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

by Rosie Blake

  ‘Clara’s Danish,’ Joe said in a low voice as he sat down on the other side of Louisa. Clara couldn’t bear to look at him.

  ‘Gavin had told me, of course, but I had no idea. And you found all those lovely rugs and blankets, and I adore the candles in the glasses. I felt so relaxed when I let myself in, almost dissolved into a pool. The flight was horrendous, and God, it’s cold, but I just forgot everything and wanted to curl up on the sofa and snuggle down. You are clever. So… tell me everything. Apparently you’ve been working miracles…’

  Louisa barely paused for breath and Clara couldn’t focus on her answers. Discussing the displays, the workshop was a blur; all she was aware of was Joe, who had fallen completely silent.

  Unable to answer any more questions, she stood up suddenly, glad that it was too dark to see Joe’s expression as she stumbled backwards. ‘I’m just going to pack up now, Louisa. I’m in your room, so I’ll head to the pub…’

  Louisa was about to protest but got distracted almost immediately. ‘Look, Joe, do look, the Plough is so bright tonight. Do you remember me pointing out Orion’s Belt when you were small and we used to come up here? It’s so wonderful to see you here, and you look gorgeous. I love that jumper. Cashmere just makes me want to cling on to you and never let go. I won’t, of course, you’d hate that…’

  Joe was almost mute; just one-word replies. Clara gripped the ladder as she descended.

  ‘Wait!’ Joe’s voice. ‘Mum, shall we… Clara,’ he called, ‘wait…’

  Clara didn’t give them time to stop her, but raced around the bedroom scooping up her belongings, stripping the bed and dragging her rucksack out the door. ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ she rattled on. ‘You have so much to catch up on, and I’m happy to stay at the pub. You know Gavin always says I’m welcome…’

  ‘Oh, Gavin,’ Louisa said, practically falling off the last rung of the ladder, clinging to Joe to right herself. ‘He is so marvellous. Will you give him the most enormous hug from me and tell him I’ll be over there tomorrow? I can’t wait to see him.’

  Clara nodded, pulling the cord on her rucksack, her coat dragging behind her, one arm in, the other out as she moved across the kitchen.

  Joe had stayed frozen to the floor next to the rooftop ladder, watching her leave.

  ‘So I’ll be at the pub,’ Clara called in her heartiest voice.

  Lady CaCa chose that moment to reel off every movie line in her repertoire: ‘HASTA LA VISTA BABY, SHOW ME THE MONEY, HAKUNA MATATA, SHITHEADS…’

  Ignoring the parrot, Louisa dragged Joe over to the sofa, firing questions at him non-stop. Clara stood for a moment in the doorway, Joe looking across at her, before turning and heading down the stairs, feeling a stone in her stomach, a heavy weight that settled as she listened to their voices fading, as she opened the door out to the high street, as she closed it behind her.

  By the time she got to the pub, she was aching and tired. She stared up at the familiar exterior, thinking back to her first night, looking at the difference now. The thick red velvet curtains that hung in the windows, the sprigs of holly, the wreath on the door, ribbons amongst the greenery, the flickering warmth from the roaring fire that hit her the moment she pushed her way through the door.

  It was as if she was reliving that night all those weeks ago, standing there puffing, holding a heavy rucksack, Clive’s bald spot at the same table to her left, bent over a pint once more. Even Roz was on the same stool at the bar, dark nails tapping her glass, lips stained red as she turned to stare.

  Clara approached the bar, relieved to see Gavin looking at her with a question on his lips.

  ‘Can I stay?’ she asked immediately, ready to throw her rucksack to the ground and tell him everything.

  Gavin’s eyes widened. ‘Here? But what about the flat? Have you and Joe fallen out?’

  ‘No, I…’ She couldn’t face explaining. Where to begin anyway? She suddenly felt impossibly sad that her night had ended up here, that her adventure was over exactly where it had first begun. She felt herself sag. ‘Can I take the room?’

  Gavin bit his lip, his eyes rolling in panic. ‘Oh, someone else is staying.’

  Clara paused, her muscles protesting as she hoicked the rucksack up onto her shoulder. ‘And there’s no other room?’

  Gavin paused for only a second, eyes flicking up and right. ‘No, sorry,’ he mumbled. He couldn’t meet her gaze.

  Clara felt a burst of anger. After all she’d done for him, for the pub. She pictured the closed door upstairs, not believing him. She turned to go, ignoring his calls, Roz’s questions about Joe, the shop, the flat, pushing out of the pub and marching back down the high street.

  As she neared the shop, she studiously avoided staring too hard. She couldn’t ignore it though, a quick glance back over her shoulder as she passed, the windows still ablaze, picturing Joe with his mum, chatting warmly on the sofa, Louisa opening the shop up tomorrow without her. She felt the prickle of tears in her eyes, quietly admonishing herself for ever imagining things wouldn’t have ended like this. She didn’t belong here; she had been passing through. Louisa was back now and she would move on.

  She was outside Lauren’s cottage after only a few minutes, darkened windows on the first floor, a hopeful trail of smoke from the chimney, a glow behind the curtains of the front room. She knocked tentatively, rolling her shoulders, preparing herself to launch into an explanation, hoping Patrick wouldn’t answer – she barely knew him. One fondue didn’t warrant an overnight stay. No response. She knocked lightly one more time.

  ‘Hello.’ Lauren sounded uncertain on the other side of the door.

  ‘It’s me,’ Clara whispered through the wood.

  ‘Santa?’

  ‘Er… Clara,’ she said, a little louder.

  There was the sound of a lock being turned, one eye appearing in an inch-wide crack as the door was opened. ‘Oh,’ Lauren said, seeing Clara. ‘What are you doing here?’ She was holding a pot of nail varnish, one hand painted red, the other still bare.

  ‘Can I stay?’ Clara asked, standing on the doormat, fingers freezing, hair whipped to the side.

  ‘Of course, of course. But what’s happened? Are you all right? Come in, come in.’ Lauren ushered her into the corridor, eyeing the enormous rucksack but not making any comment. ‘Patrick’s out and I’m halfway through a movie. The dog has just died so it looks like you’re in the perfect mood to join me.’

  She rushed about, going through to the kitchen for another glass, plumping cushions, sweeping aside magazines so that Clara could sink into the sofa, pouring wine without asking. Clara sat back, head resting on the cushions.

  Lauren returned to painting her nails, giving Clara a chance to sip her drink. The moment she set her glass down, Lauren looked at her, a worried frown on her face. ‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’

  Her expression was full of concern and Clara felt guilty for worrying her. ‘It’s not life-threatening; it’s just…’ She paused, twirling the glass in her hand. Should she tell Lauren about the kiss? About how she thought things had changed between her and Joe? Last time she’d been here, she’d been swearing about him. That seemed a lifetime ago.

  ‘What?’ Lauren prompted, topping up her glass.

  Clara took a breath. ‘Louisa came back tonight.’

  Lauren looked as though she was about to launch into a speech, mouth open. She snapped it shut. ‘But… that’s not too bad, is it?’

  ‘I’ve left,’ Clara said, as if to clarify.

  ‘Oh, I see. Did she kick you out? She wouldn’t do that, would she? Has she seen the latest article Sam wrote? Is she jealous?’

  Clara frowned. ‘What article?’

  Lauren shifted on the sofa. ‘It’s nothing really, just very gushing. He called you a rare Danish gem.’ She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sam?’ Clara couldn’t concentrate, was too busy running over the night’s events on repeat. What had Sam got to do with anything?

  ‘I was
worried, actually, that you might be falling for Mr Octopussy’s charms. We’ve all been there,’ Lauren sighed.

  ‘Octopussy?’ Now Clara was utterly confused.

  Lauren leaned over towards her. ‘That’s what we call him. Because he has so many hands trying to get to your —’

  Clara held up her own hands in surrender. ‘Whoa – I understand.’

  Lauren snorted a laugh. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. His poor wife,’ she added as an afterthought.

  Clara’s mouth formed an O. ‘He’s married?’ She thought back to their conversations; how she’d always seen him on his own or with his daughter.

  ‘Oh yes, very married. She commutes and has carried on working full-time. Didn’t he mention her?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘Wow, I had no idea.’

  Lauren shook her head. ‘Pretty standard from Octopussy. Did he offer to take your photograph, by the way? Did he tell you you had great skin? Which you totally do. But did he?’

  Clara felt her toes curl at Lauren’s questions. She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, he told me I’d make a perfect subject.’

  Lauren grimaced. ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. I should have warned you about him. He’s tried it on with half the mothers in the village. He told my friend Cressida she had skin like a freshly opened oyster, which doesn’t even make sense, and she almost left her husband there and then. So don’t be down about it.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘No, it’s not Sam, nothing to do with him.’ She took another sip of wine. ‘It’s just… well, now that Louisa’s back, I needed to leave.’ She’d decided she wasn’t ready yet to tell Lauren about Joe.

  ‘OK,’ Lauren said slowly, but if she suspected there was more going on, she didn’t say.

  ‘She had lots to catch up on with Joe.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lauren said, stroking on more nail polish, the pungent smell making Clara’s head swim in the small living room.

  ‘So she’ll run the shop again and I’ll…’ Clara trailed away, feeling her mouth turn down, the hopeless feeling from earlier wash over her, ‘I’ll move on again.’

  Lauren looked up, cocking her head to one side. ‘Is that what you want?’ she asked, all jokiness evaporated.

  Clara paused, bit her bottom lip. She nodded slowly. ‘I’ve been here long enough. I wasn’t planning to stay anywhere too long.’

  Lauren reached across with one hand. ‘And why’s that?’ she probed.

  Clara felt tears build at the back of her eyes. She found she couldn’t speak.

  ‘Why are you always on the move, Clara?’ Lauren wouldn’t release her from her stare, and Clara felt the whole room suck in a breath as if waiting on her next words.

  ‘I’m always looking for somewhere that feels like home,’ she whispered, feeling the tears spilling over, marking a trail down one cheek.

  ‘Like Denmark?’ Lauren’s nose screwed up in a question and Clara let out a hiccough of a giggle, wiping at her face.

  ‘Somewhere I’m loved,’ she said, realising the simplicity of what she wanted, and how hard it was to achieve. ‘I love Denmark, but my dad has his own family now. Until last year it was me and Mum, but now she’s gone, it’s not the same.’

  Lauren looked at her. ‘I’m sorry, Clara, I didn’t know.’

  ‘She was ill for a while. I was always working. Then I missed… missed…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, crumpling under the words, the tears coming faster now, the room blurring as she thought back to the last time she’d seen her, the visit cut short so she could get back to London for a client meeting. She couldn’t remember if she’d kissed her goodbye. Her mum never asking her for anything, always proud of her busy daughter, showing photos of her to friends, telling them about the awards Clara had won. Then the decline, so quick, and Clara sitting upright in a plastic bucket seat at London City Airport, waiting for the first flight home, watching dawn leak over the horizon, knowing that every second was precious. Arriving home to her mum’s friend Freja reaching for her, face tear-stained, her mum prostrate in bed upstairs. Too late to say goodbye.

  Lauren had scooted to sit next to her on the sofa, pulling Clara’s head onto her shoulder. ‘Oh, poor you. She knew though, didn’t she, Clara, she knew you loved her.’

  Clara nodded, unable to speak, her top damp from her tears. Joe had said the same. They were both right. ‘She knew,’ she agreed, a small light inside her, glad she was here.

  They sat for a while in the living room, not speaking, and Clara felt something lift in her as she got up to go to bed. She hadn’t realised she had needed to talk about it. She followed Lauren up the stairs, smiling weakly at the sight of the room she’d be sleeping in: a camping mattress rolled out on a play mat covered in large letters of the alphabet; a Peppa Pig duvet that would barely cover her.

  ‘It’s not exactly luxury, but I hope it’s OK,’ Lauren said, resting a hand on her arm. ‘And you can stay as long as you like,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Thanks,’ Clara said, a lump in her throat again. She reached across and hugged Lauren. ‘You’re a good friend.’

  ‘Ah, you tøs,’ Lauren smiled, nudging her. She paused at the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the hall. ‘You’ll find it again.’

  Clara nodded at her from the bed, knowing what she had meant, and as she pulled the duvet up to her chin, she wondered for a second whether she had found it, and whether she had let it go.

  Chapter 31

  Clara was on her second beer of the day and it wasn’t even midday. Outside, the pavement was dusted with a thin layer of snow and she couldn’t help thinking of home. What was she doing here in Suffolk? She didn’t belong here. And yet the last few weeks had sparked something in her: she felt she belonged somewhere again, that the village had needed her. She had needed the village. She thought of the displays, the children she wouldn’t see any more, the giggling in the workshop as they painted and created, the chaos and mess, the delighted faces when they turned to show their parents what they’d produced, the small crowds collected on the pavements when she turned the countdown to zero.

  Lauren had woken her earlier with a cup of tea and a KitKat Chunky before flying out of the door with Rory to nursery. Clara hadn’t wanted to stay in the house alone but realised she had nowhere else to go.

  Gavin had been polishing the same glass forever, his eyes flicking over to her. He had apologised repeatedly when he’d appeared on Lauren’s doorstep that morning, dragging her along the pavement to the pub, plying her with free drinks to make up for kicking her out the night before.

  ‘I was so worried. I should never have let you leave like that. I checked everywhere. The bus shelter, the garden shed, Joe and Louisa joined me, we even searched the woods, she was wonderful…’ He tailed off then, looking all misty-eyed.

  Clara found herself distracted from asking more about Joe. ‘Are you and Louisa…?’

  Gavin nodded slowly. ‘I think we’re “an item”,’ he said, doing the quotation marks. ‘We stayed up all night.’

  Clara raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Talking.’ Gavin had practically shouted it as they reached the door of the pub. Clara couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.

  ‘And look,’ he’d said as they’d bustled inside, pointing to the window. He had upholstered the window seat, lining it with cushions, bookshelves set into the wall, the perfect spot to curl up in and read.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Clara said grudgingly, because it really was, and she found herself wandering over there, running a finger along the spines of the books. Perhaps losing herself to reading and beer was the only way to go. She’d been there ever since.