Free ICEHOTEL by Hanna Allen

father’s bone-crunching grip.
But it would have been bad manners to refuse. I put my hand in his, tensing as
his fingers curled around mine, astonished at the gentleness with which he
squeezed.
    ‘Did you make the tour of the Icehotel?’ he said. ‘I was
sorry I missed it.’
    ‘Yes, I noticed you weren’t there.’
    ‘You did?’ he said quickly. The expression in his eyes
softened.
    Embarrassed, I reached for my glass. ‘All the information is
in your dossier,’ I said, wanting to move the conversation onto safer ground.
‘And you can wander around the place during the day.’
    He was watching me, a half-smile on his face. He leant back.
The chair groaned ominously.
    ‘Your father told me you’re from Charleston,’ I said. I
wondered whether Wilson had relayed our conversation, specially my outburst. I
decided he hadn’t. He would have forgotten our chat the moment he stepped off
the plane.
    ‘My father still lives there. But I’ve moved to New York.’
    ‘It must be quite a shock coming this far north. I can’t
remember when I’ve been so cold. And I live in Scotland.’
    ‘I’ve had time to acclimatise.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve been in
Stockholm for a few days.’
    ‘You’ve got over jet lag, then.’
    ‘I wish,’ he said with feeling. ‘No, I find it impossible
when I travel east. It takes days. I find myself nodding off over dinner and
then I’m wide awake at two in the morning.’ He smiled broadly. ‘You don’t
happen to know of a cure?’
    ‘For jet lag? There’s only one cure. Drink heavily.’
    He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ma’am, if there’s one
thing I’ve learnt, it’s when to take advice. What do you say to another glass
of wine?’
    I was warming to him. ‘Well, why not? Dinner isn’t for
ages.’ I settled back, stretching my legs.
    He signalled to the waiter.
    The lounge was filling. The Danes had arrived, Jane Galloway
with them, and their laughter reached us from the bar. But there was no sign
yet of Liz or Harry. Or Mike.
    Our drinks arrived. I lifted my glass in acknowledgment.
‘Thank you.’
    ‘Don’t mention it, ma’am.’
    ‘It’s Maggie.’
    He hesitated. ‘Maggie.’
    I sipped slowly. ‘Your father tells me you run the Bibby
Foundation.’
    ‘I’d hardly call it “run”. My father is the director. I do
the day-to-day.’
    ‘What does that entail, exactly?’
    He crossed his legs. The chair creaked, but it held. ‘We get
applications from all over the world. For funds – the Foundation is essentially
a charity. My father decides how the funds are to be awarded. It’s his money,
after all.’ There was a note of sourness in his voice. ‘My job is to ensure
that the money gets to the successful applicants. And that they spend it the
way they say they will.’
    ‘What kind of applications do you get?’
    ‘There are different categories of awards, and they change
from year to year. We’re in Stockholm because my father is setting up something
with Sweden. It’s totally new.’ He took a gulp of beer. ‘I can tell you, it’s
no secret. We receive applications from poor schools in the southern states of
the US. As well as giving them aid in the form of grants, my father is
organising a programme of exchange visits to schools in Sweden.’
    ‘So Swedish children visit South Carolina, and vice versa?’
    ‘Not just South Carolina. The programme will eventually
extend to all the states in the US. The Swedes won’t have to pay a penny. My
father is funding it entirely, capital costs, running costs. The whole nine
yards.’
    ‘Why Sweden?’ I said, curious.
    He gazed at me with his sloe-black eyes. ‘My father’s
intention is to do this all over the world. Sweden just happens to be the first
country that’s responded to his invitation.’
    ‘And the Foundation is funding all of this?’
    There was more than a trace of irritation in his voice now.
‘All of it.’
    I did a rapid calculation. The scheme would cost