The Exception Read Free Page B

pushed in utterly unforeseen directions along career paths, sometimes along straight routes and sometimes up blind alleys. Some of them already have children.
    They are everywhere, standing or sitting, drinking beer or red wine, chatting in the low light from a few dim lamps. Three young mothers drift around with babies in their arms. Iben and Malene exchange glances. Obviously, dancing isn’t an option.
    There are more questions about Nairobi, but Iben only smiles. ‘I’ve been asked about all that so often I can’t even bring myselfto discuss it any longer. Some other time. Look, what about you?’
    She does the rounds of the room and then tucks herself away in a corner where she can half-sit, half-lean on a table. A man starts reminiscing about nights spent clubbing. He’s a dentist, fresh from his qualifying exams and already well on his way to becoming an alcoholic.
    She looks up and, across the room, sees Gunnar. Malene once spoke of him as ‘such a big guy’ and Iben got the impression that he was John Goodman-sized. Now she realises that he is more like the young Gérard Depardieu.
    Iben sees Malene get up from an inflatable armchair and walk towards Gunnar; the dentist turns to watch.
    Iben crushes a crisp between her teeth. Some women, she thinks, would be bloody irritated if their friend had that sort of effect on every single guy they met. She observes Malene lead Gunnar away to the relative peace of the hallway.
    Later, Iben and one of Rasmus’s best friends end up side by side on the sofa. He wears a neon-blue jacket with contrasting seams and is proudly telling her that he’s just landed a job as a copywriter in an advertising agency. His voice sounds louder than it used to be and his laughter seems more mechanical.
    ‘Human rights and art – great stuff, but there’s no money in it!’
    He sees the expression on Iben’s face. ‘Sure, it’s not so bad being more or less broke. But unemployment, that’s something else. It’s awful. I mean, just look at the way you’re treated by your prospective employers. They couldn’t give a fuck. They know perfectly well they can take their pick from thousands of graduates.’ Some of the people standing nearby are listening in and he turns to them as well. ‘But in a good agency you get treated differently. The bosses know how few there are who have both the talent and the stamina to put up with that line of work.’ He smiles. ‘Like, watch the style; fuck the substance.’
    He mentions the name of his agency and Iben is obviously meant to recognise it. ‘We’ve been on TV. Like you.’
    Iben pours fruit juice into her plastic cup while keeping an eye on Gunnar, who has come back into the room. He isn’t surrounded by any female admirers. Maybe because by now they’re old enough to feel self-conscious or because they think that, in the flesh, he doesn’t quite live up to their fantasies. Or maybe because he is just too old.
    Rasmus’s friend is still working his story. Now he’s telling everyone about how his agency paid for him and the rest of the crew to take a three-day Christmas break, partying in Barcelona, and how it was worth it, given the firm’s investment in their salaries.
    Maybe it’s the impressed looks on the faces of the listeners that prompts Iben to jump in and defend traditional values, such as ‘Money isn’t everything’ and ‘You can’t buy happiness’. In no time she realises that this discussion is just a rerun of their old debates, as if they are all battle-worn politicians in the last days of an election campaign, able to predict their opponents’ arguments.
    Avoiding eye contact, she deliberately turns away from the discussion and tries instead to eavesdrop on the conversation of the two strangers sitting opposite.
    But Rasmus’s friend hasn’t finished. ‘Iben, your job is different. I would’ve liked it myself. You investigate serious stuff. Humanitarian issues. That’s really worthwhile. It means