Authors: EMME CROSS
All eyes turned to the top landing. Sunny stood quietly, breathing deeply to control her temper and then slowly made her way down the staircase. She was off-balance because of the pregnancy, and it had been a while since she’d worn heels. Her hair had been primped and meticulously arranged into a complicated array of braids and curls, pulled off her face and falling more than half way down her back. Each strand gleamed a burnished gold as if they’d been individually polished. From her ears dangled the chandelier diamond earrings from her wedding day, catching the light and reflecting it dancing back against the walls. Her skin looked perfect, her freckles barely visible. Her greenish grey eyes looked almost emerald, framed by thick blackened lashes and darkened brows.
Her mouth glimmered with pink gloss, like a promise.
She was wearing hot pink. It was a strange colour for a strawberry blonde to wear but somehow it worked against her skin. The dress was made up of layers of ombré silk chiffon, so the colour graduated from hot pink at the bodice to the palest of shades at the floor. It floated as she moved, caressing her breasts, and swaying from the empire bodice that made no attempt to disguise her pregnancy.
“You look like a movie star!” Fatima was the first to speak, pulling out her cellphone to take pictures.
“You sure look different,” said Liam, contrasting the vision on the staircase to the harried young mother who’d vanished upstairs an hour and a half earlier wearing stained sweat pants, a bulging U2 T-shirt and bare feet.
The vision spoke. “Bliss?” Domestic concerns always came first with Sunny.
“Enjoying a sleepover with her cousin. My mother is in seventh heaven. So is Sponge, who will spend the night playing with Frigga. Let’s move. The limo’s waiting.”
“Fatima—” Sunny started with last minute instructions.
“I’ll tidy up the Great Room before Liam drives me home. We’ll make sure the security system is on before we go.”
“Liam, don’t forget the lasagne for your brother and mother. The big golden dish in the fridge. Just heat it slowly at—”
“Sunny! Ass in gear. And,” he added with a naughty grin, “don’t forget the gloves.”
Sven got a nasty look but she didn’t balk when he settled a matching ombré evening coat over her shoulders. Her hands were deliberately, defiantly bare.
“I haven’t told you how gorgeous you look tonight. Like a peony,” he said, settled in the limo, certain now that they would be on time. A half bottle of champagne was open and breathing. He poured himself a flute. “I think it’s time I bought you more jewellery. I haven’t gotten you anything since the diamond key necklace.”
“Where would I wear it?” asked Sunny, trying not to fidget in her finery. She would have to be careful about what she ate to avoid leaving smears on her face or bodice.
“To events like these. There could be more of them, especially as I get closer to finishing the screenplay. This kind of thing is payback for government funding.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to put up with make-up artists and people who want you to wear gloves. Apparently my hands aren’t presentable.” Sunny’s tone was clipped.
Sven smiled and kissed her palm, noticing their strength, the closely clipped nails, the ragged cuticles, a burn from some baking incident. They were hands that stroked and gentled a crying child; that corrected an errant dog; that cooked and cleaned and loved — and aroused him. These were not Hollywood hands and he found them all the more desirable because of that.
Sven cupped her pink-clad belly. “Did my son mind the primping?
“He didn’t kick once. Perhaps he’ll grow up wanting to borrow my eyeliner.”
“Not a prayer. What do you think? Pearls? Sapphires? Maybe jade to match your eyes.”
“You’re still talking about jewellery?”
“Maybe a push present?”
“Hmm?” she asked, bemused by the hand that stroked the baby bump and then drifted lower under the layers of chiffon.
“How can you have lived in LA and not know about the push present?”
“Sounds like one of those things they talk about when Renee forces me to go to a spa. Like waxing or anal bleaching.”
“Less painful than the latter, I suspect. When a woman gives birth to a man’s child she gets jewellery. Hence the push present.”
“Isn’t the baby enough of a present? The gift of life, hello?”
“Not for some women.”
“It’s more than enough for this one,” Sunny said, pulling him towards her for a kiss, heedless of her four layers of lip gloss.
* * *
“Where did this picture come from?”
Astrid held up a photo in a sterling silver frame showing Liam wedged between Sven and Sunny, who were dressed to the nines.
“Fatima took it,” he answered, mouth filled with toast. “The night of the big party.”
The local media had been full of photos of the Arts Council Gala featuring the actor and his wife. Even Astrid couldn’t find fault with Sunny, whose make-up and wardrobe were perfect, if a little flamboyant for her tastes.
“Sunny looked like a princess. But she bitched about having to get all fixed up. I didn’t know that not all women liked it.” Liam blushed, looking away from his mother’s perfect hair, sharp creases and matching accessories.
“Sunny wins again. Just because she doesn’t care about grooming. She’s younger, she can get away with it. So could I, when I was her age.”
Astrid stopped when she noticed her son’s stare. “I’m sorry. A bad day at work. The picture is nice.”
She lied. The reason for her pique was a text from Nils. He’d included a link to the media coverage of the Arts Council Gala. Two words only.
“Tick tock.”
As the days and weeks passed, their Oslo home became known as “The Sunny House.” The nickname stuck because of its yellow colour scheme and its happy atmosphere, but mostly because of its owner. Sven would often be distracted from his work by the laughter in the backyard as Liam and some of his buddies played soccer with Bliss and the dog. Apparently Sponge was capable of quite the header. He would also eavesdrop on his wife and daughter making sandcastles or tending to the garden. They had an impressive crop of herbs and tomatoes, the latter growing upside down in hanging pots.
When he finished work and wandered into the Great Room, Sven never knew who he’d find there. Stellan was a fixture. A pasta aficionado ever since a trip to Tuscany, he was always present on Italian night, with an offering of Barolo wine or a huge wheel of parmesan cheese, trying out his halting Italian. Sven’s mother and sister were weekday visitors and always attended Sunday brunch where Sunny’s table was laden with quiche and croissants and fresh salmon. She’d almost wept when her ob-gyn had banned raw seafood until after the baby.
Some nights he’d emerge late to find Sunny feeding Moroccan chicken and couscous to the Norwegian Minister of Culture or some public health official. She was working with Fatima in a downtown shelter for recent immigrants from the Middle East. Both men had been trying to entice her to do more, excited to meet someone who knew the language and culture. Her gender and pregnancy made Sunny less threatening to the female immigrants than a male official would have been.
There were picnics in the park where Sunny plied Bliss’s playmates and their moms with fresh baked muffins and sandwiches.
Judith had invited Sunny to host their biweekly book club meetings. The cooking was no problem but Sven had laughed when he found his wife surreptitiously reading a French, English or Russian translation of the latest novel. “I can’t help it,” she explained defensively. “I’m still having trouble with nuance in Norwegian.”
“Maybe because there is none,” he’d laughed.
As she had predicted, it was a happy time, in a happy house.
* * *
“Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
Without looking up from his notes, Sven answered, “Spencer Tracy, Katherine Hepburn with Sidney Poitier.” The writing wasn’t going well today and he was having trouble with the dialogue. He needed a fresh approach but despite having the previous day off to clear his head and take his family on a boat ride in the fjord, no ideas had come.
“Not the old movie, silly. Guess who’s coming to dinner
here
? Tomorrow night.”
Sunny was practically hopping from foot to foot.
“Renee and Jon!”
“Jon Hardy and Renee Lewis?”
Sunny slid into his lap. “They are scouting movie locations in Scandinavia and decided to stop over in Oslo and are coming for dinner tomorrow night.”
He knew her excitement had nothing to do with the fact that Jon was an Oscar winner and Hollywood power broker, but rather that she’d get a chance to cook for her friends and show off their daughter.
“Should we invite anyone or just make it us five?” Sunny’s brow wrinkled as she considered the guest list.
“Keep it to family. Maybe my mother. She can help with Bliss.”
“If you don’t mind, I thought I’d ask Liam to stay for dinner. Renee is bringing their son, Brian. He’s sixteen so Liam would be someone for him to talk to. Plus, he can help me around the house during the day.”
“I’m sure he could be convinced to stay considering Jon’s his favourite actor. It’s a nice idea.” Sven took her in his arms, inhaling her fragrance. Today she smelt of chocolate. He had no doubt he’d find a plate of fresh cookies on the counter when he took his lunch break. There was also a whiff of wet dog. He assumed that was the legacy of a long-threatened Sponge bath.
“I have to call the cleaners and the landscapers. Maybe Fatima can babysit. I get to cook!” the last words were sung, not spoken. Sunny gave her husband a big kiss and raced for the door, shouting for Liam.
The rest of the day was taken up with errands. They went first to the flower market where Sunny haggled with a favourite supplier for the best blooms. Liam would pick them up fresh first thing in the morning. Then to the fish market, where she cajoled some fjord trout for an exotic sounding salad. Shrimp for canapés. Langoustine for soup. Next stop, the butchers for racks of spring lamb, examined forensically. Finally the grocery store, list in hand, filling shopping carts with carefully chosen produce and dry goods. Liam trailed in her wake, exhausted and uncomprehending.
“You had Sven’s family over for dinner last week — twelve people, and you didn’t make this much fuss. The week before you had all the neighbours over for a dessert buffet including a sundae station for kids. I didn’t even know you could make ice cream at home. There was that barbecue for my teammates and all the ribs and salad but even then there wasn’t this much commotion. What’s going on?” Liam was tired. He was grumbling and he wasn’t sorry.
Sunny looked him over carefully as they backed out of the market parking lot and headed for home. “I’ll tell you but it’s a secret. No texting or calling your friends. You can’t tell even your mom or your brother until after it’s over. I don’t want my dinner party ruined by photographers and the press.”
“You can trust me. Is it someone famous?” Liam started to get excited. Sven was famous and had a lot of celebrity friends but since they’d come to Oslo, she and Sven had been very low key and unassuming, like ordinary people.
“It’s my friend Renee Lewis and her husband . . .” Sunny waited until they were safely stopped at a traffic light, “Jon Hardy.”
Liam stalled the car, cursed and re-started the engine, awe on his face. Jon Hardy was one of his all-time favourite actors. Jon Hardy was one of the world’s all-time favourite actors. And he was coming to Sunny and Sven’s! Oh, if only he could get a glimpse. Take a picture. Wangle an autograph, or even say ‘hello’.
Sunny waited until they’d pulled into the driveway before she told her chauffeur the big news. “You’re invited to dinner.”
* * *
It took Liam most of the morning to finish his errands because Sunny, in texts and addenda, kept adding to the list of stops he must make. By the time he arrived at the house, the landscaping crew was wrapping up. The front walkway was swept, the gardens weeded, the lawns smooth as a golf course. He started to haul his booty inside. First the cooler Sunny had made him take, filled with fresh seafood. Then, mounds of fresh flowers in yellow and white. He’d had to drive with the car windows open to stop sneezing from the pollen. Then boxes of liquor, as well as wine and champagne to accompany the meal. He even had to detour to the tobacconist at the last minute because apparently Jon Hardy liked a cigar after a good meal.
If he’d expected chaos, he was disappointed. Instead, Liam found glistening surfaces and polished floors, freshly laundered linens and sparkling crystal. The smell of fresh baked bread battled with lemon wax and cleansers. The yeast won.
Sunny was at the counter in the kitchen, her hair pulled back from her face and U2’s “Achtung Baby” blaring. She looked up with a smile as she whisked something in a giant metal bowl. “Just put all the flowers in the buckets of water on the back porch. I have the vases out there and I’ll deal with them later.” Her face shone with happiness beneath its dusting of flour.
“One more errand and then you can escape for a while, hang with Sven maybe. He knows better than to interrupt me in mid-bake. Could you walk Sponge to Judith’s? That way she can play with Frigga all day and she won’t be underfoot.” Sunny pointed to the heap of white fur sprawled next to the oven. The dog’s tail thumped in greeting when Liam walked in but she didn’t get up. She was in scavenger mode, waiting for stray droppings.
“I want the dog tired. We can pick her up after dinner. I’m not sure Renee and Jon would be impressed with her trick.” Every night at dinner, Sponge crawled up onto an empty chair at the table and put one paw delicately on the wood as if ordering her own entrée. It was so routine that Sunny had started putting down an extra place mat. The family found the trick enchanting. Outsiders? She wasn’t sure.
When Liam got back, Sunny was wrapping layers of chocolate cake in saran wrap and loading it into the refrigerator. “It’s to set the crumb.”
Sven wandered down the kitchen staircase. “Is it okay to enter?”
“At your peril,” laughed Sunny, attacking some kind of pastry with a rolling pin.
“What’s for lunch?”
Liam was sure Sunny was going to turn on Sven with the rolling pin. After all, she was knee deep in dinner. But she merely leant over and kissed his cheek. “The two of you will get out of my way for the next few hours.” She took a baking sheet out of the oven. It was lined with parchment paper and croque monsieur sandwiches. She took out a tray with plates, napkins and a cooler with ice and cold drinks. She added a bowl of dill pickles and another of red shredded something.
“What’s that stuff?” Liam asked.
“It’s a pickled beet salad,” Sunny said without turning from the sink. “I had leftovers from dinner. “Go. Eat. Keep out of my way.”
As Liam started up the stairs with his load, he could hear Sven teasing his wife. “You need to change the verb on your apron.” The straining fabric read “Kiss the Cook.” He had another in mind.
Liam could hear them kissing as he slowly made his way up the back staircase and could almost feel the heat against his back. He half-believed Sven might convince his wife to take a ‘nap’ but he joined him in the office moments later, his arms full of cold drinks.
“You don’t want to interrupt her in mid-cook. She’s like this on St. Barts when she caters her villas. Everything has to be perfect. You and your mother should visit the island someday and see. Bring your brother too.” Sven didn’t notice the astonished look on his young companion’s face at the casual invitation.
“Let’s eat and then I need your help with something. I’m having trouble with the dialogue. I want to set up a camera and you can run lines with me. Maybe if I hear and see them I can figure out what the problem is.”
“Don’t you want to run lines with Sunny?”
Sven almost snorted up his beer. “She is the worst actor. She can’t pretend. I love that about her in real life, but it’s no help to me in my work. I’ve tried running lines with her and she’s always saying things like, this isn’t a very nice person or wouldn’t this character want to help the other one. And you’d think someone who speaks so many languages could adopt an accent or a different cadence, but not Sunny.
Seeing Liam’s surprise, Sven elaborated. “Some people can act. They can pretend to be someone else and get into another skin. Other people are so innately true to themselves, that they are incapable of pretense. That’s my wife.”
After lunch, Sven set up the cameras. One focused on Liam, and the other was a two-shot. At first, Liam was hesitant but soon he got into the spirit of things. When urged, he would read a line in slightly different ways, so that Sven could hear the way they sounded. Sven explained the importance of pace, the shifting of emphasis, through speed or inflection, tone or volume. In many ways, this reminded Sven of working with Henry. The give and take. But that had been between two seasoned professionals. This was more like mentor and student. Liam drank in everything Sven had to say, anxious to please. Sven was also pleased to see Liam dug his heels in when he didn’t agree with a direction, persistently doing it his own way. But once Sven explained the reasoning behind the change, he could literally see the light go on in Liam’s eyes.
“I’ve been doing this a while. Actually,” Sven said thoughtfully, “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. I started acting at your age, so I’ve picked up a few pointers.” He thought of Henry again, missing him terribly.
They worked through most of the afternoon and Liam looked pleased when Sven nodded at a suggestion or thoughtfully considered his input. The beams through the skylights were slanted and dwindling when they called it a day and headed downstairs.
They found Sunny in the kitchen, smiling, singing along to ‘Green Day.’ There were flowers and candles everywhere and they smelt a mixture of cooking and roses. The counter was filled with tiny appetizers ready for a final warming along with the accompaniments — sour cream and caviar for the blini; tzatziki and hummus for the flatbread; a tangy seafood sauce for the coconut shrimp. There were three desserts ready in the butler’s pantry, arrayed in glass-domed stands. A carrot cake with tangerine-infused cream cheese icing; a chocolate cake, rich and gooey with ganache and a lemon meringue pie, the sky-high egg whites toasted a light brown and dusted with lemon zest and sugar.
“Here you are!” Sunny smiled up at them. “I’m going up for my bath. If you’re hungry, eat the mini quiches in the fridge and the olives and nuts in the Great Room.”
After changing his shirt, Liam wandered through the downstairs rooms. They looked like something out of a movie set, with drifts of yellow, cream and white roses, accented by baby’s breath and waxy greenery. Every available surface was crowded with white and yellow candles, not yet lit but promising an eventual potpourri of hibiscus and lemongrass.
The dining room had been transformed into a cave of fairy lights and flowers — all yellow and white and glistening. The spots and the chandelier were dimmed, waiting for candles to layer the light and set the mood.