone else. Isobel never learned, always got sucked into her mother’s guilt trips. Isobel leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, I’ll call you.”

She left the café. When she turned around to wave one last time, her mother had already been joined by the gray-haired count. She didn’t look up.

Isobel rushed down the steps and out of the store. She paused to take a few deep breaths outside. She had survived. She hailed a cab and used the short car journey from Hamngatan to calm herself down. She closed her eyes and thankfully felt some kind of equilibrium start to return. Her anticipation about what she and Alexander were about to do was, despite everything, stronger than the pain of a bruised ego. She stepped out of the car. Lollo opened the door and let her in with a wide smile.

She looked at the garment Lollo held out.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed.

“Do you plan on telling me what it’s for?” Lollo asked as she carefully zipped up the protective cover and handed Isobel the hanger.

Isobel shook her head. She raised her arm so the hem wouldn’t drag on the ground. She would take another cab and change when she got there.

“My God, I’d kill to know what you’re up to,” Lollo said, envy in her voice.

Isobel said good-bye. Maybe her mother was right, she thought as she waited on the sidewalk.

Maybe she was naïve and reading more into her relationship with Alexander than she ought to. And maybe all men were unreliable. But that wasn’t something she planned on worrying about right now. Maybe later, but definitely not now.

She smiled as she climbed into the taxi. Soon she would be playing with Alexander. And there was no room for any doubts.

It would be a memorable fight for dominance.

She planned to enjoy the battle. And she had every intention to win.