Alex Dahl is a half-American, half-Norwegian author. Born in Oslo, she wrote The Boy at the Door while living in Sandefjord.
My name is Cecilia Wilborg. I live in Sandefjord, a typical small Norwegian town. It’s peaceful. At least, it used to be. In the last year, some rather unsavoury elements have hit this maritime jewel like a slap in the face. And all thanks to me. The thing is, some people talk and some people get talked about. I used to think that it was preferable to be the gossip, perched up high in my ivory tower, dissecting the lives of others. But it has become clear to me that it is much better to be the subject of gossip – it’s the only real way of knowing that you matter.
Truth is a strange thing, I find. It’s complex and unattainable to most people, like fine wine, Hermès bags – hell, pretty much anything worth having. And nobody knows the truth of what has really gone down at the Wilborg residence this past year. People talk, of course. According to Kaja Simensrud (in an open Facebook post!) my parenting strategies are questionable. According to the ladies at Sandefjord tennis club, I entertain acquaintances of the most lugubrious kind. According to the bitter little women at Sandefjord Sailing Club (who, coincidentally, do not receive invites from me), dinner parties chez moi may or may not endanger your life (though, personally, I believe my Ponzu sauce is one of a kind). According to the Sandefjord Police, dangerous events have transpired in this town because of me. In fact, according to that wretched, butch-bitch policewoman who went after me like I’m some kind of champagne truffle, I am guilty of all the above, and more.
As you can imagine, I don’t give a single fuck what the little vanilla people are saying about me in their little vanilla homes. After everything that has happened, I figured – like Paris and Kim and many other strong women before me – that I might as well profit from the story of my life. Now all you need to do is read this and make up your own mind. I ask just one thing of you; when you read The Boy at the Door, sip at a nice crisp Pouilly-Fuissé, imagine the stormy, dark night when this all began and spare me some kind thoughts when you consider what I’ve been through. Then spread the word.
XO Cecilia Wilborg