Dark Advent by Christoffer Petersen

Author:Christoffer Petersen [Petersen, Christoffer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aarluuk Press for Arctic Noir, Action Thrillers and Greenland Crime
Published: 2019-02-09T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 2

The bathroom tiles of the hotel suite warmed the soles of her feet as Pipaluk Uutaaq, Greenland’s First Minister, leaned over the bathroom sink to brush her cheeks with a medium blush. She tiptoed for a closer look at her mouth, pressing the lipstick into the creases of her lips as she lightly gripped the edge of the bathroom unit. She heard a man’s voice call out from the bedroom and ignored him, focusing instead on her lips, a crisp touch of eyeliner and some shadow. She rested on her feet, enjoying the warmth of the under floor heating, as she fastened her black bra around her stomach, turned it so the clasp was behind her back and slipped the lacy cups over her small breasts. The light around the mirror lit the straps on her dark skin, and she smiled as she brushed her bobbed hair into stylish layers with a sharp cut of the fringe framing her chin. Model-chic with just the right amount of colour for the cameras, set off by a white blouse. She tugged at the silk, lifting the blouse from her bra, wondering if black was too much, deciding that she didn’t care.

“Daddy would have been proud of his little girl,” she said, assuming a younger voice and a childish tilt of her chin. She altered her voice to a more ministerial pitch. “My father would be so proud of us, our people, our land, on the cusp of freedom from colonial influence, only months away from true independence.”

Pipaluk frowned, plucking her tablet from the towel shelf. She highlighted the word cusp and searched for an alternative. Pinnacle sounded wrong, zenith too obscure. She settled on eve.

“On the eve of our independence.”

“Pipaluk? Can I come in?”

“Naamik,” she said, as she scrolled through her speech.

“I need to pee.”

“There’s a bathroom down the hall, by the bar.”

“Pipaluk?”

She opened the door, glanced at the man’s pale skin and handed him a towel.

“You might want to cover yourself up.”

Pipaluk closed the door, ignored the man’s curse, and reminded herself that the next time her husband was out of town, she would choose an older lover for the weekend, more robust, less Danish. She smiled at the sound of the door closing.

She sat on the toilet to pull on a pair of tights, stood up to fasten her skirt around her waist, and grabbed her tablet on the way out of the bathroom. Pipaluk stuffed the tablet into her briefcase, slipped her feet inside fleece-lined boots and her arms into the thick Canada Goose quilted jacket – still Greenland’s favourite after all these years. She stopped at the door, remembered her shoes, and tucked them under her arm as she left the suite.

Pipaluk met her weekend lover in the corridor, returning from the toilets by the bar.

“I’ll have someone from reception check the room in twenty minutes. Try not to forget anything,” she said, as she brushed past him.

“You’re a real bitch, First Minister.”

Pipaluk stopped. “You think so?”

“I do,” the man said.

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