One afternoon when I was well again, Mr. Brandt asked, “Miss Jüül, where do you usually eat?”
“In the kitchen with the girls.” He must have known that.
“Dine with me tonight. I’m getting bored of my own company. It’s time to bore someone else with it, I suppose.” His smile was tight, uncomfortable.
“If you like, I can invite someone for dinner – a business associate, perhaps?” This was something I’d done often when Mrs. Brandt was in Cairo, arranged dinner company for them, whether at their villa or out with others.
“No, that’s fine. I’d just like someone to talk with about home.”
“Home?”
“Denmark. Do you miss it?”
I missed the climate. Here, I felt like heat was a parasite inhabiting my body.
“Wait.” He held out his hand. “Don’t answer, we’ll talk at dinner.”
That night, the c
