Thorgerdur Katrin Gunnarsdottir, leader of Iceland’s Reform Party, sank into her favorite armchair, savoring the last notes of celebration that lingered from her party’s victory. The buzz of her supporters still echoed faintly in her mind as she reached for a cup of herbal tea. Just as she began to relax, her smartphone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at the screen. It was the president, Halla Tomasdottir.
“Thorgerdur!” the president exclaimed. “I’m at a restaurant with Erla—yes, Erla, the People’s Party leader. We’re having some wine. Come join us. It’s urgent.”
“Urgent?” Thorgerdur raised an eyebrow. “You’re drinking wine at a restaurant called Sweet Dreams. That doesn’t sound urgent.”
“Just come,” Halla insisted.
Curious, Thorgerdur threw on a coat and drove through the icy streets of Reykjavik. When she arrived, she paused at the door. The “restaurant” was indeed a sweets shop. Through the window, she could see the president and Erla sipping wine, surrounded by colorful macaron towers and trays of éclairs.
Inside, the atmosphere was a curious mix of decadence and mischief. Halla waved her over, and Thorgerdur joined them at the corner table.
“Finally,” Erla said, swirling her glass. “I’m tired of seeing old men’s faces in parliament. Isn’t it refreshing that we’re in charge now?”
Halla nodded vigorously. “But can we talk about Kristrún? Thirty-six years old and already prime minister? It’s infuriating!”
Erla slammed her glass on the table. “Exactly! She’s so young, and she didn’t even bring us chocolates to celebrate the coalition. The audacity!”
The two women turned to Thorgerdur, who shrugged. “She’s competent. And anyway, isn’t this a good thing for Iceland?”
“Good for her maybe,” Erla huffed. “I think we should call her here and teach her some humility.”
Thorgerdur watched, bemused, as Erla pulled out her phone and dialed the Prime Minister’s office. Moments later, she scowled. “Her secretary won’t let me speak to her!”
Halla’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, really? Well, I am the president. Let me handle this.” With an air of authority, she made the call, invoking her presidential status. Five minutes later, Kristrún Frostadóttir walked into the shop, visibly perplexed.
“What’s going on?” Kristrún asked, scanning the table of desserts and wine glasses.
Halla leaned back. “We were just wondering about your handsome secretary. What’s his story?”
Thorgerdur smirked. “Yes, Kristrún, maybe you could arrange an introduction.”
Erla’s face darkened. “Excuse me? Are you trying to cut ahead of me?”
Before Thorgerdur could reply, Halla raised her hands to mediate. “Ladies, please—”
“Shut up, old hag,” Kristrún snapped, her patience clearly worn thin.
The table fell silent, but before anyone could respond, the shop assistant rushed over. “Excuse me! If you’re going to fight, please take it outside!”
Embarrassed, the four women stood, muttering apologies. As they stepped into the cold Reykjavik night, Halla chuckled. “Well, at least no one can accuse Iceland of having boring politics.”
Kristrún sighed. “Next time, let’s discuss coalition matters somewhere less… sweet.”
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
Iceland gets new government under Social Democrat Frostadottir
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