The Break-Up Retreat(13)

“No,” she says. “It’s usually within the EU. I was adopted as a child. I’ve never been to China. You have probably spent more time in Asia than I have, based on what you said before.”

It’s hard to tell under the liquid blush, but I think Clara turns red.

“Sorry,” she says. “Shit. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It is no problem,” Katarina says, her voice as even as ever.

I hear a laugh from the other side of Clara, a low chuckle.

“Easy mistake to make, right, Clara? I’m sure you didn’t spend much time with any actual Asian people when you were gallivanting around Thailand and Vietnam, discovering yourself.”

Clara clamps her lips together before turning to the woman sitting next to her, the only one whose name I’m yet to learn.

“Listen,” she says. “I get it. I fucked up. But I think it’s between me and Katarina, and she already said that it’s okay. I don’t understand why you feel the need to make me out to be someone I’m not.”

“I’m not trying to make you out to be anyone at all,” the tattooed woman says, her eyes dancing.

“Leyla,” Martina says.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. We all fall silent.

The tattooed woman raises her chin a smidge as she looks over at Martina.

“That protective instinct you’re feeling is a good thing,” she says. “But I think you would agree, if you are being truthful, that what you are doing right now isn’t coming from an entirely altruistic place. Am I correct?”

Leyla doesn’t answer her.

“Let’s just move on, for now,” Martina says. “I’ll go tell the kitchen that we are ready for dessert.”

She pushes her chair back, stands up, and disappears through the doors in the back.

When she’s gone, Belinda appears to decide to take control of the room before it spirals back into conflict. The mood is still tense; Clara has turned her body away from Leyla, Katarina is staring down at her half-empty plate, and Pernilla has her arms crossed so tightly across her torso that it looks like she’s locked them in place.

“I think we should introduce ourselves, too,” Belinda says, just on the verge of too loudly and too cheerfully. “Some of you met me when you arrived, and some of you met Anna. We’re the general caretakers here at Himlafall.”

Anna does a funny little wave, which makes Belinda smile, the tension leaking out of her shoulders.

“And this is Ellen,” she says, referring to the small, compact woman to her right, the one who, so far, hasn’t said a single word. She looks young and grim, her fair hair cut close to her scalp and her mouth set in a thin line.

“Ellen is going to be your physical therapist for the next couple of days.”

I stiffen in my seat.

“Physical therapist?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

Belinda, thankfully, misinterprets my question.

“Yes,” she says. “She is going to be working with all of you, leading you in group classes, helping you handle and express your feelings through movement.”

Belinda adds:

“And don’t worry, it won’t be too physically strenuous for those of you who aren’t used to heavy exercise.”

“Who would you assume isn’t used to heavy exercise?” Leyla asks her, raising her eyebrows.

“No one,” Belinda stammers. “I—”

“I have a bad knee,” Pernilla interjects, her eyes steely, her words crisp. “So I appreciate that, Belinda. Thank you.”

I reach for my water glass, barely aware of the conversation taking place around me.

Did I miss something? Did she text me? Did I not see it?

Fuck.

“Like she said, I will only be here for a couple of days,” Ellen says. Her voice doesn’t match her face; it’s high and lilting, nigh on sweet.

“After that, the other physical therapist, Sandra, will be taking over. She would have been here to start off your week, but something came up, so I am covering for her until she gets here.”

What could have come up?

Last time we spoke was only a couple of days ago.

The whole plan is contingent on Sandra being here. I’m not sure I can do it without her. She’smy inside woman, my access point, my—

I realize I’m squeezing the fork so hard my knuckles have gone white, and I force my hand to relax.

This wouldn’t mean anything at all to Isobel Anderssen; she wouldn’t care about which physical therapist is working and when.

“I’m just going to go check that everything is going okay in the kitchen,” Anna says, standing up from the table and leaving. I’m dimly aware that Belinda is still attempting to make conversation with the others, but I’m having a hard time focusing on it.

It’s only when one of the waiters picks up my plate, and I hear my name, that I snap back into focus.

“. . . Isobel?”

I look up, and see Clara staring at me, a small, expectant smile on her lips.

“What?” I blurt out. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t focusing. I’m tired.”

“She asked how you heard about the clinic,” Katarina explains.

“I . . .”

The news about Sandra has thrown me off. And I wasn’t lying when I said I was tired. I am on the verge of exhausted, actually.