Notes: Written for this picture prompt from Pyttan, available at www dot kaplans dot se slash kaplans slash StoreArt dot aspx?vld= 696384&plT=49360451. Much love to Pyttan and Cats in the Attic for beta reading.
Disclaimer: The Millennium Trilogy and all related characters belong to the estate of Stieg Larsson. No copyright infringement intended, and no money is being made.
1.
Lisbeth woke in a bed the size of a football pitch and blinked at the crown moulding on the ceiling. The sheets beneath her were crisp to the point of being almost scratchy. They would require another few washes. She wrapped the duvet around herself, turning onto her side. Fumbling for her phone, which was lost somewhere in a sea of bedding, Lisbeth stretched, catlike. Her fingers found their prize and she checked the time.
Noon.
Coffee.
Yes.
She reached over the side of the bed for a discarded t-shirt and made her way to the kitchen, still astonished at the amount of time it took to move from one part of the flat to another. So much space now, from the window seat to the Jacuzzi tub, and all of it was hers. She turned on the coffee machine and lit a fag, flicking the ash in the general direction of the ashtray with one hand as she opened her PowerBook with the other to check Kaplans Auktioner.
It was still there. Hadn't been sold.
Lisbeth's eyes darted towards the living room where, on a side table (glass-topped, Ikea, two hundred ninety-nine kronor), a perfectly shaped phallus in black rubber stood to attention. Mimmi's birthday gift to her, dug out of its storage box last night, was anatomically correct down to the ridges that represented veins. It made Lisbeth laugh. She turned her attention back to the PowerBook's screen, tracing the rectangle of diamonds with her eyes. 18K white gold, manual winding, barrel shaped movement, diamond bezel, a couple of diamonds damaged, integrated bracelet, approx 1940. Current bid: five thousand kronor.
Perhaps it meant something that the auction was still ongoing, though Lisbeth doubted it. Then the thought came to her: She could simply buy it now, skip the auction altogether. Though buying anything on impulse went against the habits of a lifetime, money was no object anymore.
But would Mimmi like it?
She'd no idea when Mimmi's birthday was and didn't think she had ever asked. Yet Mimmi—fierce and fearsome, who could have anyone she wanted—had always remembered hers. I have to stop squandering my friends, Lisbeth thought. Again.
She missed Mimmi. Of everyone she'd left behind, Lisbeth realised, Mimmi was the one she'd most have liked to share her experiences with. (Lisbeth refused to consider what it might have been like to lie on the beach in Grenada with Kalle Bastard Blomkvist and the shadow of Erika Fucking Berger.)
She could ring Mimmi, of course, but she couldn't think of what to say. Nor could she be certain that Mimmi would answer after all this time if she saw Lisbeth's number flash up on her phone. It would be better to go and see her. She would have to answer the door if she saw Lisbeth standing there ... wouldn't she? And if she was there, they wouldn't necessarily have to talk much. If she wasn't there, on the other hand, Lisbeth could slip her gift through the post slot. Put things back in balance somehow. The thought of Mimmi coming home to find such a surprise, imagining her delighted expression, made Lisbeth pull harder on her cigarette.
It was exactly the sort of thing Mimmi would wear with a red leather mini-dress and thigh-high boots, she decided.
Lisbeth's Twilfit bra and knickers set was still where she'd left it, in the wastepaper basket in her new office. She could fish it out again, just in case.
Fuck it, she thought and clicked 'Buy Now'.
2.
Mimmi woke on the edge of her tiny bed, anchored by Lisbeth's legs flung over hers. She lifted her head and rubbed one eye, turning to face Lisbeth, who was sprawled diagonally across the mattress and had nearly forced Mimmi off the bed. Obscene how such a small person could take up so much space.
A weak sun already shone in the January sky. Mimmi slithered out of bed, careful not to wake Lisbeth—though she didn't know why she bothered, as Lisbeth could probably sleep through a terrorist attack. Still naked, she retrieved last night's coffee cups from the stool beside the bed and took them to the kitchenette. As she put a fresh pot on the stove, her phone chirped.
Mimmi found her phone, still in the pocket of her coat, which hung on its hook by the door. There were four texts: one from Clara and three from Agneta. Clara wanted to borrow Thursday's notes from their post-feminist media theory lecture. Agneta wanted ... everything.
Agneta had cancelled on her last night. Agneta could wait.
After pulling on a silk dressing gown, Mimmi surveyed her cupboards and determined that she could just about manage breakfast if Lisbeth didn't mind muesli with filmjölk. Or she could go downstairs to ICA and pick up rolls and cheese.
"Morning," said Lisbeth. She had put on her t-shirt and stood by the bed, running her hands through her hair. She plopped into a chair and smiled up at Mimmi, her mouth lopsided and adorable. Mimmi handed her a cup, rinsed and refilled with fresh dark roast.
"Hungry?" she asked.
Lisbeth took a sip and looked Mimmi up and down. "Not so much for food."
Mimmi laughed. Trust Lisbeth to speak her mind. "Mind if I finish my coffee first?"
"Sure. Actually, I should go soon."
Mimmi just smiled. She knew better than to argue, though Lisbeth's departure would leave her alone with Agneta's text messages. Last night she had told Lisbeth that she was seeing someone, that it was complicated. What she didn't mention was that Agneta, with her villa on Lidingö and her BMW coupe and her clueless husband, was Mimmi's thesis advisor. Her professor. For reasons she didn't understand, Mimmi couldn't bear to tell Lisbeth what a cliché she'd become. Nor did Mimmi want to discuss the fact that Lisbeth's having resurfaced—after more than a year's silence—had further confused the already muddled picture of what Mimmi thought she wanted. Being desired was gorgeous, even if Mimmi couldn't count on Lisbeth sticking around. At least with Lisbeth, she knew where she stood.
Lisbeth finished her coffee in silence and stood up to put her cup in the sink before disappearing into the bathroom. Mimmi took her coffee and sat on the bed, where she stretched out her legs, thinking. When Lisbeth emerged from the bathroom a moment later, Mimmi watched her pull the rest of her clothes on.
"Can I call you soon?" Lisbeth asked, her eyes cast down.
Mimmi stood up to walk her to the door. "You know where to find me."
Lisbeth stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around Mimmi's neck, then just looked at Mimmi for a long moment from beneath her eyelashes, her lips parted in invitation. Mimmi bit her bottom lip, drawing a sigh from Lisbeth that made her want to immediately take Lisbeth back to bed. Lisbeth nipped back, then moved to brush her lips over Mimmi's throat. She pulled away with a sly half-smile.
"See you," said Lisbeth. Then she was gone.
Mimmi sat back down to finish her coffee, still ignoring her phone. It was just after eleven o'clock. She decided to wash her face before going to the gym. But on entering the bathroom she stopped short.
A silvery gleam had caught her eye, and she looked down to see a watch sitting on the edge of the bathtub, on top of a square of pink paper. Puzzled, Mimmi picked it up.
She caught herself frowning in the mirror. Had Lisbeth just given her a gift?
It was beautiful. Vintage, by the look of it. A rectangular face with Roman numerals—the 6 had nearly been erased—surrounded by crystals that sparkled when they caught the light. It reminded Mimmi of a watch her grandmother owned; she'd got it as a wedding present just before the Second World War.
She sat on the closed lid of the toilet and fastened the watch round her left wrist. It fit her perfectly.
She regarded the note with suspicion. That was definitely Lisbeth's handwriting. It read: Sorry I missed your birthday.
Mimmi didn't know whether to laugh or be exasperated.
Her birthday wasn't until next month.