All the TV appearances she had never been offered tormented her. Not that she had tried to draw much attention to herself, but still. Why wasn’t there someone who had discovered her on the street, just like that Natalya Averina from Roskilde? Or like Kate Moss, Charlize Theron, Jennifer Lawrence, Toni Braxton, or Natalie Portman? She did look better than most people, and she could also sing, according to her mother.
Now she was twenty-seven, so things needed to happen soon. Patrick had been on one reality show, and she had fallen for him initially when she saw him on-screen, even though he had been voted off in the second episode. At least she had managed to get him after stalking him for a few weeks, so something had worked out. And if he could get on TV, then so could she, feminine and beautiful as she was. Every morning she spent almost half an hour shaving her legs, arms, and crotch, half an hour on her hair, and half an hour doing her face, followed by time spent selecting an outfit. Didn’t she still have a flat stomach? Didn’t her breast implants make her look great? Didn’t she have at least as good a sense of fashion as those bitches who were cast in shows as if from thin air?
Yes, something would have to happen soon. And if she couldn’t become famous, she would have to become rich. Marry a billionaire or something like that. You certainly wouldn’t become rich as a florist, nail stylist, or makeup artist, and definitely not as a washerwoman in Helsing?r. Didn’t they understand that at all? Patrick, her stepdad, and her caseworker were all out to get her. But why? She was destined for something greater. A few months ago she had gone on sick leave for stress because they all demanded too much from her. And now it was all coming back to bite her for the umpteenth time, what with all the crazy hassle with Patrick’s apartment, the fraud, and everything else.
Did it mean that her future was just this studio apartment? Would she have to rush to work early every morning and develop unsightly wrinkles from lack of sleep? Would she have to listen to Patrick’s whining year in and year out? She couldn’t deny how hard he worked, putting in extra hours in the evening for cash-in-hand jobs when he wasn’t otherwise working as a bouncer at Victoria—the nightclub where they had kissed for the first time. But why couldn’t he just come up with a great idea that would make them rich so that they could have a lovely house with nice furniture, freshly ironed tablecloths, and a couple of beautiful children?
Okay, she understood that when he came with her to social services, it was to try to help them have a little more luxury. She needed to bring in some dough, he always said, but what good did her small change do them? Patrick had material needs that her small wage could never cover. The gym three times a week, fancy clothes, and lots of pairs of cowboy boots. And cars. Okay, he already had a car—an Alfa Romeo with light-colored seats—and she appreciated it when he could be bothered to take her out for a drive. But now he would rather have another car, newer and more expensive, and that was without doubt what he would buy with the money she earned. It just wasn’t fair.
She looked down at her left hand. She had a small discreet tattoo of Patrick’s name at the base of her thumb, and Patrick had a tattoo of her name on his biceps exactly where two muscle groups fought for power, and it looked super-hot. But was that all?
Next year she would turn twenty-eight, and if nothing had happened by then, she would leave him and find another man who valued her assets more tangibly.
Michelle looked over at him lying there, half-covered in the bedsheet, stretching his naked lower body. It was actually only in bed that things felt really good with him, now that she thought about it.
“Hi,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the time?”
“You’ve got half an hour before you have to go,” she answered.
“Damn!” He yawned. “And what will you be doing today? Popping down to social services to say sorry to your caseworker?”
“No, I’m doing something else. So not today, Patrick.”
He leaned up on his elbows. “What did you say? Something else? Damn it, you don’t have anything more important to do, you stupid bitch!”
She gasped for breath. Stupid bitch? She wasn’t going to let anyone talk to her like that.
“You can’t get away with calling me a stupid bitch, I’ll tell you that much!”
“What are you going to do about it, Michelle? There seems to be something very important that you don’t understand, so you must be a stupid bitch. It’s almost three weeks since your caseworker charged us with fraud. And there are two reminders on the table that you haven’t even bothered to open. And why are you now getting letters in the mail from social services—aren’t you checking the damn e-mails they send you? It could be important. Have you thought about that? I bet they’re fines or summons or bills or some other shit.”
“You can just open them yourself and have a look if you’re that interested.”
“They’ve got your bloody name on them, so why don’t you do it yourself? Why the hell should I get more mixed up in that shit? Damn it, Michelle, get a grip or I’ll kick you out. Don’t think I won’t.”
She swallowed a couple of times. It was all too much at once. She stood up from the dressing table and was just about to shout something at him but knew that if she did, she’d pay for it ten times over.
Michelle stared down at the floor. If she didn’t keep it together she’d tear up and that would ruin her perfect makeup.
She staggered the fifteen steps out to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. She didn’t want Patrick to see how he could throw her off-balance.
“Don’t be in there too long!” he shouted from the bed. “I need to get in there in a minute.”
The mirror revealed all too clearly the effect he had on her. There was already a wrinkle on her forehead. Didn’t he know what it cost to have something like that corrected with Botox? Idiot!
Michelle grabbed the edge of the sink. She was actually feeling quite queasy just now. As if all the horrible words were in the pit of her stomach and she was about to throw them up.
She bit her lip, feeling a burning sensation in her throat. “Kick you out,” he’d said. “Kick you out!”
Her!
She vomited violently without warning, but she didn’t make a sound. There was no way she was going to let him know how he made her feel or that he could get to her so much that she threw up. She had done it a few times before, but standing there with heartburn and the remains of yesterday’s dinner in the corners of her mouth, she made up her mind that this would be the last time.
When Patrick had finally left, she systematically rummaged through all his belongings. She found a few hundred kroner here and there, and some cigarettes in his jacket pocket even though he said he had quit because it was too expensive and that she ought to do the same. She also found some condoms in the small pockets of his Levi’s.
What did he want with condoms? She was bloody well on the pill and terrified of getting blood clots from them. So what did he need condoms for?