The Hygge Holiday: The warmest, funniest, cosiest romantic comedy of 2017
Page 19
The morning was fresh, the pavement still damp from last night’s rain, lightly dusted with droplets. He moved away from the shop, along the high street, dipping down a cobbled side street to a footpath he used to pound along as a young boy. The entrance to the field behind was narrower than he remembered. He squeezed himself through, his coat sleeve snagging on a bramble. ‘Bugger,’ he swore, causing a flock of birds in the field to flap upwards as a group and away. ‘Shite.’ Not completely hygge, then.
He didn’t get far before he realised that the field was squelching beneath his feet, mud oozing over the sides of his trainers, but it felt good to be out as the sun was coming up, not another soul around, a thick line of trees in front of him reminding him of a carefree couple of years dodging and diving, screaming and racing with the other children in the village before he became a too-cool teenager. For the first time in years he wondered what had happened to the kids he’d played with then, who’d come into the shop to marvel at the shelves. Were they still around? Did they have their own kids? Did they still come to these woods?
The rumble of his stomach finally turned him around, and by the time he returned to the high street there were a few cars at the kerb, people moving about. He thought of Clara and the constant meals she had produced for him, and ducked into the shop to buy some things for breakfast.
Roz was standing behind the counter flicking the pages of a magazine too quickly to be reading the articles, hair drawn back into a bun that stretched the skin on her face.
‘Joe,’ she said, one pencilled eyebrow raised. ‘You’re early, I’ve only just opened. Are you here to talk about the shop? Has Paul got back to you with a figure already? You know estate agents, though, greedy bastards, always overestimate. What did he say?’
He found himself shaking his head. He didn’t want to talk about the shop. Seeing Roz had reminded him of the previous day, and all he wanted was to buy breakfast.
‘I haven’t spoken to him yet,’ he said, whipping around the shop and throwing items into his basket as quickly as was humanly possible: part-baked rolls, butter, cereal, coffee, sausages. He was reminded of Supermarket Sweep; curling up with his mother on the sofa and screaming at the television as clueless people got lost in amongst the produce: ‘IT’S NOT IN THE DAIRY SECTION, FOOLS.’ The thought made him smile as he approached the counter.
‘Someone’s happy,’ Roz said, swiping the first item over the scanner.
Joe wasn’t about to explain, mumbling about the lovely weather instead.
‘Hardly. No doubt your mother is seeing more sunshine in Greece or wherever it is she’s swanned off to.’
Joe didn’t feel like correcting her, watching her swiping become increasingly aggressive. ‘Swedish girl going to be staying long?’ she asked, keying one of the barcodes into the till, fingernail tapping sharply on the buttons.
‘Danish,’ Joe corrected. ‘Not sure,’ he admitted, realising it was true. Suddenly the prospect of Clara leaving wasn’t a welcome one.
‘Well, it’s all Europe, isn’t it? All foreign,’ she added.
Joe wasn’t listening, keen to get back to the flat. He thrust notes at her and accepted the change with a nod, picking up the bags and heading out with a shouted thanks. Roz was still talking as he pulled open the door to leave.
Clara wasn’t up when he returned, unless she too had gone out early. He thought back to her weary look last night and imagined she’d needed the sleep. He started throwing things into pans, the sizzle of sausages enough to tempt anyone to get up. Sure enough, minutes later she had appeared in her bedroom door, blonde hair sticking up at the back, mascara on one cheek, yawning in striped pyjamas.
Looking over at him, she seemed to jolt awake. ‘Just need to go to the bathroom,’ she said, about to move away.
Joe stepped forward, both hands out as if dealing with a dangerous dog. ‘I’m making breakfast. I thought we could eat together,’ he said, enjoying watching her expression change. She couldn’t hide her surprise.
‘Oh, um… I can’t. I promised Gavin I’d meet him this morning. I’m helping him sort things for the pub, I’m late, actually,’ she said, stepping over to the bathroom.
He felt his face fall, turning back to the hiss of the frying pan. ‘Right, sounds good,’ he said in a faux-cheerful voice.
She seemed to be wavering near the bathroom. ‘Any plans?’ she asked, her voice softer. Was she feeling guilty?
‘Just work: the usual.’ His bark of laughter sounded forced.
‘Oh, right, of course. Work,’ she repeated. She headed into the bathroom, closing the door as he loaded up his plate with too many rolls and sausages. Of course she didn’t want to have breakfast with him after what he’d said to her last night. Should he say something to her when she came out? He bit into a sausage roll, eyes on the bathroom door. He started when she came out, and a piece of sausage fell onto his plate.
Moments later, she’d emerged from her bedroom dressed in a baby-blue jumper and black jeans. ‘Hope work goes well,’ she said in a rush, not quite meeting his eye as she walked past him at the table. He barely had time to respond before she was closing the front door, her steps heavy on the stairs beyond. He looked around the flat, which seemed cavernous without anyone else in it, though Lady CaCa suddenly screaming ‘NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER!’ reminded him that he wasn’t completely alone.
He scraped most of the breakfast into the bin, feeling his shoulders sag as he moved across to his bedroom. He supposed he should work, catch up on the news from the City; he hadn’t been keeping much of an eye on things this week and it was good to have a handle on share prices and recruitment. If anything significant was happening, his bosses would want them to be the first firm in there with a solution.
He sat on the foot of the bed, his earlier calm fading as his mobile announced that he had fourteen new emails. It was Sunday, though; surely he didn’t need to respond to those now. If Tom asked, he could say he was working on a potential deal with a new client, or looking over some figures. He supposed some people were just having breakfast with their families, not thinking about their mobiles. Tom didn’t have a family.
Decisively, he switched off the phone and flung it onto the other side of the bed. Then he grabbed his dressing gown from the back of the door, rifled through the bookshelf in the living room and headed to the bathroom.
‘I SEE DEAD PEOPLE,’ squawked Lady CaCa as he passed.
‘Attention-seeker,’ he grinned.
He had the place to himself, he remembered as he rested back against the door. He could have a completely hygge day. Spotting a box of matches, he lit the dozens of candles in jars that Clara had dotted around the room. When he pulled the blind down and switched off the overhead light, the effect was immediate and satisfying, with calming pools of light in every corner, dancing in the bathroom mirror and making his skin glow orange. He smiled at his reflection, feeling his good mood slowly returning.
As the bath ran, he rifled through the toiletries on offer, pausing for a moment to slather sea mud on his face before liberally pouring bubble bath into the steaming water. Lowering himself in, he rested his head back, picked up the book he’d found and started to read, enjoying the warmth and the silence as he slipped down into the water, feeling the tickle of the bubbles on the end of his nose.
Twisting the tap on and off with his foot to top up the hot water, he became immersed in his book. With no clock in the bathroom, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the ache in his muscles had eased and his hands were decidedly wrinkled as he relaxed back against the enamel. A sudden bang from outside made him lurch up in the water, spraying droplets. Had Roddy leapt from a great height? Had Lady CaCa escaped the cage?
The door handle rattled and Joe jerked to a sitting position, his hands covering his modesty where the bubbles failed to do so, just as Clara appeared in the doorway. For a moment she stared down at him, then she shoved one hand over her eyes and backed out again, closing the doo
r behind her.
‘God, sorry, I…’
Why hadn’t he locked the door? What was she doing back? ‘Just a second,’ he called in a voice about three octaves higher than normal.
‘No, it’s fine, I’m sorry, I…’ She was gabbling outside the door as he leapt out of the water and grabbed at his dressing gown.
‘Hold on,’ he said, shoving his arms into the sleeves and opening the door again, steam escaping in a cloud.
Clara’s mouth fell open as she looked at him standing there dripping. He tightened his bottle-green dressing gown, wondering what was so surprising. He was aware that the bathroom was still flickering with candlelight and that the bath was filled with a mountain of bubbles. The whole flat had also started smelling of lavender. Then, feeling the tightness in his face, he remembered the mud mask that he hadn’t washed off. His cheeks flaming underneath it, he turned back into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Leaning against it, he closed his eyes. What a complete prat. He would have paid so much money to rewind the last five minutes. To emerge smelling of aftershave, leaving behind an immaculate bathroom, nodding calmly at her as he passed. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his lips enormous, his skin tinged green, the whites of his eyes exaggerated. He scrubbed at his face, his jaw red from the effort, rinsing and splashing until all trace of the mud was gone and he could emerge back into the living room with his head held high.
‘I had a bath,’ he said in a small voice.
‘Good idea,’ she said, now sitting on the sofa, the remote in one hand, the TV still switched off. Was that the smallest shake of her shoulders? He stepped quickly towards his room, not trusting himself to say anything more.
‘YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH,’ announced Lady CaCa.
I’m briefly forgiving you for the QI saga because I don’t have anyone else to tell about Corralejo. It’s marvellous, lots of restaurants and more of a buzzing nightlife here. I’ve made a lot of German friends and we all go off to the sandy beach together, which is so long you lose sight of it. I’ve tried bodyboarding because Klaus lent me his board, and although I swallowed half the sea I had the most amount of fun. There’s no surfing in Suffolk, that’s for sure.
We’ve taken a trip out to Lobos. It’s a tiny island, uninhabited, just off the coast. We went there in a small fishing boat that rocked from side to side so violently I thought we might all be flung overboard, and I don’t want to die before using the half-load on the dishwasher. I really must find out what it means. Does it only clean half the things? So we got to the other side just about intact and were released to roam around the island. It was a glorious day, a breeze lifting the back of my hair. I’ve entirely given up wearing hats and now sport lots of coloured scarves as headbands. I like to think I look a little like Greta Garbo, but I fear I look more like an ancient cleaning lady who has lost her way.
There’s a volcano on the island – well, half a volcano, and you can climb up and peer down over the side where there’s black sand below. It’s really rather creepy. Then off back to the jetty where you can swim in shallow turquoise waters and see shoals of silver fish darting back and forth just below the surface.
What do you mean, sell? Did Joe really invite someone round? I don’t want to sell, it sounds like things are going very merrily in my absence and I’m sure Clara is running it brilliantly. I have to say I’m a little bit jealous hearing about dinner at the flat. What do you mean, she has done a good deal with rugs and candles? What is hygge? It sounds very strange – is she in fact some kind of Danish cult leader? Will I return to discover you have handed over all your life savings and are living in a commune in a field behind the pub?
I must try ringing Joe, but it is such a bore always getting his rather depressed-sounding PA, who generally tells me he’s on an international conference call, which sounds frightfully important, so I bottle things and never leave him a message. I can’t imagine he’d be there to cause trouble, but he is protective and he’s always had my best interests at heart. He can’t help acting like the most frightful alpha male. I think I overcompensated when David left me, imagining that a young boy alone with his mother would turn out to be an outrageous sissy utterly bullied at school, so I used to take him to boxing matches and let him watch all the Die Hard films long before he was eighteen. Maybe I damaged him permanently? Tell him I do appreciate him trying to help, but I trust Clara, and you of course.
Chapter 24
She’d only returned to the flat for her purse – Gavin was taking her to Norwich to choose some things for the pub. They’d discussed ideas, taken measurements for new furniture, and he was now waiting, engine running, in the high street below, eager to get on and purchase his new look.
She had just thought she’d pop to the loo when she’d burst in on him. She hadn’t seen anything much, just pink flesh and an absurd amount of bubbles. Then his startled face covered in that green mask had emerged, looking horrified. It was as if she’d caught him in flagrante, he was so tense. She felt the awkwardness of the night before fade away as she stood there staring at him. He was wearing his smart dressing grown with the embroidered emblem on the outside pocket, his hair spiked up and his face covered in mud, and had looked as if he wanted the ground to swallow him up. She thought it was the first time she might have glimpsed something of the real Joe.
She was thinking about it in the car all the way to Norwich, replaying the scene in her head, trying desperately hard not to giggle. He had lit all the candles, pretended not to notice the bath still covered in bubbles, the scent as if he’d crushed a hundred lavender plants underfoot.
She felt a glimmer of hope that perhaps he wasn’t the lost cause she’d written off; perhaps he was able to change. She couldn’t wait to report back to Lauren. She’d be careful not to tell her too much; there was something so helpless about him standing there in his bare feet, lost for words, that she didn’t want him to feel she was mocking him. On the other hand, he was still about to sell the shop without consulting his mum. And he was still surgically attached to his mobile. His expression, though, as he’d stood in the doorway of the bathroom, surrounded by the scent of lavender…
‘You all right?’ Gavin asked, giving her a sideways glance.
She nodded, settling back into the passenger seat as she tried to help Gavin make a decent word out of four I’s, a T, a U and an F.
‘Futiiii… le?’ she suggested.
‘Not helpful.’
‘Fuit.’
‘Is that a word?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Probably. Somewhere in the world.’ Clara shrugged, feeling a lot more carefree, looking forward to the day ahead, overhauling the pub.
‘Not helpful either.’
They loaded up the car with cushions, rugs, lamps and more, cramming items into the boot and lowering the back seats to jam everything in. They made slow progress back, stopping to pick up food, which they ate as they talked.
Back at the pub, they started by dragging all the furniture to the edge of the room, stacking stools and chairs on tables and going over the swirled carpet with a hoover. They’d brought rugs to cover it, in warm shades of red, touches of black. They polished the tables and rearranged the furniture, admiring the effect of the dark wood and the deep colours. The creamy walls and the dark timber beams blended brilliantly. The bare lights were covered in lampshades that muted the harsh bulbs and created an instant calm.
Gavin had cleared out the old fireplace and stacked logs in rows on either side, then reached into the enormous space to build a fire in the large iron coal pit. They placed cushions on the armchairs, wiped down dusty board games and displayed them on a wooden bookcase, along with a selection of novels and biographies that the villagers could borrow. They placed large clear jars on mantelpieces, tables and windowsills and filled them with enormous cream wax candles, their poker-straight wicks waiting to be lit. They hung a few pictures on the walls and hoisted a large antique mirror over the fireplace.