Stands beside the bed for a while before leaving the room.
70
Zeke on his way to Ikea, Malin on her way up the stairs of number 3, Drottninggatan, million-year-old fossils embedded in the stone of the steps. Viveka Crafoord’s clinic is on the third floor of four.
No lift in the building.
Crafoord Psychotherapy: a brass sign with curling letters, in the middle of a brown-lacquered door. Malin tries the handle. The door is locked.
She rings the bell.
Once, then twice, then a third time.
The door opens and a woman in her forties looks out. Frizzy black hair and a face that is round and sharp at the same time. Her brown eyes sparkle with intelligence even though they are half covered by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
‘Viveka Crafoord?’
‘You’re an hour late.’
She opens the door a little more and Malin can see how she is dressed. A suede waistcoat over a puffy lilac- blue blouse, which in turn hangs over an ankle-length, green-checked, velvet skirt.
‘Can I come in?’
‘No.’
‘You said—’
‘I’m seeing a client at the moment. Go down to McDonald’s and I’ll call you in half an hour.’
‘Can’t I wait here?’
‘I don’t want anyone to see you.’
‘Have you got . . .’
The door to the clinic closes.
‘. . . my mobile number?’
Malin lets the question hang in the air, thinks that it’s about time for lunch, and she now has the perfect excuse to partake of the American fast-food Satan.
She really doesn’t like McDonald’s. Has stuck absolutely to her decision never to take Tove there.
Baby carrots and juice.
We’re taking our responsibility seriously and helping to combat childhood obesity.
So stop selling fries, then. Fizzy drinks. Half a responsibility: how much is that worth?
Sugar and fat.
Malin opens the door reluctantly.
Behind her a bus drives into Tradgardstorget.
One Big Mac and one cheeseburger later she feels ready to throw up. The restaurant’s garish colours and almost tangible smell of frying make her feel even worse.
Call now.
Twenty minutes. Thirty. Forty.
Her mobile rings.
Answer quickly.
‘Malin?’
‘Dad, I’m busy.’
‘We’ve been thinking about the matter.’
‘Dad—’
‘Of course Tove is welcome to come down with her boyfriend.’
‘What? I told you, I’m—’
‘. . . so can you see if they still want to . . .’
Call waiting.
Malin clicks away from the call from Tenerife, takes the new one.
‘Yes?’
‘You can come up now.’
