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

by Rosie Blake

  Clive walked in, talking on his phone, then looked up and ground to a halt. ‘Wow,’ he said, before remembering his phone call and hastily lifting the phone to his ear once more.

  Gavin was serving a customer at the bar as Clara got up to leave. He looked across at her as she placed her glass on the counter.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Clara,’ he said, tipping a pint glass away from him and pouring a lager.

  She paused, watching him slide the drink across the bar, wipe his hands and reach into his pocket. ‘Something to say thank you. Just small. But wanted you to know I appreciate everything.’ He handed her a package and she opened it to reveal a beautiful thin silver chain. ‘So glad you turned up in our village,’ he said, his voice gruff. ‘You’re a great girl. If I’d had a daughter, I’d have liked her to be just like you.’

  Clara felt tears thicken the back of her throat as she stared at the necklace. Unable to do much more than nod, she gave Gavin a one-armed hug and staggered away. If I’d had a daughter. The words rang in her ears all the way home. Would he have said that if he knew what kind of a daughter she had been?

  She pushed her way into the shop, not wanting to go up to the flat, needing to be alone for a bit. The new display was the perfect distraction. Laying out all the items she’d need, she got to work on the backdrop, creating a wild forest from various rolls of green fabric and scattering leaves collected on her walks over the bottom of the shop window. Next she glued the figures into position, attaching a long plait to a Barbie, placing a Ken doll on bended knee. The story of Rapunzel was coming to life, the magic wrapping round her, allowing her to forget her mood, forget everything else going on in her life and simply create a scene.

  Chapter 25

  Clara was starting to become familiar with the trails through the woods. Even in winter there were things to see: bare spiked branches, curled leaves like a carpet on the ground. That morning she had stumbled across a patch of perfectly formed toadstools, their tops livid red scattered with yellow spots, like a scene from her latest window display.

  She’d been in the shop all morning and needed this release, the new display finished. Frost was still clinging to the branches of the tree, the fields glistening with silver. Patches of the small stream had frozen, leaves and other debris stuck in the ice. She enjoyed the quiet of the forest, the small ticks and chatter of the insects around her, the call of a nearby bird, the flutter of wings, something rustling in the undergrowth. She sat drinking hot chocolate from her Thermos flask, perched on a fallen tree trunk, her bottom growing numb from the cold but not wanting to move on yet.

  The rustling grew louder, and behind her she heard a bark followed by a voice shouting, ‘Gus, NO! No, Gus, leave.’

  She stood up, spinning around in the direction of the noise: twigs breaking underfoot, the crunch of leaves, panting, another bark. Then into the small clearing bounded a cocker spaniel, a bush swishing as it snapped back into place. Clara smiled, stepping forward to crouch down, the dog racing towards her, ears flapping, burrs stuck to his curled fur, placing a paw on her jeans, leaving a muddy mark. She ruffled his head, grinning as he spun round her in excitement, left then right.

  ‘Gus, I said – oh.’ Sam appeared in the clearing, straightening as he saw Clara with his dog. ‘Ah, you found him,’ he said, pulling out a lead from the pocket of his waxed jacket. Today his hair was windswept, his cheeks pink with the cold and the exercise. ‘He’s immune to my voice,’ he sighed, as Gus jumped up, placing both paws on Clara’s thighs. ‘God, I’m really sorry… SIT, GUS.’ Gus proceeded to hold out one paw as if he was begging.

  Clara giggled. ‘Sidde.’ Gus sat down immediately and she turned to Sam. ‘Maybe he’s Danish?’

  ‘Bloody nightmare is what he is,’ Sam said, moving forward to pop the dog’s lead back on. ‘Thanks. We didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  For a brief moment Clara wondered if he had followed her, then she dismissed the thought. Hark at you, Clara Kristensen, you’re no celebrity to be tracked down by random men. ‘Not at all. I was heading back soon anyway. I’m exhausted; there’s a new display up tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sam nodded. ‘Amber reminded me yesterday. I’ll have to bring her down to see it. She loved your last one. Although they’re costing me a fortune,’ he added.

  Clara smiled, watching his hand reach down to stroke behind Gus’s ears.

  ‘I’ll walk back to the village with you. I don’t want to spend the rest of the day chasing this one through the woods.’

  She was still staring at his left hand, noticing an absence of rings. ‘Great, great,’ she said, a little too enthusiastically, feeling her skin warm despite the chill in the air.

  They wound their way back down one of the narrow paths, Sam holding back branches to stop them snapping towards her, offering her a hand as they reached a particularly churned-up section.

  ‘Thanks,’ Clara said, feeling a little stupid, since the mud was stiff with ice and she could walked across easily, her boots not sinking.

  They emerged from the line of trees, the sun hazy through a blanket of thick white cloud, the edges rimmed with pale pink.

  ‘I love this light,’ Sam said, echoing Clara’s own thoughts. ‘It’s perfect for photography. I’ve taken so many pictures at this time of day.’

  ‘You’re a landscape photographer too?’ Clara queried.

  Sam nodded. ‘All sorts of photography. It works well with the writing. I’ve sold a few pictures.’ He shrugged, his face suffused with pleasure. ‘And it’s a great hobby when you’re alone a lot,’ he added, giving her a sideways glance.

  Clara found her face growing warm under his gaze. ‘How wonderful. I can’t take a decent picture; I get too distracted, and I don’t understand all the knobs and buttons.’

  He raised one eyebrow then, making her look away as if she’d said something shocking. She laughed nervously, grateful that Gus decided to squeeze in between them, staring up at her as if waiting for a treat.

  Sam was still looking at her, his head cocked to one side. ‘You’ve got fantastic skin,’ he said.

  She felt her cheeks fill with heat, not used to compliments. She spluttered a thanks.

  ‘I’d love to take your photograph again – an outdoors shoot, perhaps,’ he said, smiling broadly. She noticed a spot of stubble on his chin that he’d missed shaving; wondered what it would be like to reach out and touch it.

  ‘No, no, I’m not at all photogenic,’ she said, pulling her hat down over her ears. ‘I just freeze up or shut my eyes or both.’

  ‘No, you’re the perfect subject,’ Sam said with a high laugh that didn’t match his voice.

  Clara walked on, Sam falling into step again beside her. They stepped over the stile, Gus running under it, getting the lead caught so that Sam was hauled back, as if he’d forgotten he had a dog on a lead.

  ‘Well,’ Clara said as the burgundy façade of the shop came into view. ‘That’s me.’ She pointed to it, wondering why she felt the need to do that. He knew exactly where the shop was; visited it often.

  He stopped outside, staring at the drawn-down shutters. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Clara said.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, his eyes roving as if he had X-ray vision in his glasses. ‘Can I have a clue?’

  Clara let out a small laugh. ‘Let’s just say I adore fairy tales,’ she said, searching for her key. She sensed movement somewhere above her, distracted from looking by Sam.

  ‘Amber will love it, then. Look,’ he said, resting a hand on her arm so that she froze, staring at it, his fingernails cut perfectly square. ‘Let me write another piece. This is bound to be great, and lots of people have shown an interest in the shop.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Clara said, biting her lip.

  ‘I saw the estate agent in there the other day,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s more of an angle on the story now. Let me help; it’s really relevant at the moment, with high streets fail
ing, shops being forced to shut. We can try and save yours.’ His voice lifted at the end.

  She pulled her arm away gently. ‘It’s not mine,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Well, let’s see if we can’t at least get some more trade in the run-up to Christmas,’ he said, renewing the attack.

  There was movement again; was that the curtain in the flat swinging back? A figure? She wondered if Joe was there, watching.

  ‘OK, just a short article maybe,’ she said. There was no harm in that, was there? ‘Just to bring in customers for Christmas, nothing more,’ she added in a warning voice.

  ‘Of course, great, promise,’ he said, leaning in and giving her a kiss on the cheek. ‘And maybe I’ll persuade you, then.’ His green eyes twinkled at her.

  Clara tipped her head to one side. ‘Persuade me?’

  He lifted his hands as if he had an imaginary camera and snapped at her. ‘Goodbye, good luck with it,’ he said, walking backwards, pointing at the window. Gus barked a goodbye too, and she held up one hand in a half-wave, watching them both disappear down the high street, Gus bounding next to Sam, barking in glee. Would she regret what she had just agreed to?

  Chapter 26

  She forgot all about bumping into Sam the moment she saw the package that had been left. Picking it up slowly, she stared at it for the longest time, holding it in her hand, turning it over, knowing what was inside, remembering when she had ordered it, desperate for home, the familiar. It had taken her forever to find online and the postage had cost a fortune. The day itself had passed a while ago and she’d thought about the package finding its way to her. Now it was here. She held it to her chest and climbed the stairs feeling her eyes sting.

  She bit her lip as she entered the flat. Walking slowly over to the armchair, she sank into it, staring at the letters on the brown wrapping paper for an age. Then, drawing one fingernail across the opening, she tore at it, revealing the box inside, sliding open the box to draw out the brown beer bottle, paper shavings scattering everywhere.

  She held up the bottle, staring at the label for a long time. Then she let out a sob and started crying, gulping in air and letting her face run with tears. What was she doing in England? How long would she be here for? She remembered this time last year, how different things had been. Wallowing in self-pity, she gave in to her emotions, the bottle and the flat both blurred by the tears pouring from her eyes.

  Then, as if she were in a horror movie, she heard a creak as a door opened impossibly slowly. ‘Clara?’ said Joe in an uncertain voice.

  ‘Oh, you’re in,’ she hiccoughed, frantically wiping at her wet face.

  His eyes widened and he hurried over to her. ‘Can I call anyone?’

  She shook her head, unable to respond.

  ‘Do you need a doctor? Are you unwell?’

  Clara shook her head again. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m fine.’

  His voice went up a notch. ‘Would you like me to fetch your friend, the woman from the dinner party?’

  ‘Lauren,’ Clara choked out.

  ‘That’s it,’ he agreed. ‘Of course, Lauren. Shall I fetch her?’

  ‘No,’ she said, aware of the tears streaking her cheeks. ‘I’ll be OK in a minute.’

  He lingered next to her, placing one hand on the back of the sofa, then removing it, looking at her as if she was a wild animal.

  ‘Tea,’ he barked, as if pouncing on the word. ‘I can make you some tea.’ He didn’t wait for her to respond but headed straight to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

  ‘Milk? Sugar?’ he called out, rapid-fire.

  ‘OK,’ she mumbled, dabbing at her face.

  He waited in the kitchen, back tense, giving her wary looks every ten seconds or so, big false smiles when he caught her eye. ‘It’s on its way,’ he chimed in a voice she didn’t recognise. He was stirring the cup, still looking at her, tea sloshing over the side, as if she might dissolve in front of him.

  She felt a small hiccough of laughter break through the tears at his unease. ‘Great.’

  He walked over carrying the mug as if it were the Crown Jewels and laid it on the table in front of her. ‘Tea,’ he smiled, pointing at it as if she was two years old and he was teaching her new words.

  She picked it up and took a sip, trying not to wince at the sugar in it, then setting it back down as he stood by her like a waiter waiting for her verdict. ‘Excellent,’ she said, hoping he might leave her alone now.

  ‘Right, so…’ He didn’t go, but paused in front of the sofa before clearly making the decision to sit down. He stared at the floor, then looked back up at her. ‘Better?’ he said, probably hoping he could be released.

  She nodded, feeling strangely moved by his expression. Oh no, the tears were starting again; she felt an errant one roll down her face. Joe slouched as he spotted it.

  ‘What’s happened? Can I help?’ His voice was softer now, no edge, and she felt grateful for the fact that he was behaving like a human being rather than the manic businessman she always seemed to encounter.

  ‘I missed a special day at home,’ she said, reaching for the tea to try and distract herself.

  He nodded, his expression confused. ‘Your birthday?’ he ventured.

  She smiled, shaking her head. ‘No, it was J-Dag, the sort of start of Christmas. It was a while ago now, but it’s a big thing in Denmark.’

  ‘OK,’ Joe said, his fingers forming a steeple under his chin. ‘So why the tears?’

  She jerked her head at the beer bottle. ‘I ordered that, I don’t know why. We drink it on J-Dag.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘This exact beer,’ Clara explained. ‘Everyone dresses up in blue Santa hats and there are massive parties in the streets. There’s foam and this beer is delivered by horse and cart.’

  Joe was back to looking completely perplexed as he followed her finger to the beer bottle by her armchair.

  ‘Right… foam… beer.’

  ‘I know it sounds silly,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, probably hoping she wouldn’t cry again.

  ‘No, I know it does,’ she said, wiping at her eyes. ‘It’s just it reminds me of… of what’s ahead.’

  Joe didn’t hazard a guess.

  ‘Christmas,’ she explained in a quiet voice.

  ‘Not a fan?’

  She sniffed, trying to stem the fresh tears. ‘No, it’s not that. I love Christmas, I just…’

  Joe was biting his lip, clearly trying to keep up. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  Clara swallowed, placing both hands on her thighs, trying to compose herself. ‘There’s no problem really, I’m being silly. I just… well, it reminded me of things.’

  ‘The beer?’

  ‘The beer.’ She laughed, feeling marginally better for having had a cry. ‘I’ll be fine. Thanks for the tea.’ She nodded at the mug, which was still almost full.