Page 129 of All I Want for Christmas

Had she had an affair with Johan Trier? It was the obvious question and Darcy couldn’t discount it without consideration, not if she was to do her job. She had to look at the circumstances of Lilja’s life leading up to that last summer if she was to convey the background to a portrait of a woman in love.

Because she had been. It was the quality Darcy hadn’t been able to pinpoint before: Lilja’s direct eye contact was not so much provocative as intimate, the parting of her mouth sensual...She had been looking at her lover.

And if she was to take this hypothesis to its logical conclusion, then she couldn’t disregard the next question it posed, either: was Casper the father of Lilja’s baby, or was it Trier? The artist, being twenty-seven that summer, had been significantly closer in age to Lilja. With her husband so often absent,building the family’s fortune abroad, might an affair not have been almost inevitable between them, living in that house together? If theirs had been a marriage of convenience, she and Casper might both have found passion elsewhere. Darcy had seen the Sallys’ silent disapproval in the photograph – the family forced into being reluctant keepers of secrets as their employer’s son returned for the summer, an unwitting cuckold.

It all made sense. On arrival this morning, Darcy had gone straight to the artist’s files and looked for Trier’s 1922 diary, but there wasn’t one to be found in any of the boxes. She had checked against the red ledger too, and gone into the family files in case it had been inadvertently left there, but that was just more medical invoices for bromide and household accounts.

The diary’s absence was glaring. Trier had been a committed and disciplined diarist. He had kept a journal for every single year that she had looked at so far – it made no sense that there wasn’t one for arguably the most important year of his life, when he had created his masterpiece – and become a father?

Had he destroyed it? Or had he known better than to leave a written record – evidence – of his affair with the daughter-in-law of his patron?

She had read through his 1921 diary; that, at least, had been where it was supposed to be. She’d scanned through the summer months for mentions of Hornbaek, Lilja, Solvtraeer...even if he had just visited fleetingly, it might have helped to officially cast doubt on Casper’s paternity. But she had found no entries detailing life beyond his return from Italy to Copenhagen. She was at a dead end. She had only suspicions without proof, and she couldn’t – she wouldn’t – include anything speculative.

She checked her phone again.

Nothing. She groaned, dropping her face into her hands, knowing for a fact that Max wasn’t going to call. She was no longer the exception, but the rule. What to her was professional rigour he saw as betrayal – even though she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do the same in his own job, or if he was in her situation.

The hypocrisy of it angered her, but she also knew he was reverting to type. His walls had come down and he had enveloped her with a depth of feeling that had taken her by surprise – and perhaps him, too. He had made himself vulnerable to her and, in his eyes, this was how she responded?

She couldn’t bear it, being cast out like this. If she could just talk to him, explain...But she didn’t even know where he was. In his office? On a plane to Munich? At home?

Home...

She remembered something. She got up, strode towards Viggo’s desk and opened his drawer. The key was still there. Viggo was supposed to have returned it by now, or Max should have collected it, but she pressed it into her palm, pleased either way, and grabbed her coat.

Outside, the roads were treacherous. The fallen snow hadn’t thawed but nor had it settled into thick banks, and as the evening temperatures dropped sharply it formed a thin, icy veil underfoot. Hardly anyone was cycling, which was always a sure sign.

She stayed on the park side of the road as she walked in the bitter cold, bright headlights shining straight at her, traffic heavy as people headed for home. It was nearly the last week before Christmas and everyone was busy tying up loose ends.

Across the street, lights were glowing from the generous windows of the townhouses, extravagant Christmas trees behind the glass decked with lights and ribbons, plush wreathshanging on the doors. Christmas was nine days away and the city felt swollen with festive cheer. It was a time for happy endings and new beginnings: families coming together, lovers making memories...

But as she drew nearer, she saw Max’s house sitting in darkness. No merry-making here. No tree, no wreath. No sign of life.

She rang his doorbell three times anyway.

The key was warm now in her palm and she squeezed it, reminding herself of the intentions that had propelled her here. She had a key. She knew the code. She could let herself in and make him dinner. She could let herself in and climb, naked, into his bed.

Or...

Or she could turn around and leave again before he came back.

Fear gripped her as indecision kicked in outside the dark house. She could have her dignity or him.

But not both.

‘Darcy?’ Max asked, stopping on the pavement and looking up at her. Behind him, the car door closed and Christoff pulled away.

Darcy looked up from her crouched position on the top step. She could no longer feel her backside; she felt like a stone statue. How long had she been sitting here? Twenty minutes? Thirty? More?

‘Max.’ She was stiff and shivering but determined not to show either.

‘What are you doing here?’ His tone was flat, his face expressionless.

It was exactly the question she had dreaded: polite disbeliefshe should be here. Embarrassing herself. Embarrassing them both.

‘I wanted us to talk,’ she said, watching him slowly ascend the steps. His body language was closed, his mood hostile. ‘And to return this.’

He looked at the key, then back at her. ‘If you had that, why didn’t you let yourself in, instead of sitting in the cold? It’s sub-zero out here.’

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