Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  ‘Thanks,’ Florence replied, visibly gratified. ‘I’d hoped to get out and do some sketching today, but the weather’s put paid to that.’

  The rain continued to batter the outside of the summerhouse all morning, and it didn’t take long for an air of frustration to descend on the group. Florence tinkered with her sketches and Simon set up his laptop at the opposite end of the table and was quickly engrossed in his work, pounding at his keyboard with two fingers. Not wanting to get in their way, Bo wandered through the double doors to the living room. She lit the fire in the stove and photographed her socked feet in front of the dancing orange flames then, for want of anything else to do, posted the pictures to Instagram with the hashtags #cosy and #Denmark.

  At lunchtime, they helped themselves to the dwindling supplies from the fridge. (Simon had finished the bread at breakfast, so they had no choice but to eat crackers with their cold meats and cheese.) The atmosphere was strained, in a way that befitted three strangers living at close quarters in an unfamiliar house. Simon was just as unforthcoming and uncommunicative as ever, and even Florence seemed slightly dejected. Whether it was the rain that had lowered her spirits, or Simon’s surliness, Bo wasn’t sure.

  After lunch, Bo peered out through the window. The terrace was slick with rainwater and the sky overhead was battleship-grey but, for now at least, the rain had stopped. It was not exactly inviting out there, but Bo was beginning to find the atmosphere in the summerhouse claustrophobic. Behind her at the table, Simon had opened his laptop and looked like he was settling down for an afternoon of typing and frowning.

  ‘I think I might head into town to explore. I can pick up a few supplies for dinner. Anyone want to come with me?’ Bo asked, turning to face the room. She saw Simon’s jaw clench.

  ‘I’ve got work to do here, thanks,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  Florence sighed and closed the lid of her pencil tin. ‘Yes, I think I need a change of scene too,’ she replied, her gaze sliding pointedly back in Simon’s direction. He had begun his relentless, two-fingered typing again, oblivious to the effect his mood was having on the girls. ‘There’s a little supermarket in the centre of town,’ Florence said. After a pause, she grinned. ‘And we can stop for a pastry at the harbour on our way back.’

  It took Bo twenty minutes to get ready for the freezing temperatures she knew awaited her beyond the front door. She put on as many layers as she could: a thermal vest and leggings, followed by a knitted jumper and a thick fleece on top, with jeans and two pairs of socks. She forced her arms into her coat, feeling the seams give as the fabric strained to accommodate her extra bulk. Then she pulled her woolly hat on as low as it would go and wound her scarf around her face and neck, leaving only her eyes exposed. Catching sight of herself in a mirror, she thought she resembled a comically inept bank robber.

  She eyed Florence’s knee-length goose-down coat enviously when, at last, they were ready to set off. With their heads bowed against the biting wind, they picked their way between the puddles towards the town centre. Skagen’s main shopping street was a cobbled thoroughfare lined with pretty buildings, in the town’s typical yellow and red colours. The picturesque, colourful scene brought to mind a toy-town, almost as if the whole place were made of Lego, but most of the boutiques, craft shops and cafes which lined the street were shut, their window displays dark and doors locked, giving the place a mournful, out-of-season feel.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Bo asked, fighting to hold her hood up against the wind.

  ‘A lot of these places only open for the summer,’ Florence answered, peeling away a strand of blonde hair that had blown into her mouth. They walked on, concentrating on maintaining their footing on the slippery cobbles, until Florence raised a gloved hand to indicate a side-street, where Bo could see the brightly lit frontage of a Netto supermarket standing out amidst the darkened windows of the empty shops either side.

  A blast of warm air from a heating vent hit them as soon as they stepped through the sliding doors, making the tips of Bo’s ears and nose tingle. Florence seemed to know her way around, methodically filling their basket with enough essentials to see them through the next couple of days. Bo meandered after her, enjoying the novelty of browsing shelves full of mysterious foreign products.

  Afterwards they carried their shopping bags to the harbour, in search of coffee and pastries as a reward for their efforts. They passed a huge industrial dock full of fishing trawlers and warehouses, then carried on to the adjacent marina, where a few forlorn fishing boats bobbed in the wind and seagulls cawed, wheeling overhead. The marina’s curved concourse was lined with pretty red buildings beneath gabled rooftops. Bo tried to imagine the place in the summer, with yachts and pleasure boats moored at the water’s edge, and crowds of holiday-makers thronging outside the bars and restaurants but in the depths of winter the walkway was deserted and the picnic benches stood empty.

  Their destination was the last red building in the row. Bo pushed open the door and looked around the bustling cafe, savouring the tantalising aroma of warm pastry and coffee.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ Florence asked at the serving counter. Bo stared at the mouth-watering display of pastries and cakes presented in neat rows behind the glass, momentarily paralysed by the vast choice before her. She eventually pointed to a cinnamon-dusted pastry coiled like a snail’s shell.

  ‘A snegle. Good choice,’ Florence said, and she indicated to the pretty blonde girl behind the counter that they wanted two.

  Balancing their pastries and coffees on plastic trays, they weaved a path between the seated customers to an unoccupied table by the window.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Bo murmured, unzipping her coat, taking in the simple elegance of the decor and the flickering candle on the table.

  ‘Bit nicer than Greggs, isn’t it?’ Florence said with a grin.

  Bo sank her teeth into the snegle, which managed to be at once deliciously crisp yet gooey. ‘Mmmohmygod, that’s good,’ she murmured, licking cinnamon sugar from her fingertips.

  ‘The pastries over here are the dog’s bollocks,’ Florence agreed, taking a sip of coffee.

  The cosy ambience of the cafe was a relief after the tense morning at the summerhouse. The background hum of chatter, clinking spoons and the hiss of the coffee machine was far more conducive to relaxed conversation than the intermittent clicking of Simon’s typing.

  In between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of pastry, Bo discovered that Florence was twenty-nine, lived alone in a flat in Hove, and that she sold her ceramics primarily at local markets, as well as in a little gallery in Brighton.

  ‘I do a bit of teaching on the side, too, to make ends meet. Landscape classes on the beach, that kind of thing.’

  ‘It sounds idyllic,’ Bo commented enviously, thinking of the life she had left behind, the daily commute into central London and hours spent in an airless, corporate office.

  Florence took a bite of her pastry, a slight frown forming between her brows. ‘Dunno about idyllic,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘but it suits me.’

  The conversation had brought Bo’s own lack of employment to mind, and she gave a downcast sigh.

  ‘You all right, babe?’ Florence asked, her blue eyes round with concern.

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ Bo insisted with a forced smile. ‘I just remembered that I’m unemployed, that’s all.’ She gave a mirthless laugh.

  ‘I’m sure something else will turn up soon,’ Florence said encouragingly. Bo stared out of the window at the grey, wintry harbour, and watched the seagulls dive and soar above the choppy waters.

  ‘Mmm, maybe,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s not like working in marketing for an IT company was ever my life’s ambition,’ Bo went on. ‘It just, sort of, happened. And then it always felt like too much of a risk to chuck it in.’

  Florence gave an understanding nod and the two of them sat in contemplative silence for a few moments.

  ‘Did you always know you w
anted to be an artist?’ Bo asked, finally.

  Florence’s nose wrinkled. ‘I guess from about the age of sixteen, I did,’ she replied. ‘But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had my fair share of shitty jobs, too.’ Bo raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Let’s see . . .’ Florence said, screwing up her eyes in concentration. ‘While I was at art college I worked in the kitchen of a greasy spoon in Camberwell. Spent every weekend up to my elbows in cooking oil. Then there was six months of telesales for an office stationery supplier in Worthing, trying to flog punched pockets and window envelopes to bored secretaries.’

  Bo’s face hovered somewhere between amusement and pity, but Florence wasn’t done yet. ‘After that I did a summer dressed as Wonder Woman, carrying a placard for an all-you-can-eat Tex Mex buffet at a junction on the A23.’

  Bo grimaced. ‘You’re a woman of many talents, clearly.’

  ‘Aren’t I just?’ Florence said sardonically. ‘And I can tell you something for nothing, babe. Don’t ever wear a polyester cape with bustier and hot-pants. It will only end in tears. The static!’ she gasped in a horrified stage whisper.

  ‘I’ll try and remember that, next time I’m choosing my cosplay outfits,’ Bo giggled, ‘Natural fibres only.’ Florence nodded solemnly.

  ‘But, the truth is, you just do what you have to do to scrape by, don’t you?’ Florence said philosophically. ‘All those shitty jobs just made me even more determined to make a living as an artist. If it wasn’t for the ceramics, I’d probably still be standing at those traffic lights plucking star-spangled wedgies out of my bum-crack.’

  Bo snorted. ‘Well, from what I’ve seen of your sketches, I’d say the A23’s loss is the art world’s gain.’

  ‘Too kind, too kind,’ Florence intoned grandly, clutching one hand to her chest.

  ‘It must be nice to have a talent, though,’ Bo commented wistfully, allowing her gaze to slide back out towards the sea. ‘Something you’re really passionate about.’

  ‘Everyone’s got a talent, babe,’ Florence countered. ‘Maybe yours is . . . marketing for accountancy software.’

  Bo laughed. ‘God help me if it is!’ she whispered, appalled. They were silent for a few moments. ‘You know, when I was younger, I always dreamed of . . . doing something with food,’ Bo said quietly, as if she was making a slightly shameful confession.

  ‘Oh, right?’ Florence answered, intrigued. ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘Well, something like this, I guess,’ she said, holding up the last chunk of her cinnamon snegle. ‘I’ve always loved baking. Making cakes for parties, or weddings perhaps. I’m not exactly sure.’

  A memory came unbidden into Bo’s mind, of the first (and only) time she had broached the subject of her culinary ambitions with her parents. It had been a balmy evening during the summer between her sixth form years, and they had just eaten dinner on the shade-dappled patio of the back garden in Buckinghamshire. Bo mentioned that she had found a pastry chef course at a catering college that she liked the look of. Her father’s face had clouded, and he had muttered something about how someone of her abilities could aim higher than that. Her mother had strenuously agreed, reminding Bo that her education and upbringing meant that the world was her oyster, and that she knew something about the subject, as her cousin Jeanette had worked in catering.

  ‘Catering is not a family-friendly profession. Very anti-social hours,’ Barbara had said in a voice heavy with warning. ‘You’d have to work evenings and weekends . . .’ she had trailed off with a pained look, knowing that the argument would carry a lot of force with a sociable seventeen-year-old for whom evenings and weekends were sacrosanct.

  Sensing the opposition she would face, Bo had chosen to let the subject of catering college drop. Perhaps her parents were right and it was just a passing phase, an adolescent equivalent of her childhood dream of becoming a prima ballerina for the Royal Ballet (cruelly crushed at the age of eight by a sharp-faced ballet teacher who had told her that she would ‘never dance en pointe’). Better to play it safe and follow her parents’ and teachers’ advice, work hard on her A-levels and apply to university.

  With a disconsolate sigh, Bo dabbed the last crumbs of pastry from her plate with the tip of her thumb. ‘Sometimes, life just . . . gets in the way, doesn’t it?’ she said wistfully. ‘I took the first job I was offered when I graduated from uni. Which just so happened to be in marketing. And now here I am . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Twenty-six and unemployed,’ she concluded bluntly.

  Florence drained her coffee then said breezily, ‘Well, babe, just say the word if you want me to dig out the number for the Tex Mex Buffet. They’re always recruiting for new Wonder Women.’

  Bo smiled into her coffee cup. ‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Outside the window, the heavy sky threatened rain and the boats in the harbour were bobbing vigorously.

  ‘We should head back. Looks like it’s about to start pissing down again,’ Florence said glumly.

  ‘What do you think of Simon?’ Bo asked, as they gathered their things. She had been dying to ask Florence about their housemate, and their conversation seemed to have established enough of a sisterly rapport for her to do so.

  ‘Silent Simon?’ Florence quipped with a mischievous grin, fastening her hood snugly beneath her chin.

  ‘He’s a bit intense, isn’t he?’ Bo mused, ‘Grumpy, even. Or is that just me?’

  Florence shook her head. ‘Definitely not just you, babe!’ she grinned, with a roll of her eyes.

  ‘I’m dying to know what he’s writing, though,’ Bo said, wrapping her scarf around her neck, ‘Scandi-Noir, Ireckon. Surly detectives, bleak landscapes, ruthless serial killers.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a gory account of how he would kill us both and hide the bodies,’ Florence said blithely.

  ‘Chop us up and burn us in the stove,’ Bo said with a grin.

  ‘Or dump us at sea,’ replied Florence, staring at the grey waves in the distance.

  ‘I don’t think he likes us very much, do you?’ Bo asked.

  Florence shrugged. ‘But, you know what, babe?’ she said with a sly grin, ‘When it comes to men, I’ve always liked a challenge.’

  Bo gave a slow, knowing nod as she zipped up her coat, then together they headed back out into the dusky harbour.

  Chapter 13

  Back at the summerhouse, Simon was sitting in the unlit dining room, typing in the blue glow of his laptop. At the sound of the front door opening, he looked around sharply, as if irritated by the interruption.

  ‘Hi,’ Florence said, flicking on the light switch, ‘How’s the writing going?’

  Simon blinked, startled by the light.

  ‘Slowly,’ he replied, turning back to his screen and rubbing his stubbled jaw.

  Bo and Florence exchanged a comradely look and walked past him to the kitchen.

  ‘Cuppa, anyone?’ Florence asked, as Bo set about unpacking the shopping.

  ‘Please,’ Bo murmured, unloading the ingredients for their evening meal into the fridge. Simon seemed not to have heard her.

  ‘Simon?’ Florence repeated, a hint of a challenge in her voice.

  ‘Hmm, sorry, what?’ Simon mumbled, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from his laptop.

  Florence fixed him with a steely look. ‘I said, would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh, okay. Thank you,’ he answered with a martyred sigh, as if the burden of being offered tea was a heavy one.

  Bo continued to empty the shopping bags in silence while Florence, her lips pursed, made tea.

  ‘There you go,’ Florence said crisply a few minutes later, as she placed a mug on the table next to Simon’s laptop.

  Bo wandered through the double doors to the living room, grabbed a magazine from the coffee table, and lowered herself into one of the stylishly ergonomic armchairs. The magazine offered a frothy mix of celebrity gossip and fashion, a combination which Bo usually found irresistible but, on this occasion, nothing i
n its pages held her attention. She found it impossible to muster any enthusiasm for an interview with a reality TV star who had recently split from her love-rat boyfriend, and a feature on Hot Looks for the Office Christmas Party merely reminded her that she would not have an office party to attend this Christmas.

  Bo tossed the magazine back onto the coffee table and picked up her phone, to find an unread message from Kirsten.

  Trying to book a ticket – no seats! Flights cancelled due to storm at Aalborg!

  Bo’s eyes flickered to the window. It was dark outside but she could hear rain billowing past in gales.

  Oh dear. It is a bit stormy here. Hope you can get something soon x

  Bo tried to fight a sinking feeling at the realisation that Kirsten would not be flying out imminently. She longed for her friend to arrive, not least to help ease the tension that was brewing between Florence and Simon.

  At a loss for what else to do, Bo composed another message.

  Hi Hayley. Missing you all. What’s new in the office?

  Her thumb hovered over the send button. She was certain that, with her appetite for high drama, Hayley would welcome the chance to furnish Bo with the latest Aspect gossip. But if the gossip was about Ben and Charlotte, would Bo want to hear it? The grown-up thing to do, unquestionably, would be to delete the message and allow herself time to work out how she felt about Ben. That was, after all, part of the reason for her coming to Denmark in the first place. But, as Bo had discovered on many occasions, doing the grown-up thing did not always come easily to her. With a pulse of dread mingled with excitement, she pressed send.

  Next, she opened her email to see if any of the recruitment agencies had been in touch. They hadn’t, and her email inbox boasted nothing more than a string of sales mailshots exhorting her to take advantage of their limited time only offers. She had only once succumbed to such an offer, signing up for a course of eight stand-up tanning sessions for the price of six at her local beauty spa in the spring.

  She had convinced herself she was getting a bargain, although in reality she had only turned up for one session, having found the experience of stripping to her knickers to stand in a neon-lit cubicle blaring out dance music thoroughly demoralising from start to finish.