Silver Tears(9)

The bartender turned away and began to deftly mix the drink in a tall glass. Faye got out her laptop, opened the screen, and switched it on. There was nothing more to be done about the share sales until tomorrow, so she might as well carry on with the American expansion as if nothing had happened. It would help her to remain calm.

Work had always had that effect on her. With hindsight, she couldn’t understand how Jack had managed to get her to give up her studies and her career. To wander about within the four walls of their home like a lost soul, or to spend countless hours on boring lunches with meaningless conversations. Had she ever been happy with that existence before the cracks had started to show? Or had she merely persuaded herself that she was? Because she’d had no other choice? Because Jack had cornered her?

Jack had worn her down in a way that no one else had managed to do. But she had taken her revenge on him—built a successful company and crushed his.

Jack’s best friend and companion, Henrik Bergendahl, had also fallen and had started over from nothing. Well…A couple of million kronor in the bank and a big house out on Liding? that was paid off wasn’t exactly what most people considered “starting over from nothing.”

In the beginning, Faye had felt sorry for him. He had always been pretty decent to her, and he had suffered only because he was Jack’s colleague. But she knew he had been constantly unfaithful to his wife, Alice, and in practice there was little difference between him and Jack. They had both treated the women in their lives as consumables.

Henrik had gotten back onto his feet again, so the damage had been only temporary. His investment firm was doing well and his fortune was now significantly greater than it had been during his years with Compare. She didn’t begrudge him his success, but she didn’t wish it on him either. If he hadn’t treated Alice so badly, she might have felt a pang of sympathy for the fact that she had trampled over him in passing. But as it stood, she wasn’t losing sleep over him.



The bartender set down the mojito in front of her with a smile and she paid.

“What’s your name?” said Faye, sipping gently through the straw. This taste was one she associated so strongly with Chris.

“Brasse.”

“Brasse? Short for…?”

“Nothing. I was christened Brasse.”

“Okay, I think you need to explain that. Where does the name come from?”

He shook a cocktail while answering.

“It was Dad’s idea. The Sweden–Brazil game during the 1994 World Cup.”

“Nineteen ninety-four? Let’s see, that makes you…”

“Twenty-five,” a man next to her interrupted.

Faye turned toward him, quickly taking him in from head to toe. Gray suit: Hugo Boss. White shirt, well pressed. Platinum Rolex with a blue face—about three hundred thousand kronor—on his left wrist. Thick, fair hair. It was either good genes or a discreet visit to some clinic. Pretty commonplace appearance but looked like he kept himself in shape. The SPR Athlete Factory in ?stermalm was her guess. He seemed the type who went in for martial arts training.

“I know, I look younger,” Brasse the bartender said while pouring a cocktail into a Russian matryoshka doll.

“Old enough,” said Faye.

The man next to her laughed.

“Sorry,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“No, no, don’t let me interrupt…”



Brasse escaped to the far end of the bar and began to take orders. Faye turned toward the man in the gray suit, who proffered a hand.

“David,” he said. “David Schiller.”

She reluctantly took his hand.

“Faye.”

“A lovely name. Unusual.”

She could see it in his eyes when he made the connection.

“You’re…”

“Yes,” she said curtly.

David seemed to get the message, because he didn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he nodded at her laptop.

“You’re working hard—I assume that’s what’s behind all the success. Myself, I’ve got a meeting with a good friend in a bit.”

“Okay, so what line of work are you in?”

Faye pushed the laptop aside. Brasse was better flirting material, but she couldn’t focus on work now. She might as well pass the time talking to a stranger.

“Finance. Cliché, I know. Finance bro sipping a G&T in the Cadier Bar.”

“A little clichéd, I suppose. Well. Very clichéd.”

“Pathetic, to be completely honest.”

He smiled at her and something happened to his appearance. For a second he was almost good-looking.

“Incredibly pathetic,” she said, leaning forward. “How about we play finance-dude bingo? See how much I can get right?”

“Go for it,” he said, amused, a twinkle in his eye.

“Okay, I’ll start with a few easy ones.” She frowned slightly. “BMW? No, no. Alfa Romeo.”

“Bingo.”

He smiled again and Faye couldn’t help smiling back.

“Hmm, you dine at the Teatergrillen restaurant at least once—no, twice—a month?”

“Bingo.”

“Now we come to the question of whether you live in an apartment or a house. ?stermalm or Djursholm. Or what about Saltsj?baden…Well, I reckon it’s a house out in Saltis.”