Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  The front door swung open and Bo turned back to see a pretty young woman smiling at her from the doorway. She looked around thirty, with lively blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and blonde hair which had been cut in a funky, asymmetric style, shaved close around the ear on one side but falling in a sharply angled bob on the other. She wore a Breton-style striped cotton top with faded black jeans ripped at the knees.

  ‘Hi, I’m Bo.’

  The sound of trundling wheels made Bo glance over her shoulder again, to see the man from the train wheeling his suitcase up the garden path towards the house. The young woman stood in the doorway with her arms wrapped around the front of her body, visibly shivering.

  ‘Hello,’ the man said, coming to a halt beside Bo on the doorstep. ‘I’m Simon. I—’

  ‘Can we do this inside please?’ the woman cut in, through chattering teeth, ‘I’m freezing my tits off out here.’

  Bo and Simon stepped inside, the front door emitting a satisfying shtoom sound as it sealed shut behind them, like the door on a safe.

  Chapter 11

  The blonde woman stepped forwards and held out her hand. ‘I’m Florence,’ she said brightly.

  ‘I’m Bo,’ replied Bo, inwardly acknowledging just how far off the mark her mental image of Florence had been.

  ‘Simon,’ said the man from the train carriage, giving Florence’s hand a brisk shake.

  They were standing in an airy kitchen-cum-dining room, with bleached wood floors and white walls. Compared to the arctic conditions outdoors, the room felt positively tropical, and Bo could feel sweat prickle at the back of her neck and under her arms. She began to peel off her outer layers and beside her Simon did the same, unzipping his coat and removing his boots in silence. Without his hat, Bo noted that he was an attractive thirty-something, with a touch of grey at his temples, a light, stubbly beard and brown eyes beneath heavy brows which seemed inclined to furrow.

  ‘I expect you’re both dying for a cuppa?’ Florence asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Bo replied gratefully. She could feel the warmth of the underfloor heating through her socks as she followed Florence over to the wooden dining table next to the window. Bo and Simon each took one of the architectural dining chairs beneath a pair of low-hanging pendant lights which cast two pools of yellow light onto the table. Florence went into the kitchen area, which was comprised of gleaming white, minimalist units and pale-wood worktops. She flicked on the kettle then leaned back against the counter and smiled at them. She had an open, friendly demeanour which made Bo instinctively warm to her.

  ‘It’ll be nice to have some company at last,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ve been rattling around in here on my own for days.’

  ‘You’re an artist, right?’ Bo asked.

  Florence nodded. ‘Ceramics, mostly. But I love coming here to sketch the landscape. The beaches here are incredible, even in winter.’

  Bo’s eyes flickered across the table to Simon, but he had taken out his phone and was scrolling across its screen, seemingly oblivious to the conversation around him.

  ‘Pernille said her daughter’s going to be joining us soon,’ Florence continued, seemingly unfazed by Simon’s silence. ‘You’re friends of hers, I gather?’ she asked, looking from Florence to Simon expectantly.

  At this, Simon looked up abruptly from his phone. He and Bo exchanged a look in which his dawning realisation and embarrassment mirrored her own: Florence had assumed they were a couple.

  ‘Oh, um,’ Bo stuttered, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks. ‘I am, yes, Kirsten’s my flatmate,’ she said. ‘I don’t know about—’ she glanced at Simon, ‘We don’t – what I mean is—’ Florence was staring at her with the benign but impatient look a teacher might give a struggling pupil.

  ‘We’re not together,’ Simon said bluntly. Bo smiled and winced at the same time.

  ‘We just met. On the doorstep. Just now,’ she added, somewhat redundantly. Then, in an effort to relieve the awkwardness in the room, she turned to Simon and said, ‘Although I think, actually, we might have been on the same plane. Or the same train at least. From the airport. You had a laptop?’ Simon was staring at her as if he had doubts about her mental wellbeing.

  ‘Oh? I hadn’t noticed . . .’ he answered vaguely, and Bo felt her cheeks start to burn. As introductions went, this one was going from bad to worse.

  She was saved from further embarrassment by Florence placing three mugs of tea on the table and taking the chair at the head. ‘Well, you’ve arrived just in time,’ she said. ‘There’s a storm coming in.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Bo gave a nervous giggle, but Simon’s sombre demeanour made her immediately regret her childishness. ‘It’s not going to be . . . dangerous, is it?’ she asked anxiously.

  Florence shook her head and swallowed a mouthful of tea. ‘No, babe, nothing like that,’ she said. ‘It just means we might be housebound for a few days. It’s lucky your flight got in when it did. When the wind gets really bad they have to close the airport.’

  They all sipped their tea in silence for a moment, listening to the rain which had begun to pound at the windows, until Florence said, ‘So what about you, Simon? Do you know Kirsten too?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Pernille is a friend of my mother,’ he said. Bo and Florence looked at Simon expectantly but he showed no inclination to elaborate.

  ‘Pernille was one of my tutors at art college,’ Florence volunteered.

  ‘I’ve never met Pernille,’ Simon stated flatly.

  Florence nodded slowly, then returned to her mug of tea. Bo sensed that she, too, was finding Simon hard work, and felt a rush of relief that she wouldn’t have to deal with Simon’s humourless demeanour alone.

  ‘So, what brings you both to Skagen?’ Florence asked convivially.

  ‘I’m just here for a holiday, really,’ Bo said. ‘Kirsten suggested it. She had some annual leave left over, and I’ve just been made redundant, so . . .’ she trailed off, feeling suddenly downcast at the reminder of her reasons for coming to Denmark.

  ‘So you thought you’d come to Skagen and blow the cobwebs away?’ Florence suggested.

  ‘Something like that,’ answered Bo. Across the table, Simon had raised the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn.

  ‘What about you, Simon? Are you here for a holiday too?’

  Simon rubbed the back of his head. ‘No, I’m here to work. I’m a writer.’

  Bo and Florence both looked at him expectantly but Simon seemed disinclined to elaborate.

  They continued to drink their tea in silence until Florence placed her palms on the table, pushed her chair back, and said, ‘Well, I guess I should show you around.’

  She led them past the staircase through a pair of double doors into a living room, which combined pared-down simplicity with comfort in a way that Bo was beginning to recognise as typically Danish. Framed abstract prints hung in clusters around the white walls. A wooden coffee table painted in distressed, chalky paint stood on a bleached-wood floor between two stylish armchairs and a leather sofa. In the corner, a fire glowed invitingly in a cylindrical cast-iron stove.

  ‘It really comes into its own in the summer, this place. The light here is incredible,’ Florence said, walking across the room to lower the roller blind at the window, through which Bo had glimpsed a set of forlorn-looking garden furniture dripping with rain. ‘But it’s surprisingly cosy in the winter. Shall I show you upstairs?’

  They collected their suitcases from the front door and followed Florence up the staircase to a wood-panelled landing.

  ‘The bathroom’s at the end,’ Florence said, pointing to a door at the far end of the hallway. ‘This room’s mine,’ she said, half-opening the first door on their left, affording Bo a fleeting glimpse of a room with clothes strewn messily across the bed, and a large black portfolio leaning against the wall.

  ‘Bo, why don’t you take this one,’ she pointed to the room opposite hers, ‘and Simon you can have the one ne
xt to mine. I’ll leave you to unpack, then we can have something to eat.’

  Bo pushed open the door and wheeled her suitcase inside. The bedroom was small and functional, painted white, in keeping with the rest of the house, with a single bed, a small chest of drawers and a simple desk and chair. Bo pushed her suitcase against the bed and walked over to the window, where she sank down gratefully onto the folded fluffy blanket and peered out through the rain-spattered glass at the neighbouring rooftops.

  Bo looked at her watch, and her thoughts inevitably slid to Ben. It would be coming up to six o’clock in London now, the end of Aspect’s working day. Perhaps Ben and his team would be heading out for a drink to mark the first day of his new job. Or maybe he and Charlotte would be heading out for a more private celebration, meeting in secret at the Crossrail hoardings, scurrying into Soho for dinner. For God’s sake, Bo, don’t do it to yourself she berated herself, pinching the bridge of her nose tightly between her finger and thumb.

  She sniffed, stood up purposefully, and set about unpacking her clothes into the chest of drawers. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror, did her best to smooth her wayward hair and dabbed some concealer under her eyes before padding back downstairs. She found Florence in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher. Simon was nowhere to be seen, presumably still unpacking in his room.

  ‘All right, babe? You hungry?’ Florence asked.

  ‘Starving,’ she admitted, wandering over to help Florence stack the clean crockery and glasses in the cabinets. She couldn’t help but notice how clean and uncluttered the kitchen was, and that none of the surfaces were coated in a layer of sticky, greasy dust like those in her flat.

  Florence pulled open the fridge. ‘I’ve got some cold meats and cheese, and some bread but that’s all, I’m afraid,’ she said apologetically. ‘I meant to go to the supermarket today but the weather’s been shit.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ Bo said gratefully.

  ‘There’s not much booze either,’ Florence went on, ‘Alcohol costs a bloody fortune overhere. There are a couple of beers in here, and there might be an old bottle of Glogg in the cupboard if you’re desperate.’ Bo smiled. She and Kirsten had once had a memorable evening drinking Glogg in the flat, served warm with almonds and raisins. Her hangover the next day had been particularly vicious.

  They heard Simon’s footsteps descending the stairs. ‘Good timing,’ Florence said chirpily as he appeared. ‘We’re just about to eat.’

  They sat around the table, helping themselves to cold meats, cheese and salad.

  ‘So, Simon, what kind of book are you writing?’ Bo began, wondering whether Simon would be any more amenable to conversation now that he had had time to settle in.

  ‘A novel.’

  A pause followed, during which Bo and Florence looked at him receptively. ‘Is it set in Denmark?’ Florence asked, buttering a slice of rye bread.

  Simon exhaled through his nose. ‘Yes. Partly.’ He took a bite of bread, seemingly reluctant to provide any further detail.

  ‘Right. Well . . .’ Bo trailed off. She decided to try a different tack. ‘Do you think it’s true what they say, that everyone has one novel in them?’ Simon swallowed his mouthful.

  ‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘I don’t.’

  Bo returned to her food, flummoxed. In her experience, men usually loved talking about work – during her Tinder dating phase she had spent many evenings bored senseless by men talking about their jobs. Simon, however, seemed almost wilfully unforthcoming on the subject of his writing. But then, Bo reminded herself, she had never met a writer before, so she had no point of comparison. Perhaps sullen and unforthcoming was just what writers were like.

  In tacit agreement to leave the subject of Simon’s novel, the three of them made polite small-talk about the house and the weather until Bo decided enough time had passed for her to plead exhaustion and retire to her bedroom without appearing rude.

  She closed the bedroom door softly behind her and stood for a moment, savouring the silence in the room until a muffled buzz caused her to dart forwards and grab her handbag from the bed. She rummaged among the coffee shop napkins, folded boarding pass and empty sweet wrappers until she found her phone.

  MUM calling, her screen announced.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ Bo sighed, wandering over to sit in the window nook.

  A fractional delay, then, ‘Hello, darling. How’s Denmark?’ Her mother’s voice had a tinny, distant quality and Bo imagined the satellite, somewhere in the sky above the North Sea, bouncing their conversation from her parents’ executive estate in Buckinghamshire to the windswept northern tip of Denmark.

  ‘Cold. Dark. And raining at the moment,’ Bo replied, staring at her reflection in the black glass. She looked wan, exhausted.

  ‘Oh dear. I hope you’ve packed enough layers,’ her mother clucked, and Bo could picture her mother’s concerned look as clearly as if she were in the room.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Mum,’ she sighed.

  ‘Is Kirsten there yet?’

  Bo swung her legs up onto the seat and turned sideways, pressing her feet against the side panel. ‘Not yet,’ Bo said, wearily. ‘I told you, Mum, she’s visiting her grandfather. But she’ll be flying over in a day or so.’ Bo had assumed the unnaturally upbeat tone she always used when trying to reassure her mother. ‘I’m not in the house on my own,’ she added. ‘Two of Kirsten’s mum’s friends are here too.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Barbara said in a tight voice. Barbara had met Pernille once, at Bo and Kirsten’s graduation day. Barbara, elegant and understated in beige cashmere, had regarded Pernille’s clunky jewellery and vibrant red hair with thin-lipped dismay, and in the car on the way home had conveyed her disdain with the observation, ‘She’s very flamboyant, isn’t she?’

  ‘What are they like, the friends?’ Barbara asked warily. ‘Arty types, I expect?’ Bo’s parents seemed to harbour an innate distrust of ‘arty types’, as if people who made a living from their creativity were somehow playing the system, dodging the responsibilities that other, normal people had.

  ‘Sort of. Well, one’s a ceramic artist. She used to be a student of Pernille’s. The other’s a writer.’ Another pause followed. Bo was fairly certain that writers would fall into the same category as artists for her mother.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ she said, sensing her mother’s ambivalence. ‘They’re perfectly nice.’ Not wanting to say anything that might alarm her mother, Bo had decided not to mention that Simon seemed taciturn to the point of rudeness.

  ‘Oh,’ Barbara replied, managing to sound at once relieved and disappointed. ‘Have they given you anything to eat?’

  ‘They’re not meant to be catering for me, Mum,’ Bo sighed. ‘They’re guests here too. But, yes, we’ve just had dinner.’

  Reassured that Bo was not in any imminent danger from either starvation or exposure-to-arty-types, Barbara proceeded to update Bo about the state of her father’s bunions, the fence panels which had collapsed in a recent storm, and Lauren’s husband’s possible promotion at work. As she was bidding her daughter farewell, she implored, ‘Keep me updated, won’t you? And make sure you wrap up warm.’

  ‘Will do, Mum,’ Bo replied, ‘Thanks. Bye.’ The line went dead. Bo yawned and gazed blankly out of the window for a few moments. Then she picked up her phone again and sent Kirsten a text:

  I’ve arrived. Florence is here (v nice!) and someone called Simon (a writer – doesn’t say much. Suspect he thinks I’m an idiot.) Wish you were here x

  Then she stood up, took her toiletries bag from the bed, and padded along the hallway to the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later, Bo pulled the duvet back and climbed into bed. She turned off the lamp then lay in the pitch blackness, savouring the absence of sirens and traffic noise outside. The only sound was the rain. It was different from the rain in London; it was uncompromising and relentless. Yet there was something oddly comforting about hearing it pound against the roof and batter the w
indowpane from inside the well-insulated summerhouse. Bo thought of the draughty flat in Holloway, with its rotting wooden window frames and patch of damp on the hallway ceiling. The Danes, she thought admiringly, certainly knew how to protect their homes against the elements.

  By the time Kirsten’s reply arrived a few minutes later, (Great! Can’t wait to join you. Never met Simon. Sounds like he’s got you sussed though.) Bo had fallen fast asleep.

  Chapter 12

  When Bo woke from a deep sleep the following morning, raindrops were still bouncing exuberantly on the windowsill. She swung her legs over the side of the mattress, rubbed her face groggily, then went over to the window. It was nine o’clock, but the November dawn appeared still to be breaking, grey and half-hearted, with enough lingering darkness for the streetlamps to remain lit. In the distance, between the red-tiled roofs of the neighbouring houses, she could just make out a triangular wedge of blue-grey sea, almost indistinguishable from the steely sky.

  Bo pulled on her dressing gown, smoothed her hair back into a loose ponytail, and made her way downstairs. Simon was at the kitchen counter in a grey t-shirt and faded pyjama bottoms, cutting a slice of rye bread from what was left of yesterday’s loaf.

  ‘Morning,’ she murmured, tying the cord of her dressing gown in front of her waist.

  ‘All right?’ he replied with a cursory nod. A tuft of brown hair was sticking up at the back of his head, lending his appearance a boyish quality which seemed at odds with his aloof manner.

  ‘Morning, babe, sleep well?’ Florence asked. She was seated at the dining table sipping from a cup of coffee, a sketchpad and tin of pencils spread out in front of her.

  ‘Like a baby,’ Bo replied, pouring herself a coffee. On her way to the table she peered over Florence’s shoulder to look at the drawing on her pad. It was a pencil sketch of a seashell, its intricate spirals rendered in exquisite detail.

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ Bo murmured admiringly.