His mother-in-law, who was sitting opposite him at the oval dining table, pursed her lips and turned her head away, raising her eyebrows. Her husband had already had a little too much to drink. He pointed at his son-in-law with both his knife and fork. ‘That’s my boy! Real men eat every bit of the fish.’ ‘Actually,’ his wife began, ‘spare ribs on Christmas Eve has been a family tradition since—’ ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ Johanne put down her knife and fork. ‘It was a mistake, OK? A stupid and completely insignificant mistake. Can’t you just forget the spare ribs? The Middle East is in flames and we’re in the middle of a major financial crisis and you’re sitting here making a song and dance about the fact that Strøm-Larsen lost my sodding order. Everybody around this table likes cod, Mum, it’s not such a bloody—’ ‘I hardly think it’s necessary to use language like that, dear. And I have to say that in my personal experience I have never known Strøm-Larsen to forget one single thing.
