The Shadow Girls Read Online Free Page B

want to have any children, he thought. At least not with Andrea.
    He sighed, left the bathroom and poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. In his study he leafed through the latest reviews of his book that the PR department had forwarded. Humlin had given them careful instructions as to what kind of reviews he wanted to read. He only wanted to see the good ones and had an old-fashioned ledger where he noted which papers and critics continued to praise his work as ‘the primary representative of mature poetry at the end of the twentieth century’.
    Humlin read the latest reviews, made some notes in his ledger, and noted that the
Eskilstuna Courier
had once again given his work too little notice. Then he walked over to the window and looked out. Andrea’s latest outburst worried him. There was a chance he would soon face the prospect of either making her pregnant or accepting the fact that she might finally write her book.
    At seven he called a taxi service, giving the receptionist plenty of time to recognise his name. He got in the taxi and gave the driver the address. The driver was African and spoke poor Swedish. Humlin wondered grumpily if he would actually be able to find his way to the little restaurant in the Old Town where he was going. It was not, as he had told Andrea, his publisher he was going to meet. That meeting was tomorrow. But this was something equally important.
    Once a month he met fellow writer Viktor Leander. They had met when they were still young and unpublished and had taken to meeting regularly to compare notes and pick each other’s brains. They had never liked each other very much. They were competing for the same market and were always afraid that the other was going to have a brilliant idea and leave his rival in the dust.
    The driver had no trouble finding his way among the narrowalleys of the Old Town. Humlin took a few deep breaths before getting out. Viktor Leander was waiting for him at their usual table in the corner. He was wearing a new suit and had let his hair grow somewhat longer than normal. Viktor Leander was also tanned. A few years earlier he had managed to purchase his own solarium bed with a couple of well-paid articles about ‘new horizons’ in a magazine for data consultants.
    Humlin sat down.
    ‘Welcome back.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I got your postcard. Nice stamps.’
    ‘It was a good trip.’
    ‘I look forward to hearing about it.’
    He knew the man on the other side of the table had no interest in hearing about either the Solomon Islands or Rarotonga, just as Humlin had no real interest in hearing about Leander’s experiences.
    They ordered their food. Now came the delicate task of interrogating the other.
    ‘I had a whole bunch of debut novels and poetry with me on the trip. That was hardly relaxing.’
    ‘But educational. I know exactly what you mean.’
    It was part of their ritual to speak badly of the latest batch of new writers, especially if any of the debuting authors had been particularly praised.
    Humlin lifted his glass and toasted his colleague.
    ‘What are you working on these days?’
    ‘A crime novel.’
    Humlin almost choked on his wine.
    ‘A crime novel?’
    ‘I want to show up all these upstart bestseller types who can’t write. I’m going to give this genre a literary treatment. I’ve been reading Dostoevsky for inspiration.’
    ‘What is the book about?’
    ‘Oh, I haven’t come that far yet.’
    Humlin sensed a door being shut. Of course Leander knew what he was planning to write. But he didn’t want to give Humlin a chance to steal his ideas.
    ‘Sounds like a great idea.’
    Humlin was irritated. He should have thought of this himself. A crime novel from one of the country’s greatest poetic talents would gain a great deal of attention. It could be a bestseller, as opposed to the small editions of his poetry books. His trip to the South Pacific had been a mistake. If he had stayed here he would no doubt have had the same