by Zoë Folbigg
Cecilie hears Henrik battling it out with Gjertrud and Ole over one and a half slices of cake and almost raises a smile to herself as she cuts through colours of bright orange, soothing cream and flecks of warm brown spice. She puts a square onto a vintage floral plate sitting on a tray and opens the freezer door to take out a tub of Grethe’s blackcurrant ice cream. Absent-mindedly, Cecilie curls a cornelle to accompany the cake, before taking it through to the front. She picks up the coffee Henrik has made on the bar and places it on the tray.
A man sits by himself at the table by the door, leaning into the window as he scrolls through pictures on his phone. Cecilie sees the man’s phone and wonders what he’s looking at as his thumb caresses the screen.
‘Here you go…’ Cecilie says, placing the plate and the coffee down on the table in front of the gentleman.
‘Gracias, querida,’ the man says, as he removes his military cap and looks up with molten eyes.
Cecilie gasps. ‘It’s you.’
‘It’s me.’
Cecilie’s heart starts pounding out of her chest; her pale cheeks flush pink. Hector stands. He is taller than he looked under the Eiffel Tower. His shoulders, which had seemed smaller and less proud than Cecilie had imagined, are now wide and strong as he stands in front of her wearing his friend’s coat, not warm enough for the Arctic blast outside.
Cecilie puts her hands to her mouth and looks into Hector’s eyes. They are so familiar even though they have never met, that she sees home in the dots of cinnamon and spice. The beat of her heart regulates, she takes a deep breath and lowers her hands. Hector touches them as she does and Cecilie gives a nervous laugh that’s something between a whisper and an aria.
Gjertrud hits Ole, who hits Grethe, who hits Henrik and they watch in silence across the Hjornekafé.
‘I understand why you didn’t come,’ he says, sparks shooting from his hands to hers. ‘I know what you must think of me, please let me explain.’
Hector looks serious as he searches Cecilie’s face for a good outcome, but he’s blinded by panic and can’t find his words.
Cecilie’s brow furrows in confusion and she releases her hands a little.
She did go. She went all that way from the Arctic Circle to Paris. He said he’d wait forever, but he didn’t even wait twenty-four hours before walking off with another woman. A woman who wasn’t even Hector’s wife.
Hector holds on, not letting go of Cecilie’s hands.
‘I was there. I was in Paris,’ she says quietly. But looking at Hector’s eyes, without barriers or screens or lenses, she feels calm, she knows there is an explanation.
‘You were there? No mames…’ Hector releases Cecilie’s fingers and lets out a defeated sigh.
‘Yes, I came, silly. A day later…’ Cecilie’s amused eyes seek to comfort Hector, who lifts one hand to touch the apple of her now-pink cheek, but flinches and withdraws it to rub at his temple.
The enthusiastic soup slurps and chatter of the Norwegian family at the next table drown out what Grethe, Gjertrud, Ole and Henrik are aching to hear. They know he is The Mexican. Grethe recognises him as the man she bumped into outside.
‘I was there. Under the Eiffel Tower. I saw you walking away with someone else.’
Hector shakes his head. He looks more serious than Cecilie imagined he would. Hector, the life and soul of Mexico, who Cecilie always thought she might be a little overwhelmed by, is standing in front of her in her home town and she just wants to comfort him and tell him it’s OK.
‘Kate. Kate is my friend from England. I was meeting her too. I wanted to be with you when I met her…’
Cecilie can tell by looking into Hector’s eyes that he’s speaking the truth, and that’s all she needs to hear. She puts her index finger to his mouth to silence him. ‘Shhhh, I was there. I’ve always been there; always been with you. But now you’re here. It’s all OK. I know it’s all going to be OK. I’m not blind, I see everything so clearly.’
Her finger moves from his lip to cheek and she touches him, marvels at his brown face. He looks into her green eyes and feels the weight of 4,000 watermelons rise from his shoulders again.
Hector and Cecilie wrap their arms around each other and hide their faces in the curve of each other’s neck, their bodies entwined like the graceful roots of two cherimoya trees bursting together. They inhale each other’s smell and Cecilie breaks to whisper into Hector’s ear.
‘I see you. I feel you. And it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.’
Hector turns his head so his lips meets Cecilie’s at her whisper and they kiss.
‘Olé!’ shouts Ole, as he leads a raucous clap. Gjertrud cheers with Ahyana on her lap, happy tears run down Grethe’s cheeks. The family of four, the businessman and the newlyweds glance up and see their waitress locked in an embrace and join in with Ole’s clap.
Hector and Cecilie, oblivious to the world around them, enjoy the silence within the cocoon of their first kiss.
Epilogue
June 2019, Tulum, Mexico
Cecilie reclines against a smooth wall of artfully swishy concrete and looks through a crack in the white voile that hangs around her four-poster bed. She is still. She gazes out through the open cabana door to a beach beyond the path lined with bougainvillea and leafy shrubs. Palms sway gently in the soft breeze as loved ones gather on the light powdery sand, sparkling bright against the clear turquoise sea.
Alejandro stands under a cream canopy, anchored to four tall bamboo poles, billowing in the breeze. His hands sit in his pockets as he looks at the sand and listens to the chatter of women. Karin embraces Sister Miriam – they’ve been getting on like a house on fire since they met at dinner last night. Cecilie wishes she could lip-read as she looks at their animated faces. Grethe, blissful in her haute hippie habitat, hands Ahyana to Morten so she can lift her hair for Abdi to adjust the halter straps on her stripy multi-coloured dress. Cecilie smiles as she watches Espen fuss between the officiator and a Mariachi ensemble, and then her vision focuses on her deep-red painted toes outstretched in front of her, the same shade as the mariachis’ silk ties. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more relaxed in her life as the sound of distant conversation and rolling waves wash over her.
The silhouette of a figure obscures her view. Hector approaches up the path in an oatmeal suit; his white shirt unbuttoned at his chest. He walks barefoot into the cabana, sand still trickling through his toes.
He looks at Cecilie lying on the bed, sighs, and puts his hand to his chest. He feels like the luckiest man in the universe.
‘Mi amor.’
Cecilie smiles, as Hector opens the voile curtain and falls onto her in submission, breaking his fall with his elbows on either side of her.
‘Careful,’ she laughs.
Hector stops at Cecilie’s belly and puts his cheek to it with a smile.
‘Are we all ready?’ he says, rubbing the curve of her stomach.
‘They’re excited, they haven’t stopped dancing.’
‘I’m excited… come on, let’s go,’ Hector says, as he puts his hands around Cecilie’s to pull her up from the bed. She stands proud in an off-white dress with sheer long sleeves and a cascade of lace appliqué flowers that tumble down over her stomach into swathes at her feet. A single full peony as pale as Cecilie’s hair, sits at her ear, fastening her fringe into place. She looks at Hector with an impish grin and he falls to his knees, again kissing her stomach. Knowing his parents would be proud of him today.
‘Shall we go?’ he asks, standing, looking through the open door to their family and friends, now sitting on wooden benches facing the sea.
‘Yes. Let’s,’ Cecilie answers, as she lifts a bouquet of tied peonies with one hand and Hector leads her out by the other as they walk down the path towards the shore.
Nine thousand six hundred and fifty-one kilometres away, a library door closes shut and the lights in the bright summer sky remain out of sight until winter.
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Acknowledgements
What an honour it’s been to travel from Arctic Norway to balmy Mexico, all during a school day while I sit at my kitchen table. I thank my lucky stars for these brilliant people, who have all enabled me to, ahem, go The Distance.
Thanks to the axis of awesomeness: my agent Rebecca Ritchie at AM Heath, who is a beautiful ray of sunshine and always has a knack of saying what I’m thinking. In a really clever and concise way. And to my editor Sarah Ritherdon at Aria, who knows precisely what it’s like to edit 90,000 words while putting two beautiful boys to bed #multitasking. Working with you both is a total dream come true.
We rode a crazy rollercoaster (more like a runaway train) with The Note, so huge thanks to everyone who supported it and continues to. To Melanie Price at Aria and Suzanne Sangster at Head of Zeus for holding my hand through the media whirl, and to Caroline Ridding, Nikky Ward and Blake Brooks for all being publishing powerhouses. Thanks to Jade Craddock and Sue Lamprell for their eagle eyes and enthusiasm reading The Distance, and to Luna Aït-Oumeghar for her gorgeous cover design – I loved it from the get-go. Thanks also to Kathleen Whyman and Ian Critchley for continued advice over hot chocolate (“Is it too early for hot chocolate?”), and to Victoria Derbyshire for her kind words. You are an inspiration.
I earned my editorial stripes at Cosmopolitan and I’m still so grateful to the Cosmo diaspora who spread far and wide and have helped champion me. You rock. And to the Cosmealers who stick to the First Tuesday Of The Month diktat to ensure we meet up and gossip despite babies, press days, shoots, sabbaticals, and overhead train cables sometimes throwing a spanner in the works.
My friends. Such whizzo friends. I am so lucky to have groups of sisterly women (and magnificent men) around me. Even when I’ve been up against it, writing into the small hours because I couldn’t fit it into a school day: the Running Bitches run on, the Ballsac Bitches still brunch and my School Sisters still make me smile. I am very grateful for your support: to cry with laughter with you as I accidentally roll out of the door at Pilates (embarrassing); to eat shakshuka with you in Bristol or chana dabalroti in Soho; to gaze at the Matterhorn with you while we pretend we like skiing, or to dance badly to Shakira with you in zumba. Thank you.
To my parents: Judi Billing must be the hardest working mama in the world – you are an inspiration and I love you dearly – thanks for your unwavering support! Thanks to my dad, aka Papa Smurf, aka Chieftain, aka Growlhouse, aka P Dawg, aka poet John Gohorry, aka Don Smith. You are all of the above and light up so many worlds. And thanks to my bonus mum Gerlinde Smith – your support and chocolate praline recipe I clutch close to my heart. Thanks to Clare, Dan and Fabian: exciting times for all of us, it’s so wonderful to share big life moments with you. To my supercool stepsiblings. To my lovely inlaws Derrick and Gill Folbigg. And to my many Folbigg, Bailey, Smith, Mitchell and Billing nephews and nieces – I love being your aunty!
Very special thanks to Nordic goddess Guro Eide for being a wonderful, thoughtful, supportive friend, and for guiding me on this journey of kjøttboller and gløgg. And mil gracias to prince of Mexico, Beto Alarcon (and his beautiful wife Kristina), for answering my bizarre questions on WhatsApp day and night, and for inspiring me with your stories, art and silliness.
Finally, thanks to the menfolk I am lucky to share every day with. My bearcubs Felix and Max: you are beautiful, hilarious, exhausting and scrumptious and I love you both so very much. Sorry I ate your Easter chocolate while I was editing. And to my husband, aka Train Man, aka Mark, aka Mister Folbigg. Always the shy guy with the dimple in his right cheek. Always a patient, kind, loving, ridiculously handsome and supportive man. Thank you.
About Zoë Folbigg
ZOË FOLBIGG is a magazine journalist and digital editor, starting at Cosmopolitan in 2001 and since freelancing for titles including Glamour, Fabulous, Daily Mail, Healthy, LOOK, Top Santé, Mother & Baby, ELLE, Sunday Times Style, Style.com and ASOS. In 2008 she had a weekly column in Fabulous magazine documenting her year-long round-the-world trip with ‘Train Man’ – a man she had met on her daily commute. She since married Train Man and lives in Hertfordshire with him and their two young sons. She is writing her debut novel.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Zoë Folbigg, 2018
The moral right of Zoë Folbigg to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781786698087
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