The Hygge Holiday: The warmest, funniest, cosiest romantic comedy of 2017

by Rosie Blake

  Gavin: So does QI mean ‘lovable and sexy rogue’?

  Louisa: Only a QI would think that.

  Gavin:

  Gavin: Also… do you really want to sell?

  Chapter 22

  Clara had closed the shop a little late, dragging herself up to the flat, spooning food into Roddy’s bowl and topping up Lady CaCa’s dish.

  ‘THAT’S THE WAY A-HA A-HA I LIKE IT.’

  She gave the parrot a weak smile.

  Staring at the ingredients in front of her, she had the overwhelming urge to shove everything onto the floor, pack a bag and head out of the door. What a day: the shop had been busy throughout, the takings way up, and her legs ached from being on her feet. She’d even thought about restocking: the shelves were less crowded now, a few lines sold out completely. But what was the point? Her eyes flicked to Joe’s bedroom door. Was he there? Was he drawing up spreadsheets? Working out profits? Contacting agents or potential buyers? She found herself inching across the kitchen on tiptoe, freezing as one of the wooden boards let out a telltale creak, lifting her foot to get closer.

  ‘I AM YOUR FATHER,’ screamed Lady CaCa as the door in front of her flew open and Joe appeared.

  ‘Gah,’ said Clara, hand flying to her chest, trying to pretend she wasn’t lurking outside his room.

  He raised an eyebrow as she knelt on the floor and rubbed at an imaginary mark. ‘Cleaning,’ she mumbled, hoping her face wasn’t going red.

  ‘LUKE, I AM YOUR FATHER.’

  ‘Shut up, Lady C,’ Joe said, causing an audible parrot huff and the fluttering of a number of feathers before she turned to the corner.

  ‘ALL RIGHT, SHITHEAD.’

  Joe held out a hand as if to help Clara up; she ignored it, scuttling back to the kitchen, back turned as she washed her hands. ‘I’m going to make the fondue,’ she called over her shoulder, not wanting to look at him. Why had she invited him anyway? Maybe he would go out.

  There was a pause, and she wondered if he was still standing there.

  ‘That sounds great,’ he said. ‘Can I help, do anything for it?’ They were obviously not going to talk about what had happened earlier. Was he planning to apologise for snapping at her?

  ‘No, all under control,’ she said, remembering the hundreds of things she had to do but not wanting him working alongside her; hoping he’d get the hint and stay away.

  ‘At least let me go out and buy some wine.’ She heard him pick up his car keys, dared to look back.

  He was shrugging on his overcoat and gave her a small smile. She looked away, reaching for a garlic clove to start chopping.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, not looking up again, waiting for the click of the door. He loitered for a few seconds more before she heard the smallest sigh, and then he was gone.

  She felt herself sag with relief, moving to turn up the volume on the radio, enjoying the simple task of preparing the meal, feeling better knowing he wasn’t in the flat too. She kept picking from the enormous pile of grated cheese in front of her, waiting for the beer to start simmering. She’d added the chopped garlic and mustard powder and was reaching for the Worcestershire sauce when she heard footsteps on the stairs and Joe staggered in under an enormous box, patches of rainwater on his coat and hair damp.

  He placed the box on the counter and removed more than half a dozen bottles. ‘I wasn’t sure what went with fondue,’ he said, ‘so I bought one of everything.’

  She spotted champagne, prosecco, an expensive red wine, three different types of white, a pudding wine. She picked up the nearest bottle, reading the label as he continued to talk.

  ‘I think that’s for dessert,’ he said in a rush. ‘I’m not normally a fan, but I know you like sweet things.’

  She looked up at him sharply. Was this a dig about her weight? His expression was neutral, though; in fact, as he raked a hand through his dark hair, she could almost have been fooled into thinking he was nervous.

  ‘I’ll lay the table,’ he said, moving across to the sideboard and reaching for coasters, candlesticks, napkins. He arranged things in the same way she had done a few nights before, standing back to admire his handiwork before remembering what was missing and fetching a vase from under the sink.

  ‘Won’t be long.’ He disappeared off, and Clara nipped into her bedroom, quickly pulling on a dress over leggings, dashing on some eye make-up on and spritzing her favourite perfume onto her wrists.

  The fondue was bubbling by the time Gavin, Lauren and Patrick arrived. Gavin popped open the champagne and discovered that Louisa was the proud owner of some lovely-looking crystal glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, toasting Clara, leaning back against the kitchen counter to sip at his drink.

  ‘Where’s —’ Lauren began just as Joe appeared in the doorway, coat now soaked through, hair dripping, clutching a bunch of twigs. He looked like Heathcliff back from the moors. ‘They’re for the table,’ he explained.

  ‘Here, let me,’ Lauren said, rushing across the room to take the spindly branches from him.

  Patrick looked at Clara and raised an eyebrow. Lauren became intensely focused on arranging the twigs in the vase in the centre of the table.

  ‘What?’ she mouthed when she finally looked up at her husband.

  ‘So, Joe…’ and Patrick was off, asking him questions about work, about sport, moving across to the living room where Gavin was already sitting in the suede armchair looking right at home.

  ‘Joe seems… taller,’ Lauren commented, pouring herself a glass of champagne.

  Clara couldn’t help a small giggle. ‘I thought you loathed him,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Hmm…’ Lauren was looking over at the men distractedly. ‘Oh, I do, he seemed so boorish, but… well, he is quite easy on the eye, isn’t he?’ she said.

  ‘You tøs,’ nudged Clara.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘How rude,’ Lauren said, reaching over and stealing a piece of cheese.

  ‘Hey!’ Clara narrowly missed her hand as she tried to slap it away. She couldn’t help the warmth that stole over her. There were people in the flat, it was Sunday the next day and it was raining outside. This was how things were meant to be. So what if Joe had plans? She would make sure tonight wasn’t ruined by that. She would just focus on everyone else, keep their contact to the bare minimum.

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ she called, ushering them all to the table.

  The meal was a success, Gavin leaning back in his chair and patting his stomach, Lauren making some pretty obscene noises all the way through, Patrick covering a burp with a hand and Joe practically licking the plate clean. Clara was told to stay where she was as they all got up to help clear away and tidy, and she enjoyed sitting back, sipping at her glass of Chablis as she watched them. The others were chatting and laughing but Gavin was quiet, and she remembered his face in the shop earlier when he’d realised Joe might be selling. He hadn’t spoken much that evening and was looking at Joe now with a funny expression on his face, as if he was planning something.

  They returned to the table and Clara got up to start on the pudding, heading to the fridge to get the double cream. Lost in a rhythmic whisking, her mind miles away, she was distracted by Joe’s laugh. She’d heard it so little really. It was an unguarded sound, a low, long, infectious rumble, and she found her mouth twitching in response. She realised this was the longest she’d seen Joe in any one place; normally he was darting off to talk on his mobile or link up to a conference call or check a screen for some share price. Here he was looking positively relaxed, his usually pale face softer in the candlelight, his grey eyes accentuated by the dark eyebrows. His hair had dried, the ends slightly curled. He was laughing at something Patrick had said, one flat hand smacking his thigh. Clara found herself staring at the hand for the longest time.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Lauren appeared next to her, peering into the saucepan. ‘It’s boiling.�
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  Clara snatched her gaze away. Lauren was right, it was about to boil over. She dived on the knob to turn the heat down.

  Lauren raised one eyebrow and glanced at Joe. ‘You and him… getting on OK, are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ Clara trilled, bending down for bowls she had already brought out of the cupboard.

  ‘Fine.’ Lauren repeated in the strangest voice before drifting back to the table and topping up the wine glasses.

  ‘Anything else to do?’ Joe had got up and was standing in the kitchen, filling the small space.

  Clara felt the wine going to her head. ‘All good, just a few more minutes.’

  ‘Thanks for this, for inviting me,’ he said, his voice soft, at odds with the Joe she’d glimpsed in the shop earlier that day. Which was the real one?

  ‘It’s fine. You live here.’ She shrugged, feeling a sliver of guilt as she watched his eyes dull. ‘Not for long, maybe,’ she added, wondering why she was ruining things, unable to suppress the anger she’d felt earlier.

  ‘About that,’ Joe said, taking a step forward. ‘I should have said something to you about going to see them.’

  ‘Or you could not have asked him,’ Clara pointed out, her voice raised a fraction.

  Joe opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. ‘It’s not your decision,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s yours either,’ she said, switching the heat off and fetching a ladle.

  ‘It’s my mother’s home,’ Joe said quietly, aware of the sudden hush around the dinner table. ‘I need her to know what her options are.’ His hands curled into fists as he waited for her to respond.

  The word ‘home’ had deflated any desire Clara had to fight. This village, this flat wasn’t her home. She used to know exactly where her home was, but that was gone now and she wondered if she would ever feel the same about anywhere else. Joe’s chin lifted, preparing for battle. She shrugged wearily. ‘You’re right. It’s none of my business,’ she admitted in a small voice. ‘She’s your mother.’ She stepped round him and called to the others, ‘Let’s eat pudding.’ She looked at Joe, wanting to move on.

  He nodded once.

  They returned to the table, where Lauren was trying to teach Gavin how to say the word hygge.

  ‘No, Gavin – it’s hoo-gah,’ she said, her mouth in an impossible shape.

  ‘Hue-gaa.’

  ‘No, hoo-gah.’

  ‘Hooooo-guurrrrrh.’

  They all fell about laughing, and Clara pronounced it again for them slowly, listening as they started copying her with varying degrees of success.

  ‘What does it actually mean anyway?’ Gavin asked, still opening and closing his mouth as he attempted it again.

  ‘Well, there’s no literal translation,’ Lauren dived in, sounding like the Danish tourist board, ‘but it means sort of cosy, doesn’t it, Clara? It’s why she’s always lighting candles. The theory is that if things are cosy and beautiful and hooooo-gaaaah then you’re happy, and Danish people are officially the happiest people in the world, so it must work.’

  She turned to Clara as if wanting a pat on the head. Clara didn’t feel like the happiest person in the world right then, but not wanting to break the mood, she joined in, trying her best to explain the concept that English people were so fascinated by.

  ‘It’s not just about candles and things, it’s a way of life, I suppose, what you prioritise. The thinking is that if we stay inside our homes, surround ourselves with friends, family, good food and beautiful things, then we’ll have a perfect hyggelig time.’

  Joe was quiet, and Clara wondered if he was listening to her or whether he was still going over their conversation in the kitchen.

  ‘See!’ Lauren said. ‘It’s the secret to happiness.’

  ‘Is that why you want to buy that absurdly expensive light?’ Patrick said, turning to her. ‘The one you showed me online.’

  ‘It’s an Arne Jacobsen,’ Lauren said loftily. ‘And as Clara will tell you, it’s pretty vital to my well being.’ She was waggling her eyebrows at Clara meaningfully.

  Clara stepped in. ‘Oh yes, absolutely, it’s vital, Patrick. Hygge is all about lighting.’

  ‘Absurdly expensive lighting,’ Patrick grumbled, spooning up the last of his dessert.

  ‘Don’t you want a hooooo-gaaaah home?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘Not that fussed actually,’ he said through a mouthful. ‘I’m quite happy with the lighting we’ve already got. Won’t something from IKEA do the job?’

  ‘NO!’ chorused Lauren and Clara.

  Clara felt her spirits lift, and when everyone had finished eating she was happy to settle on the sofa with a glass of dessert wine, dipping her head onto Lauren’s shoulder. Gavin had left with a quiet goodbye and Patrick and Joe were washing up.

  ‘So,’ Lauren whispered, ‘how’s it going with…?’ She jerked her head towards the two men, who were chatting comfortably at the sink.

  Clara rolled her eyes in response. ‘Gah,’ she said.

  ‘Hoooooo-gah,’ Lauren giggled.

  ‘No, definitely not hooooooo-gaaaaaaah,’ Clara sighed. ‘In fact’ – she lifted her head and looked at Lauren – ‘I officially admit defeat.’

  Chapter 23

  Joe was twitchy that night, hugging the hot-water bottle as if it might offer some answers. He thought back to Clara standing whisking cream in the kitchen, her blonde hair shimmering under the lights, the slight quiver of her body. She’d been cross with him, but he’d wanted her to understand. He did regret not warning her about the estate agent, but he also wanted her to realise that he needed to look out for his mother, his crazy carefree mother who did things on a whim.

  It had all gone wrong, though: he hadn’t explained anything, just watched the sparkle fade in her eyes. She had a right to be cross. She’d revived the shop, and watching her in there with the customers had made him realise that she really might just be there to help, because she was that kind of person.

  He huffed and turned onto his side. Was he being naïve? She might look all wide-eyed, running around chatting and laughing with children, but was that all an act? A façade? Was she planning something? The way she had looked at him, as if accusing him of profiting from his own mother, made his fists curl even now. The little devil on his shoulder kept whispering as he turned this way and that in bed, the pill packet on the bedside table, unopened. He looked over at it for the hundredth time that night, but something stopped him from reaching out and picking it up.

  He dreamt of Clara: her smooth skin, her straight teeth, her laugh as she explained another Danish phrase for the table. In between sleep and waking he replayed every conversation, thought back to the things she had done for him, the small kindnesses. He thought about her explanation of hygge and knew that was a philosophy for the way she lived her life. He had paid so many professionals to help him find a way of being happier with his lot. Had he missed something so simple?

  When he started to see the outline of a new day edging around the curtains he pulled them aside to look at the hint of pink leaking over the horizon, the soft morning light resting on the fields, and felt for a moment as if he was seeing the landscape for the first time. No wonder his mother wanted to wake up to this view.

  He found himself pushing on his trainers, grabbing his scarf and sneaking out of the bedroom. If hygge was all about cosiness and simple pleasures, he could hygge with the best of them. He paused at the door, looking back at the pill packet and his mobile phone on the bedside table. Then he turned and stepped outside, creeping past Lady CaCa – he could do without her announcing his presence – to the stairs beyond.