Page 46 of The Happiness Blueprint
“You’re definitely not Swedish anymore,” Dad says over my shoulder.
“How come?” Surprisingly, I feel mixed feelings at hearing this. One part wants to smile proudly, the smile you do when someone compliments your pet or outfit, but another part comes out all defensive and wants to goWhy am I not Swedish?
“You do the dishes with a sponge and not a brush any longer. And you apologize every time we cross ways in the house, even if we are just passing each other.”
I present my third and successful attempt at our 10:30 a.m. break the next day.
“They look delicious, Klara, but I don’t celebrate Easter,” Gunnar says.
“Not for Easter.” I remember that his religion doesn’t permit him to celebrate and do my best improvisation. “It’s my cat’s birthday! Happy birthday, Björn!”
“Well, if you say so,” he laughs. “Don’t tell me you have another cat to celebrate on Christmas?”
I pull up the calendar now that I have his attention and scan it over twice quickly. “May and June are looking painfully empty,” I say, wishing Gunnar would tell me there’s been a mistake and he’s forgotten to tell me about the ten new projects he just landed. I still haven’t told Dad the extent of it. Soon he will look at the schedule, or the revenue, or the accounts and realize what I have done with this company. I blink a couple of times.
“They are. Listen, Klara, with the change of management and a new company operating so aggressively to take our jobs, it was never going to be easy. We’ve been around for years, though. Things will pick up eventually.”
But will they?I’vebeen around for years andmy lifehasn’t magically picked up.
“Hanna has done a great job with the website and our Facebook page, but no one seems to be finding them,” I say.
“What about running some ads on local radio?” Alex says. He is dipping a hot cross bun into a coffee, not how they are meant to be eaten. I feel offended on behalf of my baked goods.
“Too desperate. Customers will see through it. We’ve always operated on word of mouth,” Gunnar replies.
“I’ll have another chat with Lennart before I head off for the day,” I promise. Not that he can do more than recommend us to every person that walks in his door.
Alex doesn’t leave when Gunnar does.
“So what’s the deal with your date? I see two Tom entries next week. This dude likes his Mediterranean cuisine. Italian on Friday and French on Tuesday.” The downside of sharing my calendar with Alex is that he also gets to take part in my private life. His side is weird notes about bin collections and Saturday treats, and I’m thinking that’s code for other, juicier stuff that he doesn’t want me to know. LikeSaturday treatswould mean intimacy with the wife. Maybe they are the type of couple that have been together for so long and have such a deep connection, sex is secondary and needs to be scheduled. Difficult to imagine reaching that level of relationship with anyone, let alone Tom.Oh right, Tom, the man you’re dating, that Alex just asked you about.
“Tom and I went out on Monday for a bite to eat, then I joined him for a legal presentation he was holding for a cohort of undergrads, dinner at his place on Thursday, and yes, now he seems to have made it a regular thing.”
“Sounds like a fucking Craig David song to me.”
“Whoa, there.” But I do laugh. Because it’s funny. Alex is low-key funny. He cracks the best jokes without looking smug, as if he hadn’t planned for it to be a joke until it leaves his mouth, or perhaps he just enjoys giving out jokes for free, as opposed to the rest of the population who only entertain to receive admiration. This is why I laugh at his jokes and only move my mouth to dangle my earring at other people’s.
I am holding a plank of polished birch wood for Alex while he focuses all his attention on it, marking it carefully. He slips slightly with his hand. My thumb gets caught on a sharp edge of the work top, a trickle of red emerging.
“Shit kebab,” he lets out.
“Pardon?”
“Yeah. That needs explanation. Mum never allowed us to sayshitso we covered up by addingkebab. Shish kebab,” he says.
“Your mum sounds amazing.” He hands me a tissue for my thumb, which I kindly reject.
“Nah. You don’t waste blood.” I reach into my bag for my emergency kit. If technology fails (which it does from time to time, nothing man-made is completely reliable, and unfortunately I rely on a man-made pancreas) I have the old-fashioned kit. I catch it on the test strip, giving it extra volume by squeezing the thumb sides until the drop is round and plump. It flows onto the paper strip beautifully. I wipe the thumb against my work trousers. Sterilized tissues are for first-year diabetics, then you get hardened.
“I have a new swear word, thanks. I can’t believe you also avoidshitlike the plague.”
As I put my kit back in my bum bag, something falls on the floor.
“Don’t tell me that was your lunch.” Alex picks up a protein-bar wrapper with the same disgust as if it were a used condom.
“They are healthy. Easy to carb-count, 18.1 grams, no crazy blood sugar because I got it wrong.”
“Do you do this often?”
