Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

Florence shrugged. ‘I haven’t done anything, babe, I promise,’ she replied, pretending to be affronted. ‘Besides, I could ask you the same question,’ she added drily. ‘No need to ask what happened between you and Emil at Grenen.’

  Bo smiled bashfully. ‘I hadn’t planned it, it just sort of . . . happened,’ she stammered.

  ‘Don’t worry, babe, I’m not judging,’ Florence reassured her. ‘How romantic. Having your first kiss under the northern lights . . .’ She clutched her hands in front of her chest and made a swooning movement.

  Bo looked away, grateful that her flushed cheeks were invisible in the dark. ‘It was romantic,’ she agreed, ‘but I’m not sure what happens next. He’s going back to Copenhagen tomorrow.’

  A silence followed, during which Bo felt her eyes begin to prickle. Florence sighed and stepped closer to loop her arm through Bo’s. ‘I know what you mean, babe,’ she murmured sympathetically. ‘But hey, you’ve still got tonight,’ she said, with a meaningful nudge.

  The mood at dinner was subdued. Although none of them mentioned it out loud, they all knew that this was to be their last evening together as a four. With music playing softly in the background, they ate Simon’s pork and fennel stew in the flickering candlelight.

  ‘This is delicious, Simon,’ Bo said.

  ‘I think the black bits definitely add a certain something, don’t they?’ Simon replied drily.

  Beside him, Florence rolled her eyes. ‘There aren’t any black bits, babe,’ she reassured him in a faintly exasperated voice. ‘Emil sorted it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Still tastes burnt, though,’ he muttered darkly. The others murmured their disagreement but Simon looked unconvinced.

  ‘We’ll all have to come to your restaurant one day, Emil, don’t you think?’ Florence said brightly.

  ‘I would love that,’ Emil remarked, and as he said it he smiled at Bo.

  Bo’s heart lurched, but she said nothing. Since she and Emil had set off for Grenen, she had forced herself to focus only on the present moment. The future held nothing but uncertainty, and it was as if she had pulled down the shutters in her mind to exclude everything but the here and now. She knew that real life– by which she meant London, unemployment, Ben – was lurking at the edge of her consciousness. She was doing her best to ignore it, just as she had ignored her phone, which had remained switched off in her bedroom all day. Real life meant disappointment, and hurt, and guilt. She knew she could not avoid it forever, but she was not ready to face it yet.

  Real life would have to wait.

  *

  The morning light slanted in through the window, casting a rectangle of light across the narrow bed. Bo’s body was tucked neatly alongside Emil’s, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder.

  ‘What time do you have to leave?’ she whispered sleepily.

  ‘There’s a train at eleven,’ he answered, tenderly stroking his fingers through her hair. She raised her head and glanced at the watch propped on the edge of the desk beside Emil’s metal-framed glasses. At most they had a couple more hours together. She felt a shiver of apprehension, as if the outside world was trying to intrude.

  ‘Tell me about your life in Copenhagen,’ she said, propping her head up on her elbow. She felt a sudden urgency to find out as much as she could about him, not to waste the little time they had left together.

  Emil’s turned his head to look at her, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Everything,’ she said, her face earnest, until the absurdity of her words hit her and she dropped back onto the pillow with a groan.

  ‘At the moment, the restaurant is my life,’ he answered ruefully. ‘I work every evening and weekend.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very hyggeligt,’ Bo said.

  ‘It’s not,’ he agreed.

  ‘Where will you be for Christmas?’ she asked, feeling a stab of concern that he might be spending it alone, or working.

  ‘I will probably visit my dad in Aarhus,’ Emil answered. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be at my mum and dad’s.’ Bo was aware of the sinking feeling at the thought of yet another Christmas in Buckinghamshire, with all the frustrations that entailed, but then she reminded herself of Emil’s circumstances. You’re lucky. Be grateful, she told herself sternly.

  ‘And what about Ben, will you be seeing him when you get back to London?’

  Bo shivered, as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. Emil was looking at her intently, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes – fear, or jealousy perhaps. She angled her face away from his.

  ‘You read his text, I take it?’ she whispered.

  ‘I didn’t mean to, but yes,’ he said. ‘Ben is your boyfriend, I guess?’ he said.

  Bo exhaled slowly. ‘Yes, well, sort of. It’s complicated.’ It was a question she had tried her best to avoid thinking about. ‘The truth is, I’m not sure, and I don’t think he is, either,’ she said at last, aware that as answers went, it was hardly satisfactory. But it was the truth. Just as she had never felt fully certain whether she and Ben were a couple, she now found there was just as little clarity in her mind about whether they had broken up.

  She squeezed her eyes tight shut and tried to repress the childlike voice that was forming in her head, protesting that she didn’t want to go back to the life she had left behind in London, the angst and insecurity, the constant feeling that she wasn’t sure where she stood about anything and that she was faking being an adult. How she longed to stay here in the cosy summerhouse, with the tall fair-haired Danish man lying in bed next to her. Somehow everything seemed simpler with Emil, more straightforward, as if there was no need for her to pretend she was something she wasn’t. But Emil would return to Copenhagen in a couple of hours and she would be back in London in a few days. Whatever her feelings for Emil might be, it wasn’t as if anything could come of this. Could it?

  A little later, they went downstairs to find Simon and Florence in the dining room, waiting to say goodbye. The taxi had pulled up outside, its engine idling. Emil held out his hand to Simon, who pulled him into a bear hug.

  ‘See you later, mate,’ Simon said, patting Emil firmly on the back.

  ‘Goodbye, Simon,’ Emil replied fondly.

  ‘Bye, Emil,’ Florence said, stepping forward to throw her arms around him. ‘We’ll see you in Copenhagen. At your restaurant,’ she said authoritatively. ‘Best table in the house, please.’

  ‘I told you, it’s not my restaurant,’ he reminded her, laughing, ‘But I will make sure you get a nice table.’

  Outside, the taxi by the front gate beeped its horn. Florence and Simon moved discreetly aside and Bo rose up onto her tiptoes and put her arms around Emil’s neck.

  ‘Goodbye, Boughay,’ he said, and she felt his breath on her hair.

  There was so much she wanted to say but now the moment had come, her throat felt tight and she found it difficult to speak.

  ‘You should go,’ she mumbled into his shoulder, finally. As they pulled apart, she stared hard at the zip on his jacket, willing herself not cry. He swung his rucksack over his shoulder and grabbed the handle of his suitcase.

  ‘Oh, don’t forget these!’ she exclaimed, reaching into her coat pockets for the gloves he had loaned her. She held them out towards him and he stared at them for a moment.

  ‘Don’t worry, you keep them. You will need them while you’re here,’ he said.

  She stood on the doorstep, watching him walk down the path. Low clouds scudded overhead, and the wind had picked up, threatening rain. He placed his suitcase in the boot then climbed inside the taxi. Florence and Simon came to stand beside her, and they all waved as the taxi pulled away.

  Once the taxi had finally disappeared from view. Florence took a step closer and put her arm around Bo’s shoulder.

  ‘You all right, babe?’ she asked solicitously. Bo nodded, staring hard at the point where the taxi had van
ished.

  ‘What a lovely guy. I’m going to miss him,’ Florence said, rubbing Bo’s arm.

  ‘Me too,’ Bo whispered, wiping away the single tear which had begun to roll down her cheek.

  *

  Bo couldn’t settle to anything for the rest of the morning. She sensed Florence and Simon’s concern, their discreet attempts to try to work out whether she wanted to be alone or in company. The truth was, she just wanted to mope, to give free rein to the bittersweet feelings of elation and agony which had been fighting for dominance inside her.

  Eventually, thinking that if she spent any more time cooped up indoors she might scream, she pulled on her coat and headed into Skagen. She hoped that a walk in the fresh air might clear her head and give her respite from her inner turmoil, but the more she walked, the more she was plagued by the conviction that she had let something potentially wonderful slip away.

  Dusk was falling when she got back to the summerhouse, and Bo felt comforted by the sight of light glowing invitingly behind the window blinds as she walked up the path.

  When she opened the door, it took a moment to register that there were three people sitting around the table.

  Florence, seated next to Simon, looked up and smiled.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ replied Bo automatically.

  The woman sitting opposite them twisted in her chair and beamed at her.

  ‘Surprise!’ Kirsten shouted. ‘I made it, at last. What have I missed?’

  Bo stared at her friend and tried to arrange her face into a smile, but instead she found herself bursting into tears.

  Part Three

  London

  Chapter 17

  Bo opened the front door and breathed in the cool, stale air inside the flat.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ Kirsten sighed, heaving her suitcase across the threshold.

  Bo stooped to gather the messy pile of leaflets, letters and free newspapers which had accumulated on the doormat during their absence. Looking down the hall, she saw the flat with fresh eyes; had the ceilings always been so low? The woodchipped walls so grubby? The summerhouse popped into her mind, with its clean, spacious rooms, tasteful lighting and elegantly designed furniture, and she felt a shiver of shame for the shabbiness of her home.

  The journey back from Denmark had been long; their flight had been delayed, and Bo had found herself sinking further and further into gloomy despondency with every hour that passed. She was flying back to uncertainty and confusion on both the personal and professional fronts. Rather than clearing her head about Ben, her time in Skagen had merely added a new layer of complication to her love life, in the form of Emil. She had travelled to Denmark feeling unsure of where she stood with one man; she was returning unsure of where she stood with two. And then there was the small matter of finding a job . . .

  The bump of the plane’s wheels touching down on the runway at Gatwick brought with it a jolt of dread, and a faint nausea about what lay ahead. So much for being a grown-up, she thought, as she and Kirsten edged along the seating aisle to disembark from the plane.

  Bo shoved the detritus from the doormat onto the hall shelf and yawned.

  ‘Tea?’ she asked, unzipping her coat and heading for the kitchen.

  ‘Love one, but we won’t have any milk,’ Kirsten replied, unlacing her boots.

  Bo groaned and turned back towards the front door. ‘I’ll just pop out and get some,’ she said, grabbing her keys.

  The afternoon light was fading as she climbed up the stone steps to the pavement. It was early December and several houses on the street were draped in fairy lights, or had Christmas trees twinkling in the window. The festive decor felt incongruent with the mild weather London had been experiencing thus far: leaves still clung to tree branches, and a blackbird trilled from a rooftop as Bo walked past. It was positively summery compared to the rawness of the Danish weather, and it felt almost as if nature itself was reluctant to acknowledge that Christmas was coming. Bo felt the same way, and at the corner shop she bought milk, a loaf of cheap sliced bread and a large box of Maltesers, but ignored the display of mince pies and Advent calendars by the till.

  Back at the flat, Bo and Kirsten sank onto the tartan sofa, with the open box of Maltesers on the faded cushion between them. In the glare of the overhead lights, Bo sipped her tea and let her eyes wander around the living room, taking in the dusty grate in the unused fireplace, the peeling woodwork around the windows and the ugly glass dining table and plastic chairs. There was nothing hyggeligt about being home, she thought morosely.

  Beside her, Kirsten was efficiently sorting the post into three neat piles on the sofa arm: one for herself, another for Bo, and a third for junk. The junk pile was by far the largest, forming a messy tower of pizza menus and estate agents’ flyers. She handed Bo a small wedge of envelopes, rested her feet on the coffee table and popped a Malteser into her mouth.

  ‘Pleased to be back?’ Kirsten asked, crunching the Malteser between her teeth.

  Bo leaned back against the sofa cushion and stared at the long crack in the ceiling which snaked from the overhead light to the cornicing above the window.

  ‘Not really,’ she answered, honestly.

  Kirsten took a slurp of tea. ‘Missing Skagen already?’ Then, after a pause she added quietly, ‘Or missing Emil, perhaps?’

  *

  They had spent Kirsten’s first evening at the summerhouse in the living room, sipping wine in front of the fire while Simon and Florence cooked dinner. Bo had tearfully described what had happened in the days prior to Kirsten’s arrival. Kirsten had listened in slack-jawed amazement to Bo’s account of Emil’s unexpected appearance in the summerhouse, their growing intimacy during the day out at Rabjerg and Albaek, and the dramatic denouement of their embrace under the Northern Lights.

  ‘Bloody hell, Bo! You packed a lot into a few days, didn’t you?’ Kirsten observed, with evident admiration.

  Bo cringed. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

  ‘I can’t believe I missed all the fun,’ Kirsten complained. ‘And to think I missed Emil by just a few hours. I haven’t seen him since we were kids.’ There was genuine regret in her tone. She took a sip of wine, then added with a fondly nostalgic air, ‘I snogged his brother once, when I was fourteen,’ prompting Bo to giggle, in spite of herself.

  The sound of Florence and Simon bickering in the kitchen wafted through the double doors.

  ‘They seem like a nice couple,’ Kirsten said.

  ‘They say opposites attract,’ Bo replied with an amused shrug. When she mentioned, as an afterthought, that Florence and Simon had been strangers when they arrived at the summerhouse, Kirsten had slapped her forehead in disbelief.

  ‘They must be putting something in the water around here!’ she exclaimed.

  Simon flew home on Saturday, and Florence left the following day, so by the end of the weekend Kirsten and Bo had the house to themselves. Although she tried to hide it, with the others gone, Bo felt a sense of anti-climax. The summerhouse felt empty and quiet, and Bo missed Florence’s bubbly presence and Simon’s dry sense of humour.

  More than anything else, though, she missed Emil. It was as if the summerhouse was torturing her with memories: wherever she went, images of Emil popped into her mind. She saw him cooking at the kitchen counter, or sprawled out on the sofa reading, or pouring schnapps at the table. Her anguish was compounded by a paralysing uncertainty about what would happen now that he had gone. What was the grown-up way to handle what had happened between them?

  She had texted Emil shortly after his departure, wishing him a good trip. He had not replied until late in the evening, saying it had been a pleasure to meet her and hoping she enjoyed the rest of her stay in Skagen. The wording of his message had struck Bo as courteous but formal, and she wondered if its slightly detached tone signalled an emotional withdrawal, or a regret for what had happened between them.

  Kirsten had dismissed her concerns and tried
to convince her that something had got lost in translation in the text message.

  ‘He’s probably just tired, Bo,’ she said encouragingly. But once the seed of doubt had been planted, Bo found herself unable to stop herself nursing it into a full-blown crisis.

  She had to consider the possibility that it had been mere chance that had thrown her and Emil together – she had just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and he had turned to her for comfort when he had no one else. She recalled the desolate beauty of the beach at Grenen, the crashing waves on the sandbar, his mother’s ashes glinting in the pink light. They had seen the Northern Lights together, for goodness’ sake! Was it any wonder they got carried away by the romance of it all?

  Her last few days in Skagen were characterised by contradictory feelings of longing to see Emil again, whilst at the same time desperately wanting to escape the summerhouse and all its bittersweet memories of him.

  Now that she was back home in London, however, it felt almost as if everything that had happened in Skagen had been a dream. Maybe the grown-up response would be to acknowledge that what happened with Emil had been a fling, a holiday romance; fun while it lasted, but destined to fizzle out once real life had resumed.

  Bo’s rather maudlin reverie was interrupted by the sound of Kirsten crunching a Malteser on the sofa next to her.

  ‘Do you think you might go over to visit Emil. In Copenhagen?’ Kirsten probed, as if she had been reading Bo’s mind.

  ‘Who knows,’ Bo replied.

  Not wanting to be drawn on the subject of Emil, Bo distracted herself by going through her mail. She ignored the credit card bills and bank statements in favour of a white envelope with a central London postmark, which she tore open with a feeling of apprehension.

  ‘My P45’s arrived,’ she said bluntly, placing the slip on the sofa arm and unfolding the accompanying letter. ‘And my severance package has been finalised,’ Bo read, ‘The money should be transferred in the next few days.’

  ‘Drinks are on you, then?’ Kirsten teased.