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2025
“Catering college?”
“Culinary school,” Felice corrects her father. “Very prestigious. Exclusive. I was lucky to get in.”
She’s used the word ‘prestigious’ three times already in this conversation, like a soothing mantra. It does nothing to change the shock on Poppe’s face or the whispering fear in Smysan’s heart.
“But I thought…” Poppe blinks, looks helplessly at his wife who can only stare back, lost for words. “We talked about university. Uppsala, maybe, like your old dad.”
“You talked about it. I never said it’s what I wanted.”
“You could do both, maybe. Get a degree first, then if you still want to pursue this…”
“I will,” she interrupts him, smiling gently, full of that confidence that seems to have come from nowhere in the last few years. “I know this is what I want, so why waste three years doing something else first?”
“We didn’t even know you were applying,” says Smysan, finally finding her voice. The words echo in her mind, as if coming from somewhere far away. “What kind of people will you even meet there?”
“Mamma. Come on. Seriously?”
“I’m not being a snob! But these things matter, darling. Meeting the right people, building connections, networking. I’m right, aren’t I?” She pleads to Poppe for help, though she’s not sure she’ll get it from that quarter.
After the initial shock, he’ll probably give in. He always does.
Poppe has always had such high hopes, so proud of his bright, capable daughter. Smysan has high hopes herself, but she suspects of a very different sort. She couldn’t really care less about Felice getting a degree for her own sake. Smysan had never gone to university herself. She’d worked in a high-end boutique after school, waiting for Poppe to grow up and be ready for marriage. But Felice had left school without so much as a whisper of a suitable boyfriend, and had abandoned riding or any other hobby that would have her mixing in the right kind of circles. Smysan had pinned all her hopes she'd find a good crowd at university instead.
Poppe doesn’t seem to share her concerns. His face is drawn, thoughtful already as he looks at his daughter. “If this is really what you want…”
“It is.”
He shrugs, holds out his arms; and Felice steps into them with gratitude. “Then we wish you every success.”
“Thank you, Pappa.” She hugs him tight, kisses his cheek with the faint trace of glimmering tears.
When she turns to Smysan, the world seems to draw breath for one crystallizing moment, her reaction on a knife edge. It would be so easy to forbid her to go, or at least refuse to fund her expenses, draw a line in the sand. But the moment passes, and Smysan hugs her daughter too, trying to hide her fears. Not very successfully.
“Maybe you could wait a while?" she begins. "Give yourself time to think about it…?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for long enough,” says Felice, a faint hint of laughter in her voice. Though her face is solemn as she draws back to look at them both. “Thank you. I need to go tell everyone else the good news now.”
Her fingers are already flying over the phone screen as she leaves the room. Silence falls in her wake as Smysan and Poppe look at each other.
“I just don’t understand her anymore,” says Smysan. To her horror, she hears the crack in her own voice, her careful poise splintering.
“Did we ever?”
2006
“Of course, it’s so important to give children the best possible start,” says Liv. “Julia is such a find, but I wouldn’t have dreamt of sending Felix with her instead of coming myself.”
“Hmm,” Smysan agrees, half distracted as she casts an eye around the busy room. The preschool is exclusive and hard to get in to – unless you knew the right people – and it’s more crowded than she would have expected. She's on day two of a juice cleanse, still trying to shift that last bit of baby weight, and the noise and heat is making her feel light-headed.
“Look at them all,” says Liv, and Smysan pulls her attention back, hearing the sneer in her tone.
They were old friends. Of a sort. They’d been to the same schools, though not at the same time, had acquaintances in common, and had attended the same antenatal and baby yoga classes. It was close enough to friendship in their circles.
She is, as always, exquisitely dressed with not a hair out of place, despite the screaming toddler running around her ankles. Unconsciously, Smysan adjusts her own blazer, smoothing down the fabric where Felice was pulling at it.
“Flocking around like groupies at the stage door. So undignified. They’ll all be sending the nanny tomorrow when they realize the Crown Princess herself isn’t going to turn up.”
“Absolutely,” Smysan agrees. She had briefly considered sending the nanny herself, but the school had insisted on the importance of parents attending in person to help the children settle in, and Smysan wasn’t going to be outdone in child rearing by anyone here.
The parents are supposed to stay with the children for the first two weeks, but Smysan can’t imagine anyone else is planning to do so. She’ll try to subtly find out what everyone else is planning to do, but she's hopeful that she might be able to hand over to the nanny from tomorrow. Felice would probably be more comfortable with that anyway.
“So this must be Felice!” says Liv, as though she’s only just noticed her five minutes into the conversation. She smiles kindly down at the infant held on Smysan’s hip, who shrinks silently back with wide, fearful eyes.
“Hasn’t she got lovely curly hair?” says Liv.
Smysan hears the tone, and the slight pause, and the half smile on Liv’s face. She knows these people. Encountered the same tone, and pause, and smile, when she started dating Poppe. Her arms curl tight around Felice, pulling her close.
“Doesn’t she?” Smysan says, sickly sweet. “Of course, many children have curls at this age. I’m sure it will straighten out as she gets older. And, uh, this must be Felix.”
A small blond child with poker straight hair and a dripping nose stares rudely back at her before returning to kicking the bench in front of him. Not for the first time, Smysan thanks the heavens she had a girl.
She does have a brief pang of regret over the name they’d chosen though, before she pulls herself together. Still, if they’d called the girl Wilma, she’d be over by the empty shelf with the word Wilhelm in bright red letters right now instead of stuck here with Liv’s brat.
On the principle that if you can’t say anything nice it’s best not to say anything at all, Smysan gives the boy a weak smile and returns to a previous topic. “I might be wrong, but I thought I saw that the Crown Princess did in fact attend with Erik when he started?” The eldest prince had gone to the same preschool. It wasn’t the main reason Smysan had put their names down for this one before Felice had even been conceived, of course. This was the best preschool in the country, everyone knew that. It was simply a fact.
“Perhaps, but still. That’s the heir,” states Liv, as if that was all that needed to be said. “Anyway, I’m not sure they’re even in the country at the moment…oh for heaven’s sake, Felix, will you stop that!”
Her bored child continues right on kicking without a pause, giving Smysan a chance to check in on Felice while Liv is distracted. The girl has been unnaturally shy ever since they entered the school building. It’s the first time Smysan’s heard her this quiet since the day she first started to babble.
“You okay, darling?”
Felice tucks her head shyly against Smysan’s shoulder and stares up at her without answering, dark eyes solemn.
“You’re going to have a lovely time here.” Smysan’s sure of that. Will make sure of that.
“Here they are then,” says Liv, having finally managed to get her son to stop kicking the bench legs. He’s got some bright plastic toy in his hand and is banging it hard on top instead.
Smysan whips her head round, surprised she didn’t spot them; and sure enough, there he is, a very small prince blinking uncertainly at all of the eyes on him as he enters the room. Shy, he hangs back behind the woman with him; a drab, ordinary sort of person in a plain black dress. Very clearly not Crown Princess Kristina. Liv was right, apparently the spare didn’t warrant the same personal attention as the heir had.
“Mamma.”
Startled, she turns back to where Felice is tugging at her sleeve, eyes wide.
“We go home now?”
“May we go home now,” Smysan corrects. “And no, we can’t.”
Regretting the tone as Felice’s face crumples, lip wobbling like a sign of doom, Smysan quickly rushes on. “This is your preschool, darling, where you’ll have lots and lots of fun and make lots of friends. And Mamma will be here with you until you settle in, won’t that be nice?”
Felice returns to staring at her, head tilted like she’s thinking about it. But she’s not crying at least.
Seizing her chance, Liv now talking to another parent on the other side, Smysan hoists the girl higher on her hip, grunting with the effort, and leans in, keeping her voice low.
“Remember how I said this was a special school, just for the most special children? Well, that boy who just came in,” she tries to indicate Wilhelm with a slight movement of her head while trying not to look like she was doing anything so tacky, “he’s a very special boy. And I think he might be a bit lonely. He might not have any friends yet. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could be a friend to him? Perhaps you could share one of your toys.”
Felice appears to digest this for a moment before she breaks into a laugh, pulling a face. “Boys are silly.” She starts to wriggle in Smysan’s hold, neck craned as she starts to stare around the room, taking in the other children.
Smysan wonders where on earth she picked that up from. She should have a word with the nanny. “Some are, sweetie. Not that one. It would be so lovely if you could be friends.”
But Felice has already stopped listening, squirming like she’s bored of the conversation. Smysan gives up and lets her down to the floor. She toddles off in the opposite direction to Wilhelm, making a beeline for two girls playing on the other side of the room.
Smysan brushes some miscellaneous muck from her slacks, thankful she decided not to wear the Chanel. Perhaps she will stay to the end of the week after all, to make sure Felice settles in right.
2021
“Hey!”
“Welcome home!”
Relaxed and tanned, Felice dumps her bags to the floor with a laugh so that she can throw her arms around Poppe, hugging him tight.
“How was your trip?”
She hugs Smysan too before replying, bright and shining.
“Good! Amazing.”
She pushes her curls back, smiling widely, and Smysan realises with a sudden pang that she looks older. It seems to have happened so suddenly when she wasn’t looking. She's dressed differently too, sporting a loose shirt over leggings in a style Smysan has never seen her wear before.
“Really cool. We went camping.”
“You? My daughter?” says Poppe, just as smiley and relaxed. “You went without electricity and wifi?”
“Well, only for a couple of nights,” she laughs. There’s an awkward pause, everyone turning to look at Smysan.
Her own smile feels brittle, like it would break if they looked at it too closely. She doesn’t know why she feels so out of place now, here, in her own house with her own family.
“Well, I’m glad you had a good trip,” she say stiffly. “It’s a shame about New York though, you would have had such a lovely time with your friends.”
Felice doesn’t respond, though her smile dims a little before she turns back to Poppe. That odd feeling of being excluded prickles somewhere behind Smysan’s ribcage, an echo of childhood.
“Honestly, it was really chilled. We played games and went swimming and got up late every day.”
“It sounds perfect,” says Poppe. “Can I come next time?”
Smysan joins in the laughter, pulling herself into the conversation by force. “It must be what you all needed. It’s been such a difficult year for Wilhelm, of course.”
Felice nods, her eyes finally meeting Smysan’s with an expression she can’t read in them. “Yeah. Not just for Wille.”
“I meant losing his brother.”
“I know.”
“Well!” Poppe claps his hands together, the sound echoing too loud in the airy hall. “Coffee? And then…” He casts an eye at Smysan, who manages to smile again, more genuine this time as she realises what he’s about to say. “We have some news.”
“Ooh, really? What news? And peppermint tea for me, please, if we have it,” Felice says, grabbing her bag again and following him towards the kitchen.
“You always have coffee,” says Smysan in surprise, trailing behind.
Felice shrugs, not turning round as she answers. “I know, but I mostly drank tea while I was away. Honestly, I don’t think I've ever really liked coffee all that much, I just drank it because everyone else did.”
Since when? Smysan wants to ask, feeling stubborn about it. She flashes a look at Poppe but he doesn’t see it.
There’s traditions that have to be gone through before they can share their news though, well-worn rituals of souvenirs and holiday pictures and the stories behind them. Felice hadn’t posted on Instagram the whole time she’d been away, a startlingly out of character move – or it would have been once. She explains now it was for privacy, just in case someone got wind of the fact Wilhelm was with them, but she might post a photo dump soon 'if she feels like it'.
They look at picture after picture of smiling, happy young people, sunburnt and carefree, and Smysan wonders why she can’t take more pleasure in it. If you’d told her a year ago that Felice would spend her summer with Prince Wilhelm, arms around each other and smiling at the camera, she would probably have exploded with joy on the spot. But the Felice in these pictures, wearing a loose T-shirt over a bathing suit, heads together with the Eriksson girl as they shriek with laughter about something, seems so far away from the daughter Smysan thought she knew.
“So what’s this news then?” asks Felice once they’ve finally exhausted every picture in her album. She sips her tea, eyes glancing between her parents as they exchange looks.
Poppe cedes the floor with a smile and a nod, leaving Smysan to share the good news, brimming with genuine excitement for the first time in this conversation.
“Well.” She spreads her palms flat on the table, building the suspense. “It’s not officially announced yet, but I have it on very good authority. Hillerska won their appeal. They’re reopening!”
“Oh.” To her astonishment, Felice barely reacts, face blank. “That’s good, I guess…?” she says eventually. “If they’ve agreed to make changes and everything.”
Smysan and Poppe share confused looks. “Changes?”
Felice shrugs, awkward as she raises her mug to her lips. “Well, you know. All the stuff that made them shut it down in the first place.”
There’s a long pause before Poppe asks, brow furrowed, “Sweetheart…what exactly did you tell the inspectorate? At your interview?”
Felice doesn’t answer at first. She takes another long drink, looks at her hands. Her gaze wanders over the table, the walls and the ceiling before she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes for a second as if gathering courage, and says;
“The truth? All of the truth. Everything I knew. The good and…all the bad. And there was a lot of bad.”
Stunned silence falls.
They’d not really spoken to Felice about her interview with the school inspectorate since it happened. Poppe had told Smysan she’d said that it had all gone well on the day but hadn’t really offered up any further details. It hadn’t occurred to them to ask, perhaps, confident they already knew what she would have said.
“We thought you liked it there,” Poppe says faintly, finally breaking the silence.
“I did! Sometimes. Some of it,” she corrects herself, fiddling with her mug and still not meeting their eyes. “But…I don’t know if it really could change. Like properly change. You know what it was like, Dad,” she adds, raising her head again. “In that school. Being different. What that feels like.”
A moment of silent communication passes between father and daughter. One Smysan knows better than to interrupt, as much as she wants to argue.
Poppe seems to shake it off, protesting, “But things are much better now than when I went.”
“They are! In some ways. But…I wouldn’t want to go back.”
It drops like a bombshell. Or no, more like a heavy blanket over the room, stifling light and air until Smysan feels like she can’t breathe.
This isn’t like Felice changing hair salons a few months ago and starting to find her own style. Smysan hadn’t really understood that, but she’d supported it. This isn’t even like giving up riding and selling Rousseau, which Smysan hadn’t understood and definitely hadn’t supported, but had lost the fight against anyway.
It had hurt, but Poppe had persuaded her it was all normal teenage boundary pushing. Besides, none of it was irreversible. Smysan had kept her thoughts to herself – or perhaps not at first, but she was doing so now, anyway – but no one could blame her for secretly hoping Felice might change her mind again. All kids experiment. Even Smysan had had some very ill-advised haircuts in the nineties.
This conversation feels different. It’s a young woman looking at Smysan now, not a rebellious teenager; calm, almost casual, while she rejects years of tradition as if it’s nothing.
Neither Poppe or Smysan seem to quite know what to say.
“I am still registered at my new school, right?” Felice asks.
“Yes, of course,” says Poppe, sounding as stunned as Smysan feels.
“I’ll go there then. Wille’s talking to his family about whether he can go there too, so at least I’d know someone.”
Smysan could do without the bitter irony of that one, remembering the devastation she and Felice had both felt when it was announced Wilhelm wouldn’t be going to Hillerska, the quiet jubilation they’d shared when he was eventually sent there anyway. It feels like another lifetime now.
“You’ll miss your other friends though,” she protests weakly.
Felice shakes her head. “No, they wouldn’t go back to Hillerska either.”
“I spoke to Birgitta just the other day, she seemed sure Stella would return if given the chance…”
“Oh no, I meant Sara and Simon.” She gives them an awkward smile. “Anyway. I’m pretty tired. Might go and unpack before I lose the will, if that’s okay.”
She hops off her chair to leave the kitchen; an adult choosing to unpack as soon as she gets home instead of a child being forced to do it practically at knifepoint several weeks later. Smysan, unmoored and at sea in this new world, manages to gather herself together enough to say,
“But we’ve always gone to Hillerska. All of us. Four generations of Hillerska horsewomen…”
“I know. I am sorry. But…things change, right?”
She flashes an apologetic smile before she leaves Smysan and Poppe to stare at each other in silence.
2011
“No!” comes the scream of a frustrated child, diving below the duvet, and Smysan knows exactly how she feels.
It’s Hanna’s day off and Poppe had vanished off somewhere at the crack of dawn – possibly golfing? – leaving Smysan alone to do the morning routine. Somehow, a simple attempt to brush Felice’s hair has turned into a battle royale, and she has absolutely no idea why.
Through gritted teeth, trying to keep her cool, she tries gentle cajoling. “Just come out and let Mamma brush your hair, darling, and then we can choose what to wear today, won’t that be nice?”
“NO!” Felice shrieks, wriggling across the bed and making a dart for the door. Thankfully the door is shut and Smysan is faster. There’s another few minutes of undignified wrestling, pleading and bargaining, before an exhausted Smysan finally resorts to bribery. On the promise of getting to bake cookies on an ordinary Wednesday morning, Felice finally agrees to sit down at her dressing table and have her hair brushed. Smysan sits behind her with relief, trying not to think about the mess and the calories that her promise would lead to.
Felice’s hair is the bane of Smysan’s life. It seems to only be getting thicker and curlier as she grows, and despite brushing and braiding and trying every product her own stylist has recommended, they’re still losing the battle against it becoming a frizzy, tangled mess.
Today it seems to be particularly frazzled though. There’s silence for a moment as Smysan attacks it with the brush; a sullen sulk on Felice’s part, concentration followed by growing confusion on Smysan’s.
After a minute or two, Smysan has to ask, “Sweetheart…did you try and cut your own hair?”
“No!” says Felice, instantly panicky and radiating guilt.
Smysan pulls some of the strands apart, as gently as she can. It looks as though someone’s used a pair of not-very-sharp scissors to cut clumps out of the underside almost at random. “Don’t lie to me. You know you’re not allowed to play with scissors. How did this happen?”
“It wasn’t me!”
“Who was it then?”
The inevitable tears have started, making it hard to hear the reply, but eventually Smysan manages to make out the words, “Katja did it.” Katja is – currently – Felice’s best friend and partner-in-crime.
“Why?”
“Because my hair is stupid and ugly and I hate it,” she wails. The tears are in full flow now, big noisy gulps and snot flying everywhere.
Smysan is at a complete and total loss. When she’d pictured motherhood, somehow it had never included moments like this.
“Your hair’s lovely, darling,” she says faintly, a beat too late.
Felice’s sobs grow louder. “They said it was dirty and full of lice.”
“What? Who did?”
She doesn’t get a reply, Felice seemingly incapable of forming words altogether now. As patiently as she can, Smysan lets the distress flow for a minute. She continues to work out the tangles while murmuring reassuring nonsense until Felice finally calms down, descending into persistent little sniffs and hiccups.
“Well,” says Smysan eventually. “That was very, very silly of you and Katja. You must never use scissors without grown-up supervision, do you understand me?” She waits for Felice’s obedient nod, complete with sniff, before going on in a softer voice. “You don’t have lice, sweetie. If you want to change your hairstyle, then why don’t you come with Mamma to my hair salon and I’ll get my girl to do something. Perhaps we could cut it shorter, or straighten it, would you like that?
She knows Poppe will object, protest that Felice is far too young to start straightening her hair. But Smysan is sure she can talk him round. He doesn’t know what young girls are like, the sacrifices that have to be made just to survive.
“Okay,” says Felice in a small voice.
“I’ll see if they can fit you in this afternoon, so we can sort this mess out. Then it’ll look lovely for Alicia’s party on Saturday.”
The words have the opposite effect to what she was expecting, Felice immediately bursting straight back into tears again, sobbing even louder than the first time.
“What’s wrong now?” asks Smysan, exasperated. There’s the beginnings of a migraine throbbing behind her left temple. “I thought you liked Alicia!”
Through the tears, and headshakes and hiccups, the story eventually comes out in dribs and drabs; first, multiple protests that Felice didn’t want to go to the party and it was all silly and stupid, before finally admitting that Alicia and her little gang of vicious sidekicks had told Felice she wasn’t welcome. Because they would be playing princesses, and there were no fat, Black princesses.
‘Black’ was not the word Alicia had used. Felice had repeated the actual word in all innocence, making Smysan freeze in place, her blood running cold. At least, Smysan desperately hopes it was innocent, that it was a word Felice had never heard before and had no idea what it actually meant. The alternative was something she didn’t want to think about.
“That was a very bad word that Alicia used,” she says slowly, numb with shock. “She shouldn’t have used that word. I don’t want you ever to repeat it, do you understand me? I’ll be speaking to her parents.”
“But she’s right.” Felice rubs her face with her sleeve, smearing the tears with another loud sniff. “I don’t look like a princess.”
“What about Tiana? She’s a princess!” Felice had become obsessed with that new Disney movie last year, The Princess and the Frog, watching it on a near-daily basis. She’d walked around the house singing that song about friends on the other side over and over until Smysan was about ready to commit murder.
Still, it had been an improvement on the Cinderella phase, with those horrible, creepy little mice.
Felice is stubbornly shaking her head. “Alicia said she doesn’t count.”
“Why not?” says Smysan, before she gets a grip on herself and remembers she’s arguing with the logic of a six-year-old no doubt mindlessly repeating the bigotry of her parents. “Never mind.”
She returns to brushing Felice’s hair with gentle strokes, thinking hard.
“Now, you listen to me, young lady. You are my brilliant, beautiful, wonderful daughter. And you will go to that party, and you will be the prettiest, best-dressed princess there. And you will rise above it all, and you will smile, and be nice, and extra-friendly to everyone, because that’s the way to deal with nasty little jealous girls like Alicia. Then in a couple of months, when it’s your birthday, you’re going to have the biggest and the best party that everyone will want to come to, and Alicia and all her little friends will be begging for invites.”
Felice looks unconvinced as she meets Smysan’s eyes in the mirror, tears still streaking her face. She winces as Smysan pulls a bit too roughly, working out a knot.
There’s no reason why Felice can’t be the most popular girl in school, if Smysan has anything to do with it. She’ll have the best clothes, the best accessories, the best style in every possible way. Smysan will keep a closer eye on what she’s eating, make sure to reduce the calories, cut out the snacks. The plan to bake cookies today is definitely out for a start.
Never give them any weakness to pounce upon. It’s what her own mother taught her.
“Anyway, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” says Smysan, tugging the brush through and ignoring Felice’s slight squeak of distress. “Anyone can be a princess.” She leans closer, resting her head over Felice’s shoulder, whispering conspiratorially. “All you have to do is marry a Prince.”
Felice blinks up at her and finally begins to smile, hope on her face. “Like Tiana did?”
“Like Tiana did.” Smysan lays the brush down on the dressing table, relieved she can move on. “Blow your nose, dear, it’s not ladylike to sniff.”
2020
The buzz starts small, a faint ripple among the students before it ebbs and flows, the wave building strength until it washes over parents and teachers too.
Smysan is chatting to another parent over mulled wine and pepparkakor when the rumour reaches them. She couldn’t have said what they were talking about for the life of her though, brain still numb with shock over seeing that girl as Lucia. Even so, she still picks up on the undercurrent running through the room; students whispering and giggling, the shocked face of a teacher excusing themselves and rushing over to the headmistress, both of them leaving the room in a considerable hurry.
“What on earth is that all about?” she muses out loud. Her words are picked up by one of the other parents standing close by. One hushed conversation later, and Smysan is scurrying across the room to find Felice.
The girl’s been avoiding her since the procession and Smysan was letting her, not wanting a scene in public. It could wait; but this can’t.
“Hey, Mamma,” she says, clearly nervous as Smysan bears down on her, tucked away in a corner of the room. “Um, my friend Sara is just leaving, she’s really upset. Her Pappa was here, it’s a whole thing. Can I just…?”
“Never mind that. We need to talk.”
She pulls Felice away from the main room with a tight grip on her wrist, smiling and nodding to acquaintances as they pass. They keep up appearances as they enter the corridor outside to find they’re not the only ones looking for a quiet place to talk, heads bowed and hushed conversations everywhere. Eventually they find a small alcove away from the main hall that offers some semi-privacy.
Felice starts before Smysan has a chance to, smoothing out the strange dress and squaring her shoulders, oddly defiant, before launching into what seems to be a prepared speech. “I’m sorry if you were upset. I know Lucia means a lot to you, but it doesn’t to me. I didn’t really want to be Lucia, but Sara did and I knew it would make her happy…”
“Never mind th…” Smysan begins, but to her shock Felice keeps talking.
“And I did try the dress. I did. It’s not that I don’t know what it means to you, and the tradition of it all, but it didn’t fit. None of it fits.” She emphasises the last words as though they’re significant, big dark eyes pleading with Smysan to understand.
Smysan doesn’t. She’s at a loss, actually, to understand why Felice is fighting her so hard on this. So what if the dress doesn’t exactly fit? It’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a good seamstress, or if Felice would just try a little harder to lose a few pounds. But right now it doesn’t seem worth the argument. There’s more important news.
“I’m…disappointed, of course,” she says, keeping her cool. “But we’ll talk about it later. Is it true about Wilhelm? This video?”
“Is that what you wanted to…?” Felice starts, but stops herself. “I don’t know,” she goes on in a quieter voice.
Smysan sighs, impatient. “Well, have you seen the video? Is it him?”
“I don’t know,” she repeats, a little firmer. “I’ve not watched it.”
She doesn’t seem as upset as Smysan would have expected. She doesn’t seem to be particularly shocked or in denial, either; it’s like she doesn’t want to talk about it at all.
Smysan is trying to understand, but frankly she’s baffled. She knows how Felice feels – felt – about Wilhelm.
“What happened?” Smysan asks, struck by the thought. “With you and Wilhelm?” They’d seemed so close at one point – the way he’d rushed after her at lunch on Parents’ Day, the way they interact on social media. Then Erik had died, and everything had gone quiet, and suddenly August was in the picture. Smysan was still in the process of trying to get her head around that, waiting for Felice to come to her and talk about it, when suddenly the whole thing with August seemed to be over as quickly as it started. And Felice still hadn’t spoken to her about any of it.
“Wille didn’t want me,” says Felice with a shrug, oddly casual. “And that’s okay.”
“And August?”
She looks awkward at the question, but answers it anyway. “He did want me.” Then she makes a face, half amused, half grim. “But then he kissed my best friend, so…”
There was a time once when Felice would tell her everything, the pair of them gossiping like sisters. It was what Smysan had always wanted, had always imagined having a daughter would be like. When did it change? When had Felice become so secretive?
“So…what are you saying? Is Wilhelm gay, then?” Smysan asks, getting to the point. “Or bi?” She’s not going to be so crass as to ask out loud whether Felice thinks there’s still a chance, but even so Felice gives her a long, judgemental look.
“I don’t know, Mamma. That’s his business. Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?”
“What do you mean?”
She doesn’t understand the expression on Felice’s face or the look in her eyes.
“You know,” says Felice, after a beat, sounding frustrated, “tonight is the first time I’ve seen you since Parents’ Day. I thought you might ask me how my classes are going, or about my new friends, or what I’m going to do instead of riding.”
Smysan frowns, totally lost in this conversation. “But you’re not really going to give up riding, are you?”
It seems to be the wrong thing to say, Felice taking a step backwards and inhaling deeply.
“Goodbye, Mamma. Give my love to Pappa.” She pecks Smysan quickly on the cheek. “I’m going to see if I can catch Sara before she leaves.”
2039
The restaurant is tiny, barely big enough for its grand name; a hole in the wall in Södermalm, just about big enough to fit a few tables out front and a kitchen in the back. Once summer comes, there will be space to spill onto the pavement outside; but tonight, in the dark and cold of December, they’re crammed inside like sardines. There’s fairy lights and paper stars covering the walls, a minimal concession to the festive period. Felice and her team had worked themselves almost into the ground to get the restaurant open in time for the Christmas rush.
Smysan doesn’t get it. She'd always hoped Felice would become a private chef; reasonable hours, the right kind of clients. When she'd insisted on pursuing a restaurant career, they’d offered to provide the funds for somewhere much bigger, with more tables and a proper bar. But Felice had refused, talking about not running before she could walk, saying she wanted to be a chef, not a manager. It seems mad to Smysan. All those years of working unsociable hours in sweaty kitchens – no dates, no life, no fun – dreaming of finally opening her own place. Only to end up here in a space that Smysan would have called ‘charmingly rustic’ if she’d stepped in here with any of her friends, the insult fully implied.
But Felice seems happy, her face lighting up as she sees them, rushing over for a hug and a kiss in greeting.
This isn’t the proper restaurant opening. That’s next week, with actual paying customers and hopefully a food critic or two. This is a freebie for family and friends only; half celebration, half trial run to work out the final kinks.
Felice is glowing as she greets them, despite the barely concealed bags under her eyes. She’s made no effort to dress up for the occasion, simply wearing chef’s whites with her mass of curls restrained today by a bright, colourful head scarf. Smysan allows herself one brief pang of regret before she greets her daughter, kissing her on both cheeks. It’s all too easy to picture another celebratory occasion where Felice would be dressed in white, surrounded by family and friends. But she lets the phantom image slide away. She's learned over the years to hold her peace on that one.
“Well, this looks wonderful!” she says, a little too bright; but if there’s a false note, Felice doesn’t seem to hear it, turning to her father for his own greeting.
“You’ve excelled yourself.” He hugs her, hearty and enthusiastic, and seems like he means it. “But what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?” he teases her warmly, and she laughs.
“I will be! I need to say hi to everyone first, don’t I? You’re all here for me. Anyway, Ali’s got it all under control for now, I’ll be back through in a minute – though there might be a bit of a wait for the first course, so do help yourself to drinks and canapes – oh, hang on a second, there’s someone else I need to say hi to…”
She’s gone again, slipping through the assembled guests as quickly as she came. Smysan accepts a glass of something fizzy from a tray proffered by a nearby waitress who looks about twelve, hair in neat braids either side of her face.
Poppe gives her a pointed look. “You could try to look a little more cheerful.”
“I’m perfectly cheerful,” Smysan says stiffly. She takes a sip of the sparkling wine. It’s not the best she’s ever had but it’s bearable.
He raises his eyebrows.
“I am. I’m very proud of Felice, and happy for her. I just…” She sighs, glances around the room. She recognises a few of the people here, but not many. Felice had forged her own path over the years, including making friends everywhere she went, sometimes with the most unsuitable people. There’s a former prince in the tight-knit group of friends on the other side of the room at least, the only tenuous nod to Swedish high society; except that apparently these days he doesn’t even go by the title any more. As if that isn’t the most ridiculous thing anyone ever heard.
It’s hard, sometimes, not to regret the might-have-beens.
“How’s she going to meet anyone now?” Smysan asks, not without a touch of despair. “It was bad enough before, but she’ll be working every hour God sends from now on.”
“I mean, look around.” He waves a hand around the noisy room, some new arrivals greeting Felice with shrieks and cheers as they come through the door. “I don’t think our daughter has any trouble meeting people.”
Smysan gives him a withering look, though it seems to have little effect. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. So?” Poppe shrugs, takes a sip of his own drink. “Maybe she gets married when she’s fifty. Or maybe she meets the love of her life tomorrow, or maybe she never gets married at all. Does it matter?”
Smysan stares in horror. “It’s like you don’t even want grandchildren.”
It's a low blow and she regrets it as soon as she says it at the expression on his face. But he shakes it off, saying quietly, “I would love nothing more. But…” He sighs. “It’s not our choice. And right now, she seems to be happy. Isn’t that all that matters?”
“And you think she’ll still be happy when she’s old and all alone?” she says, feeling determined to be sulky about it.
There’s a burst of laughter from the other side of the room. They look across to see Felice hugging Sara Eriksson tightly, her other friends gathered round, all eyes on her.
“I don’t think we need to worry about that.”
“Okay, everyone!” Felice has disentangled herself to stand at the front of the restaurant, over by the tiny bar and payment desk, cupping her hands around her mouth to shout. There’s a chorus of shushes and someone yells “QUIET!” from behind them, making Smysan jump.
Felice smiles at whoever it was and addresses the room, clearly nervous.
“Uh, I won’t keep you long, because I need to get back in the kitchen and I’m sure your stomachs are rumbling, but I just wanted to say,” she takes a deep breath, smiling widely, “thank you so, so much, everyone, for being here. Your support as we start this new adventure means the world to me. I would not be here today without every single person in this room. But I do need to thank a few people in particular…"
Smysan’s mind starts to wander as Felice names various people she doesn’t know, apparently determined to thank everyone from her sous chef down to the terrifyingly young waitress. Her eyes dance over the room, taking in the smaller details she’d not seen before. The walls and the tables are fairly plain, but there’s attractive black and white photographs on the walls, almost hidden behind the festive decorations. She has to admit the décor is growing on her. It's simple but cosy, warm and classy. Very Felice.
She drags her attention back as the speech winds to an end.
“--and most of all, my best friends – you know who you are – and my parents, who have supported me every step of this journey. I could never have done this without you.” Felice sounds a little choked as she meets Smysan’s eye. She raises her glass in response, smiling gently.
“So, uh, if everyone could please take find your table and take a seat, and let our staff do their thing. We want your really honest feedback tonight, don’t hold anything back. Thank you.” She moves as if to leave, before stopping herself. “Oh, and we’re going to stagger the food service so it might be a bit of a wait for the first course for some of you, so keep eating up the canapes. Okay, that’s everything.”
She looks startled as the room bursts into applause, flashing a quick, bemused smile before vanishing into the back room.
Smysan and Poppe find their table, each labelled with neat name-cards. They’ve been thankfully sat away from some of the younger, noisier guests, next to an older couple they don’t recognise. They swap small talk, waiting to be served, and the couple turn out to be Felice’s mentor from her first proper restaurant job and her husband.
“You must be incredibly proud,” says the woman, sincere and fond.
“We are,” says Smysan, and finds the words come out more genuine than she expected.
The night wears on. The food, when it eventually comes, is exquisite - so much so that Smysan gives in and has dessert, too, the crème brûlée she shares with Poppe almost worth the calories.
The service is less exquisite, their server young and nervous, and Smysan makes a point of writing down all the details on the feedback forms they’ve been given – because her daughter is, if nothing else, meticulous and organised. She gets it from her mother. And that’s another little moment of pride to realise, even if Poppe gives her a long-suffering look while she writes.
Once the final course has been served to the final table, Felice emerges from the kitchen; face rosy and shiny with sweat, clearly exhausted but happy. It’s Sara who gets to her feet and makes a toast, presumably pre-planned by the small table of close friends nearest to the kitchen. It’s short but heartfelt, and Smysan feels a surprising lump in her throat as she listens and raises her own glass. Too much wine, perhaps.
There’s another, prolonged burst of applause before Felice finally raises her hands to end it, embarrassed but obviously pleased.
“Thank you, everyone. And remember I want honest feedback! Text it to me tomorrow if you’re having too much fun tonight to fill out the forms. And do stay and have another drink.”
Smysan exchanges a glance with Poppe, who nods, silently agreeing. They’re not great at late nights any more, not between his heartburn and the stiffness Smysan is beginning to feel in her joints, as much as she denies it. She feels drained anyway, the emotions of the night affecting her more than she thought they would do.
They approach Felice who’s leaning over another table, chatting to more people Smysan doesn’t know.
Poppe catches her attention. “We think we’re going to go, let you celebrate with your friends.”
“Are you sure?” she says, coming to meet them, though she doesn’t press them to stay. She’s frazzled but flushed and glowing, and Smysan is suddenly struck by how well it suits her. She looks beautiful in the soft lighting. “Thank you so much for coming, it meant a lot you were here.”
Poppe says something which Smysan doesn’t quite catch in the buzz of conversation around them, then Smysan realises it’s her turn, both of them looking at her expectantly.
“This was wonderful. The food was absolutely beautiful, it really was. I’m sure you’re going to be a great success. I’ll be telling all my friends to visit.” She pauses, surprised to find she’s gushing in a way unusual for her. Maybe she really has drunk a little too much wine tonight. Softer, sincere, she looks Felice in the eye and goes on, “I love you and I really am very proud of you. I hope you know that.”
Felice blinks in surprise, pleased and a little shy as she beams at them. “I do.” She pulls Smysan in for a tight hug, murmuring into her ear.
“Thank you, Mamma.”