Missing

her keycard. She took it from him.
    ‘Truly I’m so very grateful.’
    She wanted to get into that room quickly now and put the card into the slit in the door. He put his hand on top of hers.
    ‘I’m in 407, remember. You know where I am if you change your mind. I’m a light sleeper.’
    He didn’t give up easily. Gently, using all the self-control she could muster, she pulled his hand away.
    ‘I won’t forget.’
    The card didn’t work. The lock-release click didn’t happen. She tried again. He smiled.
    ‘Goodness. You must have got my card. Who knows, maybe it’s an omen?’
    She turned and looked at him.
    He was holding her card between thumb and index finger. She felt an unmistakable wave of bad temper mounting inside her. She took the plastic card from him and put his into his jacket pocket. Her door opened easily this time.
    ‘Good night.’
    She stepped into her room and began pulling the door to. He stood there looking at her like a disappointed kid. No sweeties after all. And he had been exceptionally decent to her, it must be said. Maybe he deserved at least a little something to cheer him up. She lowered her voice.
    ‘I’ll be in touch if I begin to feel lonely.’
    His face lit up like a sun and with that sight facing her she finally closed the door and locked it from the inside.
    Have a nice life.

S he couldn’t wait to get her wig off. Then she opened both the bath-tub taps full on. Her scalp was itching and she leaned forward, running her fingers through her hair. When she straightened up, she observed her face in the mirror.
    Life had left its marks. She was only thirty-two, but could easily have been ten years older. That would actually have been her own guess. Many disappointments had etched a fine mesh of wrinkles round her eyes, but she was still good-looking. Or, at least, good-looking enough to attract men like Jörgen Grundberg, and she aspired to nothing more.
    The tub had filled almost to the brim and when she lowered herself into the hot water, some of it was slopping over the side. She reached over the edge to try to save her suit, which she’d let drop on the bathroom floor. Instead, her movement set up a wave-motion and more water spilled onto the floor. She would have to try to dry the suit on the hot towel-rail.

    She leaned back, enjoying the bath. This was the kind of thing that gave life meaning. If one’s ambitions were modest, that is. At least living out of a rucksack had taught her to appreciate the small things in life that others took so much for granted. Lots of people didn’t even notice many simple sources of pleasure.
    Once, she too had led that kind of life, so she knew what she was talking about. Though it was getting to be a long time ago.
    She had been Miss Sibylla Wilhelmina Beatrice Forsenström, the Chief Executive’s daughter. That Sibylla had had a bath every day, as a matter of course, as if it had been a human right. Maybe it should be. Still, it had taken losing the opportunity to make her value the whole experience.
    Sibylla Wilhelmina Beatrice Forsenström.
    It wasn’t so strange that she’d never managed to fit in. She had been given a life-long handicap as a christening gift.
    Sibylla.
    Even the dullest of the children in Hultaryd’s school reached unexpected intellectual heights in their efforts to invent new rhymes on her name. It didn’t help that the Burgers ’n’ Bangers stall in the main square had the same name and helpfully drew attention to it by displaying ‘Sibylla’ on a back-lit sign. This added sausages – and many rude variants – to the range of useful allusions to build jokes round. When it got out that she was called Wilhelmina Beatrice as well, everyone’s imagination seemed to know no bounds.
    Our child is unique! No doubt. But then, aren’t all children?
    Her parents’ stratagem worked on one level at least. In spite of their daughter spending years in the local school, which was full of common children from the lower classes, there wasn’t the slightest risk of her getting mixed up with them.
    Sibylla’s mother had always made a point of emphasising how special her daughter was, which of course gave Sibylla’s schoolmates every justification for ostracising her. It mattered very much to Beatrice Forsenström that Sibylla should know her position in the social hierarchy, but it mattered even more that everyone else should know it too. Nothing had any real worth to her, unless others valued it too and