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

by Rosie Blake

  Joe’s cheeks flushed pink. ‘Glad to help,’ he said, standing up as if she’d dismissed him. He paused before moving towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘I hope you feel better later,’ he said, then, with a quick cough, backed away. ‘Right, I’m going to… I’ll be…’ and he scurried into his bedroom.

  She stared at his door long after it closed, then, shutting her eyes, she leant back in the chair, replaying the scene and groaning into her hands. Note to self: next time you want to cry, check flat is empty. As she thought back on the conversation, though, she found herself smiling. God, what on earth did he think of her? How could she explain? And then she was shaking with laughter, a bit of snot escaping just as his door was flung open once more.

  ‘All OK?’ He looked panicked again and she shot upright, wiping at her nose.

  ‘Fine. I was just… um… laughing.’

  Joe’s eyes rounded further. ‘Oh… that’s good,’ he said, pausing only briefly before shutting the door for a second time.

  Clara stayed where she was, a smile frozen on her face, until she heard the latch click. Then she smacked her forehead with her hand.

  ‘DOH,’ said Lady CaCa from behind her.

  A makeover in the pub? How lovely. What have you done with it? Will you send me photos? I do miss the place. But enough of that. I am of course thoroughly enjoying being out here; the heat is fantastic and I am walnut brown. I look absurd, as if someone has painted me in mahogany varnish. Like a native. I am considering getting my hair dyed blonde at the ends, it’s very fashionable with the Germans here – you see, I might have been out here too long on my own. I won’t, of course, I’ve settled for wearing an ankle bracelet everywhere, which is just about curing me of doing anything too permanent.

  Now let me just say right now that VAR isn’t a word, Gavin. I have asked every German in my hotel, and they speak much better English than me, and all of them have confirmed that this is a terrible lie and you are winning through cheating. I’m sorry to be so blunt but I really must ask you to start defining the words you use if you insist on using some kind of entirely made-up language. Maybe you have set your version of the game on something that isn’t English (UK). Do check. I will wait for your reply before playing again.

  Chapter 27

  He’d hadn’t been back all week, stuck in the office for long days, overseeing the final stage of the merger: constant conference calls, updates to bosses, ensuring that Tom saw him issuing instructions to an overworked graduate trainee who really looked as if he could do with a square meal. He’d headed back to his flat, standing in the doorway as he took in the stark, cold surfaces. The cold grey outside seemed to seep inside. He’d stayed up late on his laptop, minimising spreadsheets to browse online, ordering lamps, rugs, candlesticks from an eye-wateringly expensive designer Clara had once mentioned, Verner someone, a furry hot-water-bottle cover, a new pair of slippers. The next day he’d left the office with an overwhelming urge to block out the stress of the day, get back to his apartment, cook a meal. He felt he was making changes and they were working: he had more energy, fewer headaches, felt better.

  Now it was Saturday night and normally he’d be lining up a date from an internet dating app or heading to a casino into the early hours. Or working: scouring articles for insider news, going over the paperwork his team had prepared, replying to emails from earlier that week. Instead he found himself driving back to sleepy Suffolk, his heart lifting at the thought of finally getting back to the village after a long week, as if he was driving home. He was smiling as he parked, looking up at the windows of the flat and wondering whether Clara was in.

  He hadn’t seen her since Beer-Bottle-Weepinggate. He was still not absolutely sure what she’d been sad about – something about foam and blue Santa hats. It was obviously a Danish thing. Or a female thing. Or both. He would do what any self-respecting man would do and pretend it hadn’t happened, he thought, as he stepped out of the car and reached for his leather holdall. Moving through the corridor and up to the flat, he readied himself for seeing her. He wished he’d spent some time there that week; witnessing her upset had reminded him that she wasn’t always the contented, happy person she appeared. He’d spotted her out on the pavement with that journalist just before she’d been crying. He hoped she hadn’t turned to him for comfort.

  She wasn’t in the living room; probably still shutting up the shop from earlier or working on another display. He would go and find her, see if she wanted a takeaway. Just as he was turning round to head back down the stairs, she stepped out of her bedroom. Normally she lived in cosy jumpers and jeans, but tonight she was wearing a black top with some shiny details on the shoulders over a pair of electric-blue trousers. Her legs seemed longer; he found himself staring as she shrugged on her coat.

  ‘Oh, hey, you’re here.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Joe said in a too-loud voice. He dropped his bag.

  ‘Lauren’s taking me to the cinema,’ she said, gesturing to her outfit. ‘I think it’s overkill but I haven’t been out in ages.’ Her eyes were all smoky and dark, her lips glossy. Joe found his brain freeze until he realised he was definitely meant to respond.

  ‘You look…’ The words hit him then. ‘The cinema, GREAT,’ he said, reaching to put a hand up on the mantelpiece in a casual way and missing. Righting himself, he nodded. ‘Anything good on?’

  ‘Lauren wants to see something with Ryan Gosling.’ Clara shrugged.

  Joe nodded. ‘He’s a good-looking guy. Smooth. And, you know, shiny.’ What. Are. You. Talking. About. Joe? ‘Well, I’ll just be here. Waiting. I mean, not waiting for you but, you know, having a night in. Or maybe out, I haven’t decided.’ He knew he was gabbling. He wondered what had come over him. Was it the shiny things on her top? Hypnotising him?

  ‘That sounds like a plan. It’s raining again.’

  Joe rolled his eyes and tsked. Before he could think of anything better than weather chat, she was picking up her bag and giving him a smile.

  ‘See you later then,’ she said, heading out the door.

  ‘Yup,’ he trilled, ‘okaaaaay then.’

  With a last puzzled look she left the flat and Joe sank into the sofa as if the last few minutes had exhausted him. Well, it was good nothing was still awkward between them. He got up to fetch a beer.

  An hour and three beers later, he was feeling sleepy. Moving around the flat, he lit all the candles, and the woodburner, the living room a flickering calm haven. He changed into his pyjamas, shrugged on his dressing gown and unearthed a pair of oversized slippers in the shape of animal claws that his mother had bought him for Christmas one year. With his toasty new look he returned to the sofa with a tray piled high with bottles and snacks. He hadn’t watched a DVD since the time he had been ill with a chest infection and had been bed-bound for three days. And even then he’d chosen Wall Street just to stay in the zone.

  He riffled through his mother’s DVD collection as he sipped at another beer; the choices were sparse. He’d never heard of Nicholas Sparks, but he’d give it a go. He noticed it had Ryan Gosling in it and couldn’t help smiling. Clara hadn’t needed to leave.

  The rain was drumming against the windows, the wind a distant whistle as Joe snuggled under a rug, a hot-water bottle clutched to his chest, chocolate buttons melting in his mouth, the beer flowing freely. There was something to be said for Clara’s hygge theory; staying in really was the new going out. He felt his body relax into the sofa, the whole world outside the flat dissolve away so that it was just him in his snug space with the DVD for company.

  An hour and a half later, with the tears streaming down his cheeks and dripping from his nose, he failed to hear the chatter on the staircase outside, the door click open. He jumped as Lauren and Clara stepped into the flat and wiped frantically at his face. Nicholas Sparks had a lot of explaining to do. He felt his throat still thick with tears, his nose running as he dabbed at it with the sleeve of his dressing gown.

  ‘Hey,’ he
croaked, his hot-water bottle falling out and landing in between his oversized claw feet.

  Clara and Lauren both stopped short and stared at him.

  ‘Why is one of us always catching the other crying?’ Clara laughed, breaking the mood.

  Joe found he still couldn’t speak.

  ‘What are you watching?’ Lauren frowned, walking towards him, before spotting the DVD case.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she cried, scooping it up and waving it at him. ‘The Notebook. On your own. Are you MAD? You need a support network for that kind of thing, some good gal pals. Are you OK? Do you want us to hold you?’

  Clara was giggling as Lauren stepped towards him holding out both arms.

  Joe found himself backing away, the beer making him woozy, the candles throwing looming shadows round the walls. He never cried over movies. OK, aside from Point Break, but that was only because his mother had recorded an episode of Neighbours over it ten minutes from the end. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, straightening up, glad to see the end credits rolling. ‘Fine,’ he repeated, his voice more confident.

  ‘I love that film,’ Lauren said. ‘That kiss in the rain is just…’ She was lost to a daydream.

  ‘How was the cinema?’ Joe asked, perching himself on the end of the sofa, folding his arms and trying to look as sensible as he could.

  ‘Hmm,’ Lauren said dreamily, still soaked and in Ryan Gosling’s arms after a heavy storm in a rowing boat.

  Clara moved towards the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, ‘Lauren’s in love!’ She giggled.

  Joe looked at Lauren, wanting desperately to escape to his own room.

  Lauren was perhaps feeling the same, glancing around the flat, clearly struggling for something to say.

  ‘It’s looking very hygge in here,’ she commented.

  Joe followed her gaze, taking in the candles, the rug, the hot-water bottle. ‘I thought I’d make it, you know… nice,’ he said, feeling a bit foolish.

  Clara had left the bathroom and was heading to the kitchen.

  ‘I was just saying to Joe,’ Lauren called in a pointed voice, ‘how very hygge it’s looking in here. Don’t you think, Clara?’

  Joe frowned. Why was she giving Clara such a strange look?

  Clara looked thrown by the comment, not speaking for a moment. ‘It is very cosy,’ she stuttered.

  Something passed between the two women and Joe felt like an outsider, missing some punchline or joke.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, walking around the room and blowing out candles, the sharp smell of smoke immediate, making his eyes water for the hundredth time that night. Were there any more tears in him? He must have red eyes, a swollen face. He needed to get out of here. The fact that he’d found Clara crying over a beer bottle and blue Santa hats didn’t make him feel much better. He wasn’t used to being caught on the hop in this way. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, his throat scratchy.

  ‘You too,’ Lauren called.

  He heard Clara hiss something at her, and as he closed his door, he caught the snuffle of giggles.

  Chapter 28

  Clara woke to the sound of silence, and reached a hand out to pull back the curtain. The rain had gone and the sky was blue, clouds clinging to the horizon. She stretched, hearing a cough from the kitchen next door. Joe was up early. She had been relieved not to have seen him all week, embarrassed about her J-Dag meltdown, not sure what was happening with the shop, but she found she was smiling at the sound, sinking into the bed and listening out for him. Shrugging on a thick cardigan and opening her door, she was surprised to see him hunched over his laptop at the table, his chin in one hand as he stared at the screen, eyes bloodshot. Last night’s hygge vibe was clearly long gone. She felt a little whisper of sadness.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, even her quiet voice making him start.

  He tapped at the keyboard before returning to staring at the screen.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, moving past him to switch on the kettle.

  ‘NICE TO SEE YOU, TO SEE YOU NICE,’ Lady CaCa called out.

  Clara dropped some pellets in her cage.

  ‘LUNCH IS FOR WIMPS,’ the parrot yelled, obviously picking up on Joe’s vibe.

  Roddy wound around Clara’s legs as she added milk to the mugs and passed one to Joe.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it from her. She noticed his hand shaking as he drank. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked, feeling a wave of sympathy for him.

  ‘Fine, busy – just having to unravel the mess that is my mother’s accounts,’ he said, looking with a frown at the kitchen table, where a pile of receipts, bank statements and dog-eared exercise books rested. ‘Whilst simultaneously hoping my team don’t screw up the biggest deal of the year tomorrow.’

  ‘Sounds stressful,’ she said, cutting a slice of malt loaf and slathering butter on it. ‘Here,’ she said, handing him the plate, ‘breakfast. Have you been up long?’ she asked, taking in a pile of empty crisp packets, three glasses containing the remnants of various coloured liquids and a thin silver packet, all eight pills popped out.

  He took the plate without looking at her. ‘Yeah. Sort of. I couldn’t sleep after that film, and I knew I should have worked. I think I fell asleep for a bit.’ Looking down at the plate in his hand and then up at her, he seemed to come round. ‘Thanks,’ he said, an unreadable expression crossing his face at the same moment that one of the many devices in front of him pinged.

  Clara rested against the work surface sipping her drink, looking at the bags under his eyes, his grey expression. She thought he’d been trying a little harder to relax, to unwind, but the moment he was surrounded by the laptop and the phone he seemed completely sucked into another world.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere,’ she said in a loud voice.

  ‘What?’ he said, simultaneously taking a bite of malt loaf and tapping at the keyboard with his other hand.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere. Out. Like normal people do on a weekend.’

  The bread was clenched between his teeth as he tapped the keyboard with both hands. His eyes flicked up towards her but he obviously wasn’t ready to talk.

  At last he stopped, removed the bread and swallowed. ‘Out?’

  Clara nodded, pushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I want to see the sea.’

  ‘GO AHEAD, MAKE MY DAY.’

  Clara blushed, pretending she hadn’t heard, as Lady CaCa stood watching them from her perch.

  ‘The sea?’

  Clara nodded. Joe looked unsure, staring at her as if she’d suggested they get a flight to another country.

  ‘Come on,’ she continued. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  ‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘I suppose we could.’

  Clara clapped her hands together, feeling a sudden joy sweep through her. She hadn’t realised she needed the release. ‘Great. I’ll just get dressed and we can go.’

  Joe was closing his laptop. ‘Right. The sea,’ he repeated. He still seemed quite shell-shocked.

  Clara started to walk back to her bedroom. ‘Oh, one rule,’ she said, turning back. ‘No phone.’ She pointed to the offending item in his hand.

  ‘But what if work —’

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ she said, cutting him off in a voice of old, a voice that had once been listened to. ‘No one should work every single day of the week. In Denmark, people work a thirty-four-hour week in total; you do that in two days.’

  ‘A thirty-four-hour week?’ Joe said, shuffling papers and unplugging his laptop. ‘How do they get any work done?’

  Clara had moved through to the bedroom and was scooping up various things, throwing them into a bag. ‘It’s not all about work, you know,’ she called. ‘And actually, they think that if you can’t get everything done within that time, then it’s sort of inefficient.’