Her gaze fell on the map on the table. ‘Is this us? Which mountain are we climbing?’

  Helena and Maggie looked at one another. Said nothing.

  ‘What? That’s what we’re doing, right?’

  Maggie kept her gaze lowered.

  Joni said, ‘I just bought up an entire outdoors store. Please tell me we’re climbing a fucking mountain?’

  Helena, eyes on Maggie, asked, ‘Mags?’

  Slowly, Maggie lifted her head. Then her face split into a grin. ‘Okay, we’re climbing a big fucking mountain!’

  Liz laughed with something that sounded like relief. Then she began explaining the route they were taking, pointing to places they might camp. They talked over one another in a rush of enthusiasm.

  Joni found her attention being pulled towards the bar, where bottles of spirits glistened on a rack. ‘First up, I’m getting a round in!’ She slipped away from the others.

  ‘What can I get you?’ the barmaid asked.

  ‘A bottle of champagne, please. And a double shot of vodka.’

  ‘Champagne?’ the barmaid said with a raised brow. ‘We don’t get asked for that every day.’

  ‘Anything with a cork will do! Whatever you’ve got.’

  The vodka arrived first. Joni tipped it back with a grimace, wiping her mouth on her hand.

  The barmaid produced a bottle of dusty champagne. As she placed it in an ice bucket, she glanced at Joni from the corners of her eyes. ‘I know you. You are in that band, yes? My son listens. Horse Fly.’

  Joni wanted to say, You don’t know me. You don’t know that when I sing, those lyrics are empty. Or that the only things I ask for in my rider are vodka and crisps. Or that when a kid says to me, ‘I want to be like you!’ I want to grip them by the shoulders and say, ‘No. You don’t!’

  ‘That’s me!’ Joni answered, giving a dazzling smile. Then she hooked an arm around the ice bucket, slotted her fingers through the stems of the champagne flutes, black nail varnish flashing, and returned to the table.

  The others were still grinning, laughing, pulling over a fourth chair.

  ‘Champagne!’ Maggie exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  She caught the roll of Helena’s eyes. Flashy? Was that what she thought?

  Joni popped the cork and filled their glasses, champagne frothing over the rims, dripping onto the map, a patch of the trail distorting beneath the fizz of bubbles.

  She raised her glass high into the air. ‘Here’s to being together – and losing ourselves in the wilderness!’

  12

  MAGGIE

  The lodge bar was packed. A crowd of people were dancing in front of a stage, where a guy was strumming a guitar and howling into the mic. A group of men suddenly cheered and hooted, thrusting their beers to the ceiling.

  Maggie was feeling pleasingly light-headed from the champagne. She didn’t drink much at home – it never felt quite right opening a bottle of wine for one while Phoebe was sleeping. That’s where the biscuits came in.

  The man from the reception desk, Leif, was threading his way through the room, T-shirt flattened to the muscles of his chest, a beer bottle in his grasp. As he neared their table, he looked up, smiling. ‘Having a good night?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Liz said, grinning, her features softened by the wine. She signalled to an empty chair. ‘Join us?’

  The spindles strained beneath his frame as he lowered himself down, folding his legs beneath his seat. He sat forward, a thick forearm resting on the table. Maggie couldn’t stop looking at the ridges of muscles in Leif’s arms, the prominent veins, the neatly cut nails, and strong fingers. A climber’s arms. Alcohol wasn’t the only thing she was missing in the evenings.

  ‘This is Joni,’ Liz said. ‘And this is Leif.’

  Joni smiled, lips parting over straight white teeth. ‘Good to meet you.’

  A sunburst of lines appeared around his eyes as he smiled. ‘You’re the singer in Horse Fly!’ He uncurled his fingers from his beer, wiped them against his T-shirt, then reached across to shake her hand.

  She shook it, smiling easily.

  ‘Joni surprised us!’ Maggie beamed. ‘The four of us holiday together every year – but we didn’t think Joni would make this one.’

  ‘Every year?’ Leif asked.

  ‘Since we were eighteen,’ Joni said proudly.

  ‘Although the trips usually involve a pool and cocktails,’ Helena added.

  ‘How long have you known each other?’ Leif asked.

  Maggie leaned across the table to refill their glasses. ‘Forever,’ she said, catching the edge of a slur in her voice. ‘These are my best people.’

  ‘We met at secondary school,’ Helena said. ‘Maggie and I used to bus in from the wrong end of town.’

  Their school covered a large catchment area, from the council-owned houses where she and Helena lived, to the leafy village where Joni and Liz grew up in detached houses with pretty gardens.

  ‘Wrong or right end, it didn’t matter,’ Liz said, who was leaning back in her chair. ‘We were all in the same tutor group. Four to a bench. It was love at first sight.’

  Leif smiled. ‘You’ve stayed close all this time.’

  ‘We’re family,’ Joni said, putting her arms around Liz and Maggie, who were sitting on either side of her.

  Liz said, ‘Remember that school residential trip when they put us in separate rooms? We snuck out with our sleeping bags and slept in the boat shed so we could be together!’

  ‘Which would’ve been fine,’ Helena said, ‘except Joni decided to take out a rowing boat so we could stargaze – and one of the security guards spotted us.’

  ‘Always leading us astray,’ Liz said, grinning at Joni. ‘Remember when you dared us to nick a top-shelf DVD from Blockbuster, and that kid on the counter chased us down the street?’

  ‘Or the time you organised a rave in the quarry,’ Maggie said, ‘and it got shut down and we were delivered home by the police!’ It had been worth the month-long grounding just to dance in that echoing quarry, music thumping through her whole body.

  There was something about Joni that always made Maggie feel excited by life. When she and Aidan married, Joni had given them a wedding gift for their home, but she’d also bought something separate, Just for you, she’d whispered, pressing it into Maggie’s hands. Maggie had opened the beautifully wrapped package alone and discovered a set of stunning paintbrushes and acrylics, with a note reading, Stay you. Always create. A flush of shame travelled through her insides as she pictured the paints, still unused, tucked at the back of her wardrobe ready for the right time. She pushed the thought aside. Tonight wasn’t about regrets.

  ‘You have a lot of history,’ Leif said, smiling.

  Maggie liked seeing their friendship, through Leif’s eyes, as something golden and easy. The four of them had travelled through career highs and lows, failed romances, the arrival of children, the loss of parents – and been there for each other throughout it all.

  Their annual holiday was more than just a quick blast of sunshine or fresh air. It meant everything to Maggie. When the four of them were together, she was reminded that her younger self was still there, glimmering beneath the responsibilities of adulthood, polished fresh by her friends’ company.

  ‘Have you been to Norway before?’ Leif asked.

  They shook their heads.

  ‘You’ll love the mountains. They change you. You can’t go into the wilderness without uncovering your wild self.’

  Helena asked, ‘Have you always lived here?’

  ‘Yes. My grandfather built the original lodge. Then my parents took over and ran it for twenty-five years. We lost my father three years ago and it’s been too much for my mother to manage alone – she isn’t in good health – so now I look after it. We renovated last year for the first time since the Seventies.’

  ‘You’ve done an incredible job,’ Helena said. ‘I love how the lodge has a traditional feel, yet the open glass sides feel so fresh and expansive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Leif said, his face flushing with pride.

  ‘When a place is passed down through the generations, does it become a pressure?’ Maggie asked, interested. ‘Do you feel like you have to stay here?’

  Leif shook his head. ‘It’s everything, this place. We have the mountains. The coast. The lake. Hot sun in summer. Snow in winter. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.’

  Maggie smiled to hear him talk so passionately about his home. Raising her glass, she said, ‘To you and your lodge.’

  Leif lifted his beer and clinked it against her glass.

  Ahead of them, the dining-hall door swung open, and a rangy guy who looked to be in his late twenties exploded into the room. A faded rucksack hung off one shoulder, and an orange beanie was pulled low over the back of his head, a wash of dark hair falling across his forehead. He was unshaven, a black tattoo stamped on the near side of his neck.

  The barmaid stopped mid-step, eyes stretching wide in surprise.

  A group of young women paused from drinking, a whisper passing between them.

  Leif was completely still – eyes pinned to the incomer.

  The man crossed the space, his gait loose, arms swinging. His gaze searched the crowd, jaw jutting forward, as if silently demanding, What are you looking at?

  ‘Who is that?’ Maggie whispered, feeling the atmosphere in the room tighten.

  Without taking his eyes off him, Leif answered: ‘My brother.’

  The table jarred as Leif got to his feet, sending their drinks sloshing.

  The brother’s gaze landed on Leif – and he halted.

  Leif and his brother faced each other.

  Every person in the lodge seemed to be holding their breath. The singer had paused between tracks. Leif’s brother said something in Norwegian, his face serious.

  Leif returned his stare.

  Then Leif’s brother opened his hands expansively, his face cracking into a smile. He stepped forward.

  There was just a beat of hesitation before Leif did the same, embracing him as he said, ‘Erik!’

  As they clapped each other on the back, Maggie caught Leif’s sidelong glance. His gaze searched out Bjørn and Brit, who were sitting at a corner table.

  Brit’s eyes had widened and the drink she held had begun to tremble. Bjørn sat rigid, hands gripping the sides of his chair, knuckles white. Both of them were staring at Erik as if they’d watched the devil walk in.

  13

  HELENA

  The atmosphere in the lodge was briefly stalled by Erik’s arrival. Helena noticed the low voices, strange sidelong glances, and groups of drinkers talking with their heads bent together. But soon enough the music restarted, the guitarist turned up the amp, and the party buzz returned.

  Maggie got to her feet and Helena watched her weave through the room towards the stage, hair swaying at her back.

  Helena loved drunk Maggie. Her body became completely boneless, as if she were dissolving beneath the love she felt for everyone around her.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Liz asked.

  Maggie, standing on tiptoes, whispered something into the singer’s ear. Then she turned, looking back towards their table, pointing, beaming.

  Helena nudged Joni. ‘Think your night off is over.’

  Joni looked up.

  Across the room, Maggie was grinning, beckoning Joni.

  ‘Oh God …’ Joni groaned, shaking her head at Maggie, mouthing, Don’t!

  But the singer was already leaning into the mic, announcing in lilting English, ‘I am told we have one special guest in the room tonight.’

  Several pairs of eyes swung immediately to their table.

  Liz, cigarette tucked behind an ear, placed her forearms on the table. She leaned forward until she was nose to nose with Joni. She slapped one palm against the table, then the other. She eyeballed Joni, a steady drumbeat beginning to build, as her face split into a wide smile. ‘Joni-Gold! Joni-Gold!’ she chanted.

  Helena picked up the rhythm, her rings clinking against the table edge, champagne glasses trembling.

  At the bar, another group joined the chant. ‘Joni-Gold! Joni-Gold! Joni-Gold!’

  The voices grew louder, everyone looking in their direction. Liz stood, reached out her hand, and pulled Joni to her feet.

  Joni grabbed her champagne, tossed it back, then let herself be led across the room as the crowd cheered. At the front, Maggie was clapping delightedly as Joni squeezed past the amp. The musician said something in Joni’s ear, then unhooked the guitar from his neck, and Joni put the strap around hers.

  Helena picked her way to the front, standing with Maggie and Liz.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s going to do this!’ Liz said, beaming wildly, as Joni checked the tuning of the guitar.

  ‘I can,’ Helena said. Applause was Joni’s sustenance. She’d never been the girl calling, Hey, look at me over here! She waited until she was wanted. Until her name was chanted. Until the tables were pounded and everyone in the room was swept up in the excitement and was hoping, hoping that she’d perform. Then – and only then – would she step forward.

  Helena studied Joni. She wore an old T-shirt with a pair of ripped shorts, her slim legs stuffed into heavy boots. A sleeve of leather bracelets flocked up her right arm, and her septum was pierced with a silver bar. She wore just a flick of kohl around her eyes, her prominent cheekbones and sharp green irises doing the rest of the work.

  Everyone was watching. The stage was hers.

  Joni closed her eyes, her body began to rock, the rhythm already playing in her head. Instinctively, she angled her face towards the microphone. With her mouth almost touching it, her lips parted, her eyes opened. ‘Hey.’ One word, smoky, low, deep.

  The room fell silent.

  And into that silence she began to sing.

  Oh, Jesus! That voice.

  Dusky, deep. The resonance ripping through the lodge, sending shivers down Helena’s neck.

  She was a rock star.

  Every pair of eyes was trained on Joni. As she strummed the guitar, the music drew the crowd forward, heads nodding, hips swaying, feet moving. No one could take their eyes off her. That was the thing about Joni: her talent was shocking. You could feel it, raw and beautiful and throbbing. You wanted to reach out, touch it, because you understood that what you were witnessing was something special.

  Helena’s skin buzzed with the electricity in the room. Watching Joni perform was mesmeric. Her voice was textured – gravelly and deep one moment, then soft and haunting in a single note change. It was like she was singing not just with sound, but from a place deep inside her. The guitar became part of her, her long fingers dancing instinctively across the fret board, strumming chords, picking notes. You could see the song moving through her body, the flex of her spine, the arc of her neck, the mellow close of her eyelids. She became fluid, transformed.

  Joni didn’t play music. She was the music.

  The room swelled with energy. Helena let the music flood her body, her spine softening. She took out her phone and hit the Video button.

  Liz tugged free her hairband, shaking loose her ponytail. Maggie swirled, expression ecstatic, dress lifting around her knees. Behind them, a girl whistled, fingers thrust hard between her lips. A man with a shirt unbuttoned to his navel threw his hands in the air.

  Maggie’s arms circled Helena and Liz, the three of them leaning in together. Helena turned the phone briefly on them as they grinned, and then at Joni, who looked up from the mic, straight at them, and beamed. They could have been twelve, or eighteen, or twenty-five. That was the magic of old friends: the years were stripped away. Joni was theirs and they were hers. All the hurt and anger and resentment disappeared because Joni shone so bright that her light banished the darker memories, left Helena so dizzy and struck that she forgot to be mad.

  At the song’s end, the crowd burst into applause. Joni smiled, eyes shining, revealing perfect white teeth, with the tiniest gap between the front two. Her first manager had asked for her teeth to be corrected and Joni had said, ‘Sure. Right after you have your personality corrected.’ That was the thing about Joni, she didn’t take shit. She did what the hell she wanted – and it was intoxicating.

  It was meant to be one song. That’s what Joni had said. Just one. But Helena felt the heat of this crowd. There was no way they were letting her go. As Joni removed the guitar strap from her neck, the previous singer stepped forward to the crowd, asking, ‘Who wants another?’

  The room erupted.

  ‘Me!’ Liz yelled, jumping up and down on the spot. ‘Play “Black Shell”!’

  Liz’s shining pride in her best friend was loveable. She was never jealous of Joni’s beauty or success or fame. She accepted her long absences with grace, not complaint. Liz seemed flattered that, despite the glamour of Joni’s world, she’d still get on a plane for her.

  ‘This one is for my girlfriends,’ Joni said huskily into the mic. Then she strummed the first chord of ‘Black Shell’ and the crowd surged.

  Helena loved this song, too. She remembered being sent the track when it was fresh from the recording studio. ‘Listen to this,’ she’d told her mother, playing it for her. Tears had filled her mother’s eyes, her hands pressing to her heart as she’d listened. ‘Tell Joni I’m so proud of her. She must visit when she’s home next.’

  In their teenage years, Joni had come over to Helena’s after school most weeks. Helena’s mother had taught her how to play the keyboard, how to read music, how to use the incredible range in her voice. For Joni’s seventeenth birthday, her mother had spent her wages on a Moleskine notebook, pressing it into her hands, saying, ‘For writing your own songs.’

  When Helena’s mother died, she’d left Joni her old keyboard and an antique wooden box containing the sheet music that they used to practise together. Helena had planned to give it to Joni when she returned for the funeral – only Joni had never shown up.

  The crowd writhed, but Helena remained still. If her mother were alive, she’d have been cheering Joni’s name. She would have waved away her hurt that Joni hadn’t called or visited when she was sick – because her mother had always seen her talent, her beauty, her vulnerability, her fragile confidence, and she’d wanted to protect her. Her mother would have forgiven her. Like everyone did.