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      Rex walks quickly to the door and looks in at his son, who’s still fast asleep. His make-up has washed off, and his face is very pale. The bandage over the cannula in his arm has folded over. The tube and the half-full infusion bag are glinting in the morning sun. His stomach is rising and falling with his breathing.

      Rex jogs to the lifts and presses the green button as the purchasing manager of the TV4 group calls.

      ‘I’m sitting in the taxi now,’ he replies, just as the lift machinery whirrs into action.

      ‘Should I be worried?’ Sylvia Lund says.

      ‘No need – they just got their bookings mixed up.’

      ‘You were due in make-up twenty minutes ago,’ she says warily.

      ‘I’m coming. I’m on my way now. We’re already on Valhallavägen.’

      He leans his forehead against the mirror and feels jagged exhaustion catch up with him.

      The taxi is waiting outside the entrance to the emergency department. Rex gets in the back seat and closes his eyes. He tries to have a quick nap during the short drive, but can’t stop thinking about what’s happened. He’s going to have to call Sammy’s mother, Veronica.

      As Rex understands it, Sammy will be referred to a psychologist, who will evaluate him for signs of substance abuse and suicidal tendencies.

      The car turns and pulls up in front of the TV4 building. Rex pays, not bothering to wait for a receipt. He hurries in through the glass door.

      Sylvia hurries over to him. Her face is neatly made-up, her hair blow-dried so that it curls in towards her neck and jawline.

      ‘You haven’t shaved,’ she says.

      ‘Haven’t I? I forgot,’ he lies, feeling his chin.

      ‘Let me look at you.’

      She studies his crumpled jacket, messy hair and bloodshot eyes.

      ‘You’re hungover,’ she says. ‘This can’t be happening.’

      ‘Leave it, I can handle this,’ Rex says tersely.

      ‘Breathe on me,’ she snaps.

      ‘No,’ he says with a smile.

      ‘You may be having a hard time, but that won’t make any difference … TV4 will walk away from their contract with you if you make a fool of yourself again.’

      ‘Yes, so you said.’

      ‘I’m not letting you into that studio unless you breathe on me.’

      Rex blushes as he breathes into his boss’s face, looks her in the eye and then walks away.

      A young woman comes running over to hold the door open for Rex and Sylvia.

      ‘We’ve still got time,’ she says breathlessly.

      Rex starts walking towards the dressing rooms, but feels sick on the steep metal steps. He has to stop and cling onto the handrail before moving on.

      He passes the green room where this week’s guests are waiting and quickly goes into his dressing room. He hurries over to the sink and rinses his face and mouth with cold water, spits and then wipes himself with a paper towel.

      His hands shake as he changes into his pressed suit, then the chef apron.

      The young woman is waiting in the hallway and follows him as he half-runs towards make-up.

      He sits down on the chair in front of the mirror and tries to get a grip on his stress by watching the news. One make-up assistant shaves him and a second blends two types of foundation on a palette.

      At regular intervals the presenters announce that ‘superstar chef Rex will be here soon to share some of his best hangover tips’.

      ‘I didn’t get any sleep last night,’ he manages to say.

      ‘That’s OK, we can fix that,’ one of the make-up assistants assures him, holding a damp sponge to his swollen eyes.

      He thinks about when Sammy was little and said his first words. It was a frosty autumn day, and his son was playing in the sandpit when he suddenly looked up, patted the ground beside him, and said ‘Daddy sit’.

      He never wanted children. Veronica’s pregnancy wasn’t planned. All he wanted was to drink, cook and fuck.

      The make-up artist runs her fingers through his hair one last time to get it to lie flat.

      ‘Why are people so crazy about chefs?’ she asks rhetorically.

      He just laughs, thanks her for making him look human again, and hurries off to the studio.

       21

      The soundproof door closes behind Rex. He creeps into the studio and sees that the host, Mia Edwards, is sitting on the sofa talking to a writer with pink hair.

      Rex steps carefully over the cables and takes his place in the kitchen on one side of the group of sofas. A sound technician fixes his microphone while he checks that all the ingredients for his pasta dish are in place, that the water is simmering and the butter is melted.

      He watches the large monitor as the author being interviewed laughs and throws her hands up. The ticker along the bottom of the screen talks about growing criticism of the UN Security Council.

      ‘Are you hungry?’ Mia asks the author after getting a prompt through her earpiece. ‘I hope so, because today Rex has prepared something extra special.’

      The lights come up and as the black lenses of the cameras swing towards him he’s drizzling oil into the beaten-copper pan.

      Rex increases the heat of the gas burner, starts picking basil leaves from a large pot, and smiles straight into the camera:

      ‘Some of you may be feeling a little worse for wear today … so this morning we’re focusing on the perfect hangover food. Tagliatelle with fried shrimp, melted butter and garlic, red peppers, olive oil and fresh herbs. Imagine a really lazy morning … waking up next to someone you hopefully recognise … and maybe you don’t really want to remember what happened last night, because all you need right now is food.’

      ‘Forget all about dieting,’ Mia says expectantly.

      ‘But only for this morning,’ Rex chuckles, and runs his hand through his hair, messing it up. ‘It’s worth it though, I promise.’

      ‘We believe you, Rex.’

      Mia comes over and watches as he chops a chilli pepper and garlic with lightning-fast flicks of the knife.

      ‘Take extra care if you’re feeling fragile …’

      ‘I can do that just as fast,’ Mia jokes.

      ‘Let’s see!’

      He throws the knife in the air, and it spins twice before he catches it again and puts it down next to the chopping board.

      ‘No,’ she laughs.

      ‘My ex always called me a schmuck … I’m still not quite sure what she meant,’ he grins, and stirs the deep-rimmed frying pan.

      ‘So you’ve dried the shrimp on paper towels?’

      ‘And because they’re not pre-cooked, you may need to add a little more salt than usual,’ Rex says as he lowers the fresh pasta into the simmering water.

      Through the cloud of steam his eyes take in the latest news on the ticker at the bottom of the monitor: Swedish Foreign Minister William Fock has died after a short illness.

      His stomach lurches with angst and his head suddenly goes empty. He forgets where he is and what he’s supposed

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