The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

spectator. None of his own films had won any prizes. Not yet.
    She stepped out of the mosaic-lined shower stall and wrapped herself in a thick terrycloth towel. Then she paused in front of the mirror and noticed to her satisfaction that she was already nicely suntanned. A few aches and pains after yesterday’s evening workout at the gym, but she was in perfect bikini shape for the summer. She let go of the bath towel and it dropped to the floor. Then she turned around so she could see herself in profile in the mirror; it was the angle she liked best. She still looked just fine after passing forty and having three children. Her breasts were large and well shaped, but that was because she’d had work done on them after Mathilda was born. She couldn’t stand the thought of spending the rest of her life with those flabby, drooping sacks that her breasts had become after all the breastfeeding she’d done. Now the part of her body that made her most proud was her bosom. She smiled at herself and went through the bedroom to the walk-in closet that Sam had built just for her. There was plenty of room for all her shoes and clothes, lined up in perfect order. An enormous mirror covered one wall so she could stand there in peace as she chose what to wear. Later today they would be going out to Fårö for the Bergman festival, and then continue on to Stora Karlsö.
    Andrea’s eyes paused on a photograph of Sam and herself on the yacht in Stockholm’s archipelago last summer. How handsome he was, looking so tanned in his white tennis sweater and sunglasses. He had his arm around her and was smiling at the camera. He was still the most attractive man she could imagine. She was proud to walk at his side whenever they were out socializing. Sometimes she would sit for a long time and just stare at him across the breakfast table. There they sat, on an ordinary morning, and suddenly it would seem to her so unreal that she was allowed to be there with him. Day in and day out. Of course they’d had some bad patches, just like everybody, but for the most part things had been good. They led an orderly life with few surprises – exactly the way she wanted it to be. She was looking forward to growing old with Sam.
    Their home was just as flawless as her appearance. She loved decorating and furnishing the rooms, and she insisted that everything should be perfectly arranged. Sam laughed at her for pressing their bed sheets and ironing his underwear. Every six months she would remove all the books from the shelves so she could dust behind them. Once a month she would take the rugs and cushions out to beat the dust out of them with an impressive frenzy. She changed the bed linens every week, and during the summer months even more often, since she thought that everyone sweated more during the night at that time of year. She arranged the tinned goods and pasta packages according to a specific pattern in the pantry, which was always well stocked.
    Every Sunday morning she would sit down at the kitchen table and fill out the family calendar with the activities and meetings scheduled for the coming week. She wrote down a menu for each day, checked to see what they had in the cupboards, and then went out to shop for the rest of the groceries they would need. Preferably with one of the neighbouring wives. She loved her predictable life. It made her feel secure; she always knew what to expect.
    Right now she needed to finish packing for the trip they were taking with friends. She hummed to herself as she placed Sam’s shirts in a neat pile inside his bag. She cast a glance out of the window. Sandra was walking past with the pram, as usual. That poor woman. Andrea didn’tenvy her. At the age of forty-two, dealing with young children was now part of the distant past, and she wouldn’t for the life of her want to start again. Her neighbour already had two teenagers when she got pregnant again. Even though she and her husband claimed it was wonderful to add a latecomer to their family, Andrea didn’t really believe them. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than being tied down again. That was probably why Sandra seemed so stressed lately.
    The sight of her made Andrea think about the strange experience she’d just had. That inexplicable feeling of being watched, and the fact that she’d not only forgotten to lock the front door but left it slightly ajar. It was so unlike her. Maybe she was starting the menopause, which could make a woman a