Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  Chopping carrots methodically, Simon’s brow furrowed. ‘New Nordic Cuisine?’ he repeated, with a glimmer of scepticism. ‘Isn’t that a fancy way of saying you serve weird stuff like live ants and moss?’

  Emil’s patient smile suggested this was not the first time he had been asked such a question. ‘We have never served live ants, but the restaurant’s ethos is to use native, seasonal ingredients in inventive ways. And yes, we sometimes serve moss in our dishes.’

  Simon looked unconvinced, but Florence said, ‘Well, I think it sounds amazing, babe. And if you’d cooked it I’d eat it, even if it was ants on a bed of moss.’

  ‘Did you always want to be a chef, Emil?’ Bo asked. She was stirring cocoa and melted butter into the bowl, watching as the mixture turned from opaque white to glossy brown.

  ‘I’ve always loved to cook,’ he answered, ‘But, for me, I get most pleasure from cooking like this, for friends.’

  ‘Hygge-cooking, you mean?’ Florence piped up, looking pleased with herself.

  ‘Exactly. In a restaurant, there are lines of command . . . even in Denmark,’ he smiled. ‘You work on your dish, but you don’t know who is eating your food . . . For me, the pleasure is in the process. It is about cooking and talking, and then eating together afterwards.’

  Bo listened thoughtfully, carefully folding in pieces of crushed Daim bar to the mixture. ‘I think I know what you mean, Emil,’ she commented. ‘That’s how I feel about baking, too. I want to see people’s faces when they eat something I’ve baked. Otherwise, what’s the point?’

  She thought, unexpectedly, of the slice of brownie she had taken into the office for Ben, on what had turned out to be the day she was made redundant. She had ended up throwing it in the bin beneath her desk, feeling that it was somehow to blame for everything that had gone wrong that day. This was, she realised, the first time she had baked since she made those chocolate brownies. She was lost in thought for a few moments, then glanced up to see Emil looking at her intently.

  ‘Yes, that’s it exactly,’ he said softly.

  Bo divided the mixture into muffin cases and slid them into the oven. Filling the sink with soapy water, she half-watched Emil at the hob, emptying a bottle of beer over the pork and vegetables, causing the hot pan to hiss and spit. Against her wishes, she found herself comparing him to Ben and the more she thought about it, the more diametrically opposed they seemed. It wasn’t just the fact that Emil loved to cook, whereas Ben was proud of the fact that he struggled to boil an egg. It was something more fundamental than that. Emil seemed more at ease with himself as if he had nothing to prove; with Ben there was always an implicit competitiveness that lurked beneath the surface, the sense that he was forever comparing himself to others, measuring his success against those around him. She realised how much that had put her on edge when they were together and made her feel that she continually had to prove herself worthy of him. It was only now that she was apart from him that she could see how exhausting it had been.

  While the pork cheeks cooked, Simon made tea and they each chose a muffin, still warm from the oven, to take through to the living room. Bo sank into the armchair by the stove, curled her feet up under her and took her first bite. The muffin was gratifyingly soft and fluffy, and the nuggets of butterscotch from the Daim bar added a moreish crunch.

  ‘Oh my God, Bo, that was amazing,’ Florence said, scrunching up her empty muffin case and wiping crumbs from her lips. She was sitting on the sofa beside Simon and looked to him for confirmation.

  He nodded. ‘’s good, Bo,’ he agreed, through his mouthful.

  For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the tapping rain outside, the crackling logs in the fire, and the occasional slurp as they sipped their tea. The aroma of braising pork cheeks drifted through the double doors from the kitchen.

  ‘You know what, I think there might be something in this hygge concept, Emil,’ Bo said, snuggling luxuriantly into the padded curves of the armchair.

  ‘Oh really?’ he replied, and in the low light she could see the flickering flames inside the stove reflected in his glasses.

  ‘Mmm. I mean, admittedly, the weather’s still shit. And all I’ve really done since I arrived here is loll around in front of the fire. And sleep. And eat pastries. But I have to admit, there’s something quite cosy and relaxing about it.’

  She stared into the fire, suddenly overcome by a profound weariness. She felt like five years of accumulated activity, the relentlessness of her daily commute and frenetic lifestyle in London, were all giving way to an overwhelming need to slow down and just . stop. But if she allowed herself to stop, Bo wondered, would she ever want to start again?

  Across the room, Simon was stretched out on the sofa. Beside him, Florence had kicked her slippers off and turned sideways, her knees tucked under her chin, her bare feet resting on the leather cushion.

  Florence scanned the room, a slight scowl on her brow. ‘Honestly, look at us all. It’s like an old people’s home in here,’ she joked.

  ‘It’s hygge, Florence,’ Simon said sleepily, without lifting his head from the cushion he had propped under his neck. ‘It’s the Danish way. Don’t try and fight it. When in Rome, and all that.’

  Florence frowned and looked at her watch. ‘Tell you what, we’ve got time for a game before the pork’s ready. Who’s up for it?’ she looked around hopefully.

  Bo let out a long, low groan. ‘No more Scrabble, please,’ she wailed.

  ‘Fine. I’ll go and see what else is in the cupboard,’ Florence said, springing up from the sofa and walking through the double doors. The others listened as the door to the under-stairs cupboard creaked open.

  ‘There’s Monopoly,’ Florence shouted. Bo winced. Monopoly, in her experience, was even worse than Scrabble for taking so long that it outlasted its enjoyability quotient by several hours. ‘Cluedo? You might like that one, Simon. It could give you some ideas for your Scandi-murder-mystery.’ Simon tutted and rolled his eyes.

  Florence peered around the doorway and assumed a hokey accent: ‘Eet was Herre Johansson, in dee billiards rumm, wid dee lead pipping.’

  Bo giggled. ‘Was that meant to be a Danish accent, Florence?’ she asked. ‘It sounded kind of Italian. With a touch of Afrikaans thrown in.’

  Simon had covered his face with his hands in embarrassment. ‘Someone stop her!’ he pleaded.

  Florence disappeared back inside the cupboard. ‘The only other game in here,’ she called dubiously, ‘is something called Dald0s. It’s got some weird rectangular dice and a thing that looks like a toy boat full of holes.’

  ‘You’re really selling it to us,’ Simon said archly.

  Emil laughed. ‘Yes, I know Dald0s. I used to play it all the time with my brother. Unfortunately, it is a game for two players only.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Florence said briskly, sliding the pieces back inside their cardboard box. ‘Well, in that case, there’s nothing else for it.’ Florence slammed the cupboard door shut, and they watched her stride purposefully past the doorway towards the kitchen, reappearing a moment later brandishing a bunch of pens and the pad of Post-its.

  ‘It’ll have to be the Post-it game.’ She waved the orange pad at them.

  ‘I’m up for that,’ Bo said, sitting up in her chair. This was more her sort of game, something silly and fun, which didn’t involve brainpower and waiting ages for other people to take their turn.

  Florence handed out pens and Post-its and they each scribbled a name, shielding their writing like schoolchildren guarding their answers during a test.

  Florence turned to Simon. ‘No peeking!’ she warned, pressing the sticky note to his forehead. Jack Nicholson in The Shining it read, in her messy scrawl. Bo knelt up on the seat of her chair and leaned across to Emil, who had helpfully removed his glasses so that she could attach the Post-it to his head.

  ‘Your turn,’ Emil said, and she pulled her hair away her face. She could feel the warmth of his finger
tips through the paper and when she opened her eyes she saw he was smiling at her, but what could have been an intimate moment was rendered faintly comical by the fact that he had Caitlyn Jenner emblazoned across his forehead. Bo giggled and turned to Florence, who now had Miss Marple flapping against the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ Florence asked, clapping her hands together, ‘I’ll go first.’

  *

  ‘Oh, give it up, Simon, you’re such a poor loser,’ Florence chided. They were sitting around the table, eating the braised pork cheeks and mash and drinking wine which they had bought to accompany it. Bo had found more tealights in a kitchen drawer and arranged them in a line, creating a column of dancing flames down the middle of the table.

  ‘I am not a poor loser,’ Simon said through a clenched jaw. ‘I’m just pointing out that the rules of the Post-it game –’ Florence opened her mouth to protest but he continued to speak over her, ‘– and yes, there are rules,’ Florence closed her mouth and folded her arms, making a show of allowing him to finish.

  ‘The rules state,’ he went on pedantically, Scrabble face firmly in place, ‘that you choose a name which is either a character from a film or TV show, or — he paused for emphasis, ‘the name of a real person.’ Florence stared at him defiantly.

  ‘Jack Nicholson in The Shining combines both the actor and the character and is therefore, technically, in breach of the rules.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Simon, do shut up about your bloody rules,’ Florence said tetchily. ‘I couldn’t remember his character’s name in the film, that’s all. And you got there in the end, didn’t you? Admittedly it did take you about three times as many questions as the rest of us.’ Simon shook his head despairingly. ‘Besides,’ Florence continued, ‘your pity party is distracting attention from the rightful winner. Isn’t that right, Taylor Swift?’ Florence raised her glass in a toast to Bo, who nodded graciously.

  They returned to their food, using chunks of rye bread to mop up the last of the sauce. There was a lull in the conversation, during which Bo noticed that the pattering rain, which had been continuous since she had woken up, had ceased. She looked up and stared into the middle distance.

  ‘What’s up, babe?’ Florence asked, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘I think the rain’s stopped,’ Bo said. She stood up and went over to the window, peering round the edge of the blind. ‘Look at that!’ she exclaimed, as excited as a little girl looking for Father Christmas. ‘A clear sky!’ A fat, silver moon hung in the inky sky, which was streaked with stars. She looked back over her shoulder excitedly. ‘If its stays dry tomorrow, we might even get to see the sun.’

  Later, as they were washing up in the kitchen, Bo turned to Emil. ‘So how hyggeligt has today been, on a scale of one to ten?’

  ‘Ten, definitely,’ Emil replied.

  Bo found herself inclined to agree.

  Chapter 15

  Bo steadied the tray of muffins which was balanced precariously on the upturned fingertips of her left hand. In her other she clutched her phone. She was expecting an important call and kept glancing at the screen as she waited for the pedestrian lights to change. With the flashing green man, she started to walk, breaking into a run upon realising that she was going to be late for the meeting. She weaved between the sour-faced commuters on Oxford Street towards the Aspect office, doing her best to keep the muffins from falling from the tray onto the pavement. At the office she forced her way into the meeting room, to find Ben and Emil playing Scrabble at the table. ‘Oh, hi, Blu-ray,’ Ben said, ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Shit,’ Bo mumbled, waking from the dream with a start, disturbed by the lingering image of Ben and Emil playing Scrabble together. She flopped back onto her pillow and waited for her heart to stop racing. It took a few moments for her to register that sunlight was slanting into her room around the edges of the window blind. She clambered out of bed and staggered over to the window to yank open the blind.

  ‘Wow,’ she murmured, peering out through the glass. A bright blue sky filled the gaps between the rooftops and, in the distance, the sea sparkled.

  Downstairs, sunshine poured in through the window onto the kitchen table where the others were eating breakfast. Conversation quickly turned to their plans for the day.

  ‘Have you ever seen the Rabjerg Mile?’ Emil asked. His question was greeted by blank looks. ‘The Danish Desert,’ he elaborated. ‘It’s a sand dune that has blown inland from the coast. You will want to see it. Trust me.’ There was a general murmur of agreement.

  ‘I’d like to see the sea, too, if there’s time,’ Bo said.

  ‘We should be able to do both. Does Pernille still keep bikes here?’ Emil asked. ‘I think so,’ Florence replied, rifling through one of the kitchen drawers and pulling out a bunch of keys. She stuffed her feet inside her boots, grabbed her coat and went out onto the terrace to open up the shed.

  ‘I think I might take a look, too,’ Simon announced authoritatively, rising from the table to follow her. ‘I know a bit about bikes.’

  The back door slammed shut behind Simon, and Bo found herself alone with Emil.

  ‘Would you like a tea?’ Bo asked, staring at the kettle self-consciously, irrationally concerned that her face might give reveal to Emil that she had been dreaming about him.

  ‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ he replied, his blue eyes crinkling.

  She made two teas and carried one over to where he was sitting at the table. As he took it from her, his hand brushed against hers and she turned away to hide the blush she knew was rising in her cheeks. For God’s sake Bo, get a grip, she thought, inwardly cursing the dream which seemed to have rendered her as bashful as a schoolgirl. To spare herself further mortification she walked over to the window. On the terrace, Simon was hunched over one of the upturned bikes, fiddling with its chain. Florence was standing beside him, arms folded, wearing a look of impatience.

  ‘They’re getting like an old married couple, those two,’ Bo observed wryly. Emil rose from his chair and came over to look, standing close behind Bo, so that she could almost feel his breath on the back of her head. Simon squeezed the bike’s tyres then turned it the right way up, before moving onto the second bike. With an exasperated shake of her head, Florence turned and stomped back towards the house.

  The back door swung open and Florence came inside, pink-cheeked and shivering. ‘Simon’s checking the bikes for roadworthiness,’ she muttered.

  Once Simon was satisfied that the bikes were up to par, they put on their coats and boots and packed some food in a rucksack. Pulling her woolly gloves out of her coat pocket, Bo discovered she had forgotten to dry them out after their walk to the supermarket, and they were bunched up together in a mildewy ball.

  ‘Urgh,’ she groaned, pulling them apart to sniff the slightly sheepy odour of the damp wool.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Emil said. He bounded upstairs and she heard his footsteps through the ceiling as he ran down the hallway and into his room. A couple of minutes later he reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You can borrow these, if you like. They’re spares,’ he said, handing her a pair of waterproof, insulated gloves.

  They wheeled the bikes down the garden path, climbed onto their saddles then cycled in convoy through the quiet residential streets to pick up the main road heading south. Bo had not ridden a bike since leaving university. Cycling on the capital’s fume-filled roads, at the mercy of impatient taxi drivers and diesel-belching buses, had never tempted her. But the flat, empty roads of Northern Jutland seemed purpose-built for cycling and, pedalling along behind Emil, her heart pumping, Bo felt a child-like sense of exhilaration.

  About a mile out of town, a wall of white sand about forty feet high rose dramatically out of the flat, grassy scrubland. Emil pulled over at the side of the road and dismounted.

  ‘This is Rabjerg,’ he said, with a hint of patriotic pride.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Florence, propping her bike against a bench. ‘
How could I not have noticed this before?’

  ‘You need to see the view from the top,’ Emil urged.

  They left their bikes by the bench and began to scramble up the side of the dune. The fine white sand gave way underfoot so they held hands, like a crocodile of nursery children, to keep themselves from slipping down the steep bank. Bo was at the back, clutching Emil’s gloved hand tightly, struggling to keep up as the sand seeped into her boots.

  When they reached the crest of the dune, a gust of wind made Bo squeeze her eyes shut to keep out the sand that swirled through the air, settling on her lips and coating her skin like a layer of dust. Turning her back to the wind, she gingerly opened her eyes and looked around. They were on the highest point for miles around. In the distance were the red rooftops of Skagen, the warehouses and trawlers at the port, and the glistening blue-grey sea beyond. Several tributaries snaked across the grassy scrubland out to sea, and she counted five lighthouses along the coastline. Simon took a camera out of his pocket and began to photograph the view.

  ‘This is amazing!’ Florence shouted. ‘It’s like a beach that’s been dumped in the wrong place.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is,’ Emil laughed. ‘The dune has been blowing inland from the coast for hundreds of years, and it’s still moving.’ He pointed to a white stone structure with a stepped gable roof on a distant patch of scrubland. ‘See that?’ he asked and they all turned to follow his eye line. ‘That’s den Tilsandede Kirke –the buried church. It was abandoned after it was buried by sand. Now all that remains is the top of the tower.’

  They walked along the crest of the dune until their boots were so full of sand that it was almost impossible to walk, then they half ran, half slid back down the slope to the grassy bank by the road. It was like playing in a giant sandpit and Bo had a childlike urge to shriek and roll sideways down the hill to the bottom. Once back on solid ground, they shook the sand off their clothes and out of their hair then removed their boots, tipping them sideways to send white sand cascading onto the ground.