Read the latest Vogue Scandinavia exclusive short story by Karin Smirnoff: 'What’s Yours is Mine'

He is lying on his side. She is lying on her back. A Clas Ohlson sign on the hotel’s opposite façade gives their bodies a bluish tone. It is not flattering. If only they had been young. If only she had been young. The thought recurs like an irritating dissonance. If only she had been young.

“Forty-five is young,” he says, running his fingers along her body. From top to toe and back again.

She wriggles. His touch is too light. It tickles rather than giving pleasure.

“I’m going for a shower,” she says, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I need to get home and feed the cat.”

Forty-five is young for someone who has children. Or for someone who doesn’t have children and doesn’t want any. “We can adopt,” he says, and she has to turn around. Look at him. Give him a wry smile andpat his leg.

No. They can’t. He is merely a distraction, hasn’t he realised that? She herself is as unstable as the economy. And like the economy, mostly on a downward trajectory.

“I would leave her for your sake,” he goes on. “Our kids are almost grown up now. They can cope. She could too. Cope, I think.”

“Think?” she says. He has no an swer to that. She heads for the shower. Locks the door so he can’t follow her. Turns the heat of the water up to the edge of pain and allows it to scour away layer after layer. There is nothing wrong with him. But compared with the other one, he is nothing. She hasn’t known him for long. They started chatting on a bus. If she is perfect in his eyes, she ought to give him a chance. Good men grow in strange places. Perhaps he is a rare breed.

The other one has also woken up next to a woman. Without touching her, he runs his hand along the silhouette of her body. She has thrown back the covers.

It is going to be a hot day.

Hot days have become even hotter since they arrived here. His skin is red. Flakes rain down on the bath towel like dandruff. Hers smells of coconut, and is probably edible.

Men look at her when they walk by. Women too. Men nod to him in acknowledgement, as men do. Women think he is disgusting. Now he wants to make her pregnant. He is ready to split his genes. The offspring will be like her. And hopefully him, in a different way.

“You’re an author, why don’t you write a book,” she says. “Shove a few kids in, see how cool it is.”

He doesn’t write about children or animals. It is too much like hard work. Dogs need walking. Babies need feeding.

“There you go,” she says. “And the reality is even worse.”

And yet she has never come straight out and said she doesn’t want to.

He imagines that the relationship would mature. Make them equals.

“I’m going for a swim,” she says. Walks slowly all the way around the pool before she decides to jump in. Eyes follow her body. A child would make her his in a different way.

The cat is sitting on the windowsill staring out. Margot fills his food bowl, empties the litter tray. The cat ignores her. Jumps down when she tries to stroke him. Uses the clean litter and returns to the window.

The apartment is quiet and spacious. She is the sole owner now. He just left. Didn’t even take many clothes. The rest are still hanging in a wardrobe. She sniffs them occasionally.

The woman he met was an old love. Not old like her. More in a dreamy way. A love that blossomed young and died quickly, only to come back to life ten years later.

A beautiful fairytale, for them.

For her... She pours herself a glass of wine and switches on the TV. There is no peace there either. Kristofer Lundström is talking about the latest Wallroth book. About the man who sacrificed everything. And in his sorrow at not being able to keep both what he had and what he received, he wrote a book.

The cover is pale pink. The Short Life of a Cherry Blossom. Quite a title. He is good at that. Writing books with saccharine titles. Dedicated to his female readership.

“You are neither Ranelid nor Westö,” she says to the TV. “You are a mediocre stylist with language that does not flow.”

“Even though this book is more like an autobiography than a novel, no Wallroth fan will be disappointed,” Lundström goes on. No one apart from the person who is hung out to dry for him to create his “art”, as he calls his product. Because Jens Wallroth is not only an author. He is an artist.

She answers the phone when it rings.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing special – how about you?”

“Missing you. Can I come up for a while?”

Up?

The distraction is already standing outside the door of the apartment block.

She puts the flowers in water. She can see that something has happened. Can almost predict what it is.

“Here,” she says, handing him a beer. “Or do you need something stronger?”

“Please, if you have it.” He makes himself at home on the sofa. Clasps his hands behind his neck and looks around, as if he were seeing the apartment for the first time.

“I’ve left her,” he says. “For you. I have nowhere to go.”

Wasn’t this how it started when Jens came into her life? She was living in a one-room apartment. He had been left. They met in the local bar. He came home with her. They built a life together. Bought the apartment and rented a summer cottage.

She wanted children. He said no. “I’m getting older,” she said, “soon it will be too late.” “I’m sorry,” he replied. “Family doesn’t fit into my life.”

Now the distraction is sitting on the author’s Danish sofa. After another whisky, he is lying on it.

“Nice windows,” he says. “Nothing beats turn-of-the-century.”

They go to bed. He pleasures her body. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “I don’t understand how anyone could leave you.”

The one who left also goes for a swim. Catches up with the woman, dives down next to her legs. Under the water they are even more beautiful. She splashes him. He wants to hold her so tightly that she can never escape. “You must never leave me,” he says when they are back in their room.

“Why would I do that?” she replies. “We’ve only just got back together. I’m older now. More mature.”

Her phone buzzes. She types something that makes her smile. When it buzzes for the third time, he asks her who she’s messaging. “Why?” she says. There is a certain tone in her voice.

“I’m just wondering,” he says. “Maybe we should eat something.” “Good idea,” she says, and carries on messaging.

He orders room service. Oysters, fried octopus, a selection of salads, fries, wine.

The air conditioning hums and evening moves towards night. He wants to pleasure her body. She wants to sleep. He presses himself against her back. “I love you so much,” he says.

“Did you say something?” she asks. Pats his arm. “Go to sleep. We’re taking a trip tomorrow.”

They sail to an island. The boat is full of hooligans and tourists. The hooligans are either crying or yelling. The tourists turn their Nordic faces up to the sun.

She wants to go snorkelling. The instructor is a Greek god. Greek gods have goddesses. They glide side by side through volcanic formations Soon he can no longer see them.

“Isn’t it hard work, having a young wife?” asks a Dane.

Fru Wallroth. Maybe he ought to propose?

“No,” he replies. “Age has no meaning. Love overcomes age.”

“Including a paunch and a bald head,” says the Dane, patting his belly. “Sorry,” he adds, holding out his hand. “I recognise you. I’ve read a couple of your books. You seem to understand women. She’s beautiful,” he adds, waving a hand in the general direction of the rocks. “Thank you,” he says, keeping a lookout. They should be back soon.

A year passes quickly. A distraction becomes Magnus. His almost-grown-up children come to stay every other weekend. She fits in with them. Gives them lifts to training sessions. Goes to the cinema. Buys takeaway food. Plays Monopoly.

They regard her as the backstabber. At least she has acquired a name. “Margot can do the laundry, can’t she?” they say. “Margot can stay away next weekend, can’t she? We want to be alone with Dad, without Margot.”

“They’re only here every other weekend. Does it really matter?” Dad says.

The rest of the time is good. They have found a rhythm. He does things that Jens never did. Repaints the kitchen. Fixes a dripping tap. Takes her to the harness racing.

After she has pleasured him she lies on his arm. She has never said that she loves him. Big words rarely fit in her mouth. Now they are brooding over a way to make themselves heard. He strokes her shoulder.

“Remind me, what happened with your ex-husband?” he says. “He left you for his ex, didn’t he?”

“Something along those lines,” she replies. “To be honest, he never let her go. Kept me at a distance the whole time. As if he was always hoping she’d come back. When she did, I no longer existed.”

“She must be special,” he says. “Isn’t everyone, for the right person?” she says.

“Have you met her?” he asks, but no. She hasn’t. Doesn’t want to. And yet she knows most things about her. He was meticulous about that, Jens. Keeping her alive.

“I saw a picture,” Magnus says when they are eating breakfast. “She’s beautiful.”

“Of course,” she says. “And young.” “And gifted. She has a PhD in Mathematics.”

“Goodness me, what a lot you know,” she says. “If you haven’t got anything else to do, maybe you could go down and fetch the laundry. It should be dry by now.”

Instead of the laundry room, subway to the Tekniska Högskolan station. He has done it before, although sometimes he travels in the opposite direction, towards Mariatorget. But given the time, it’s the red line heading east. She keeps regular hours. The author’s latest book is out in paperback. Eyes follow him up the escalator.

This time he waits for over an hour before she comes out. Her coat is open, she looks at her watch. She is left-handed. He knows that too. He counts to ten then follows her. The hair is shorter than the last time he saw her, and tousled. The heels tip-tap along the street. He increases his speed so as not to lose her.

Suddenly she turns around. Stops at the bottom of the escalator and looks straight at him.

“Who are you?” she says. “I see you everywhere. It can’t be a coincidence.”

He has been careless.

“I apologise,” he says. “I’m not a stalker.” She ignores his out stretched hand and his name. He says it anyway.

“So what are you then?” she says.

“I’m an economist,” he says. “I’ve read your essay on mathematical calculations for DNA sequencing. We could work together.”

“No,” she says, and walks towards the train. He jogs along beside her. She takes a seat. He sits down opposite her. He has never been this close before. He notes details like the dimple in one cheek, the zodiac symbol for Cancer on a silver chain around her neck. The stain on her collar and the scar along one thumb.

“If you’ll let me buy you dinner I can explain myself more clearly,” he says.

“Idiot,” she says and gets off just as the doors close. Turns and gives him the finger. Even then she is beautiful.

Jens Wallroth has made an effort. Used the oven and lit candles. Her kind of food. She looks stressed. Is home later than usual.

“You could have made an effort too. To get home on time. The meal might be ruined.”

“Did I ask you to have dinner ready?”

“No, but you’re late.”

Although he has never asked, he can’t help wondering. Wednesdays. Always late on Wednesdays. At least two hours.

To lighten the atmosphere she tells him about the stalker. “And you know what? He claimed his name was Magnus Ladulås.”

“Ladulås,” Jens says. “I’ve heard of him. Writes under a pseudonym. Thrillers set in the world of finance. Not completely worthless examples of the genre. What did he want?”

“He wanted us to work together,” she says.

“I think you should be wary of him. Bad reputation.” But he can’t say why.

He falls asleep quickly. She is glad. Opens up her laptop. Googles Ladulås. 130,000 hits. It’s strange, she thinks, how a person can seem repulsive one minute and interesting the next.

Across the city Margot has fallen asleep on the sofa. She has had a rough day. The cat has been throwing up for several weeks. The windowsill is empty.

Their shared bed is equally empty, as is the rest of the apartment. She even checks the bathroom to be on the safe side, and folds the last of the laundry.

The first time he doesn’t answer. The fifth time he rejects her call. Twenty minutes later she hears his key in the lock.

“I was just about to pay when you called,” he says. He can’t tell her what he bought. Then she wants to sit in the kitchen and talk. “Tell me,” she says. “I know there’s something.”

He looks uncomfortable. Asks if she would like a cup of tea. “Got a lot on at work at the moment,” he says. “People go crazy when interest rates rise. They want prognoses. Information about the future.”

“That ’s your job, isn’t it?” she says.

“Would you like honey and milk?” he says.

“Who wouldn’t.”

“And where’s the cat?” he wonders, tipping food from a tin.

“Put down,” she says, placing her hand on his. He pulls away. Makes a sandwich. She places her hand on his arm, but the arm is needed for cheese slicing.

He is a new person, and revels in the thought. Sees that she is also a new person now. Older, uglier. Miserable. “By the way,” he says, “the children are coming this weekend instead. They asked if you could go somewhere. They want to be alone with Daddy.”

“Four thousand,” she says. “Daddy can pay. And make sure they clean up after themselves, for fuck’s sake.” She gets to her feet. The chair crashes to the floor behind her. Where has this anger come from? The little smile at the corner of his mouth, perhaps.

And still he can’t shut up. Follows her through the living room and into the bathroom. Says he saw the author on posters in the subway, and by chance ended up next to his girlfriend on the train. “We got talking. Nice person. Hard to understand what she sees in the author. Bearing in mind what you’ve said about him, I mean. She seems somehow innocent.”

“I assume you asked her what she sees in him,” she says, and he had done exactly that. “Aren’t you with Jens Wallroth?” he had said. “Was with,” she had stressed. And although Margot does her best to appear unmoved, the words have an effect.

“I might sleep in the spare room. Then you won’t have to listen to me snoring. Cheese sandwiches in the evening are a real trigger for snoring.” He opens up the laptop and composes an email, which he deletes without sending it. What is written is set in stone. No going back. He has to calm down. Approach the object in a smarter way. The object. Soon to be a subject.

Her phone buzzes with a Swish payment. Thanks for that, Daddy. She checks into the Grand with a view of the palace. The bed is wide. The mattress is soft. There is room for two in the bathtub. The minibar is expensive and the main bar beyond the foyer is busy with the after-work crowd, businessmen, and American tourists in sweatpants. As she stands there she catches sight of a familiar face, even though they don’t know each other. She is the woman in the photographs. The Mummy-Daddy-kids pictures from before.

Right now she seems to be in a bad way. Rubs her eyes. Gulps her wine. Margot moves along the bar until she is standing next to her. The woman... Katarina, if she remembers correctly... smells of anxiety and perfume. Scrawny hands clutching her phone. She writes something, changes her mind. Puts the phone away. Gets it out again. Finishes the wine, ref ills the glass without taking any notice of the people coming and going all around. It is getting late. The place is gradually emptying. In the end they are the only two left, and the staff want to go home. Margot is paying her bill when the woman turns to her with an unexpectedly clear gaze.

“I know who you are. I’ve always known. But you need to be careful. No one is safe. Soon it will be your turn.”

For what, Margot wants to ask, but the woman is quicker.

She is walking along the quayside. The night feels like a spring evening. She doesn’t think about the children, only the betrayal. It would be so easy. To take a step to the side. Let herself fall towards the black surface of the water and escape. Someone approaches from the opposite direction. Asks if she’s okay. If he can help her. She has seen him before.

“Do we know each other?” she says. “Come on,” he says. “Are you on your way home?” She supposes so. “I’ll come with you,” he says. Puts his arm around her. She is so thin. It is like holding a bird.

“Now I know who you are,” she says. “You’re on my bedside table.”

In the early hours of the morning Margot is still awake. She gathers up the few things she brought with her and hails a cab. “I’m going home,” she says. After all, it’s her home and not his, for fuck’s sake. Opens the door quietly and listens. Takes off her shoes and tiptoes across the living room.

The apartment is empty. She doesn’t wonder where he is. Switches on a lamp, makes a pot of tea and a couple of sandwiches. The newspaper arrives, thuds onto the floor in the hallway. Then she begins to pack. Fetches boxes from the cellar. Books, clothes, paintings, ornaments. Food, wine, the espresso machine.

She stacks the boxes in a pile out side the door. Seals them with tape, one after the other.

The feeling of freedom flares within her like a fire. The locksmith does a fantastic job. A couple of hours later she hears him at the door. His key doesn’t fit. Lots of swearing. “Hello. Darling. Are you there? What’s going on? Can you answer me, please?”

Darling can answer, but doesn’t want to. The sheer enjoyment as she traps his fingers in the letterbox is indescribable.