by Rosie Blake
‘Please,’ she added. ‘Why have you hung a sheet on the wall?’ She stepped across to it. He had secured a white sheet to the ceiling so it dropped to the floor like the backdrop in a photographer’s studio. Was he doing a photo shoot?
Now he was talking again, but in what sounded like Chinese. She must be hammered. She leaned round him to catch his eye. That was when she saw it, the open laptop on the chest of drawers next to the bed, the screen split into four. Four men staring at her from various offices round the world. A conference call. They all had bemused expressions on their faces.
‘Oh! Hi!’ She waved at the screen; two of the four men lifted a hand in greeting, the other two stared at her stonily. ‘Eek,’ she added to Joe, who had gone completely white, frantically trying to scoot her out of shot.
‘Clara, I’ll just be a moment…’ He leaned down to the screen, ‘Sorry, it’s just, um… housekeeping, in the hotel I’m staying in.’
‘Oh.’ Clara slowly realised he meant her. ‘Housekeeping.’ For some reason she then chose to adopt an accent, picking up a water glass from a side table behind Joe. ‘Oh aye, Mr Alden, sir, och.’ She’d gone for Scottish, she didn’t know why. ‘I’ll be going, och.’ She then bowed at him and walked away.
Joe looked at her aghast as she shrugged at him from near the doorway, hoping she was now out of shot. He turned and said something in Chinese to the screen and one of the men nodded, leaning forward to switch off his monitor. Two of the others soon went dark too, until there was just one man left, a man with a very small head, and shoulders so wide they filled the screen.
‘Tom, I’ll catch up with you in the morning. Sounds like it’s all in hand.’ She could hear the slight tremor in Joe’s voice. Had she messed things up for him? Tom didn’t look that impressed.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Just outside Norwich. You know what it’s like in the sticks. No Hilton here.’ Joe laughed, a short, sharp bark. Clara hadn’t heard the sound before. His shoulders were completely tense beneath his shirt, his neck muscles throbbing as he smiled at the screen.
Finally Tom left and Joe reached across and closed the laptop, sitting with his head in his hands on the bed. Clara didn’t say anything, biting her lip until he looked up at her.
‘Oops,’ she said as he finally caught her eye. ‘So you speak Chinese. That’s very um… impressive.’
‘And you speak… Irish?’
‘Scottish,’ she mumbled.
To her relief, he laughed, a real laugh this time, low and smooth. Maybe all this would be OK.
‘Oh God.’ He rubbed at his eyes, stiffening once more as he looked back at her, perhaps remembering their last exchange earlier that evening. ‘So…’
Clara needed to get the words out, the reason she came, ‘Please come and stay in the flat. I’m sorry about earlier.’ She stared at him as he looked at her, loosening his tie with one hand. Then, nodding stiffly, he moved to put some things in his leather holdall. Reaching behind her into the wardrobe, he pulled out a row of suit bags, folding them over one arm. He nodded at her. ‘OK, I’ll come.’
Clara nodded, a small smile that the first part of the plan had gone seamlessly. Well, sort of seamlessly. She turned to go before he could change his mind, moving down the corridor and heading for the stairs.
They didn’t talk much on the way back, Clara careful to watch the paving stones, walk in a straight line, Joe clearly stumped by this new turn of events. He got out his phone halfway along the road, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Work,’ he announced, turning a little away from her. ‘Need to debrief the team.’ She nodded, looking forward to getting in and downing a large glass of water.
She waited on the edge of the sofa as he finished his call in the corridor downstairs. She had had time to light all the candles in his room and the living room and turn on the lamps, and was feeling woozy and relaxed as she settled back into the sofa. She was excited to see his reaction.
Joe appeared in the flat doorway and immediately turned the overhead light on.
‘Oh.’ Clara blinked, almost falling off the sofa. Lady CaCa started marching up and down her pole, squawking ‘GOOOOOD MORNING VIETNAM’ as if it were 8 a.m. and even Roddy had been roused from his snooze on top of the laundry basket. ‘Could you turn it off again?’ Clara said.
She heard a sigh and a low mutter, but the room was returned to its calm pools of light and flickering shadows on the walls.
‘Quite dark in here,’ Joe mumbled, moving across to his room and disappearing through the door.
Clara watched, held her breath.
He reappeared in the doorway. ‘You lit candles. Lots of them,’ he said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Was it good surprise? Bad?
‘I thought it would help make it more homely, relaxing,’ she said.
He looked back over his shoulder. ‘It’s nice,’ he said, clearly not one to embellish.
She smiled. She would settle for nice.
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Sorry about earlier, but I’m glad you’re here now. I’m off to bed,’ she added, standing up and yawning.
‘I’m going to stay up, emails and things, you know,’ he said, not quite meeting her eye. ‘But yes, um, thanks. I’m glad too.’
‘All right then.’ She moved across to her own room. ‘Well, goodnight,’ she said. ‘Welcome home.’
She scurried into her room, not waiting for his response, and leaned back against the door. This was definitely going to be harder than it looked.
How wonderful to hear that everyone’s talking about the shop. It’s like Clara’s taken it back to all those years ago when people made detours to the village to visit us. I’m so pleased, and you are being an angel looking out for her. Thank you for the gorgeous photos, do keep them coming. I feel I’m there too.
Fuerteventura is proving to be my ideal home and I’ve just rented a room overlooking the harbour. You can sit on the balcony and watch the sunset on the horizon. There’s been a storm out in the Atlantic and the waves rolling in are enormous. It’s thrilling to watch them rise up and then come crashing down so spectacularly on the line of rocks at the mouth of the bay. The noise is something else.
The rocks protect the bay from the worst of the waves and there’s a ladder rather like in a swimming pool leading down into the sea, so on calm days at high tide I just climb down the rungs and dip into the ocean. It’s gloriously refreshing. I might live here forever, eating bream and pretending I’m a painter/writer/lady of the night. Every restaurant seems to serve the most mouth-watering fish dishes, a large glass counter outside to show off the many catches. I always choose the fish with the saddest expression and hope by eating him he might feel more at peace.
What of the pub? Did you go ahead and arrange another quiz night? You shouldn’t be put off by what happened last time: you were quite right to eject her, she had drunk far too much and was entirely wrong. Everyone knows Mary I was the first queen of England. Matilda sounds like an entirely made-up person. Arrange it for a night when Roz won’t come and ruin the whole quiz by questioning your trivia. If you like, I will send you some questions. Firstly, ask people what Simon Cowell’s son is called. It’s Eric. Isn’t that marvellous? He’s so brave. And did you know that Gran Canaria wasn’t named after the canary bird but is from the Latin word for dog? That will sort her out.
Chapter 17
The next few days went by in a blur; Clara would head into the shop looking over at Joe’s bedroom, the door shut, with no idea if he was in there or not. Spotting his car outside as she served customers, looking up and seeing him duck into it, mobile to his ear. In the evenings she baked, storing up treats in tins for when he appeared, leaving him notes, gifts, frustrated to always miss him, just hearing a door edge closed, an electric toothbrush, low muttering as he made yet another phone call in the middle of the night. How could she possibly hygge a man if he was nowhere to be seen?
This morning, though, her mind was full of the shop.
The moment was nearly here, her big idea, in the flesh. She had changed the countdown in the window that morning to a large number 1 and waved at a little boy and his father passing outside. Over the course of the morning she was gratified to see a trickle of people in the shop, and familiar faces passing in the high street beyond. It made her feel more like a part of the village, as opposed to a visitor.
It was the last day working on her surprise and she spent much of it running from the back room to the shop every time she heard the bell on the door, which was happening a lot more often than before. She couldn’t wait to have things up and running the next day, she thought, as she carefully worked on the new sign. The coloured chalk lettering on the board announced her idea in bold, and knowing that it would be placed outside the shop first thing really made it real for her.
The day swept by, and with no one else in the shop to help her, her whole body ached by the time she closed for the day. Still, the room at the back was ready for the big unveil the next day, and she had enlisted Lauren’s help to ensure that all ran smoothly. She felt tired but happy as she stirred some wine into the sauce she had made for dinner. Twisting the peppermill over the bubbling saucepan, she closed her eyes, enjoying the rich smell, the light steam on her face. Joe had returned an hour or so before, moving like a zombie to his room, where she could see him crashed out, shoes still on, face down on the bed. Perhaps it was the smell, but suddenly he was in the doorway, one hand flattening the the hair on the back of his head, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced.
‘Dinner,’ she trilled, knowing that Operation Hygge needed a win.
He looked at the table set with place mats and napkins, a glass filled with spidery branches and curling leaves in the middle, candles dotted around. ‘I don’t normally…’ He really did look grey.
‘What, eat?’ she laughed, placing a large plate on one of the mats.
‘I don’t really have a set dinner time; mostly takeaways or snacks at my desk.’
‘Oh,’ she said, hoping the pity didn’t show too obviously. ‘Well, I made loads,’ she said, careful to be casual.
He hovered over the plate. ‘It does look good,’ he said, slowly lowering himself into a chair.
‘Drink?’ she offered, and he stood bolt upright again. She jumped; he really was the most unrelaxing person.
‘I’ll get them. You sit down. You cooked. What would you like?’ he asked, walking over to the kitchen and staring, rather lost, at the cupboards in front of him.
‘There’s an open bottle of wine in the fridge,’ she said, sitting in the other chair, swallowing the giggle that threatened to bubble over.
He returned with the bottle and poured her a glass. She noticed his hand shaking a little, a splash of wine missing the glass.
It felt good to be sitting opposite someone at the large table. She had always been used to family and friends clustered round for meals. Dinner in Denmark often went on well into the night. Hostessing was what she did best. She loved preparing a meal, laying the table, making the surroundings really beautiful, perhaps with a centrepiece; she missed her Kubus candleholder, but they had yet to design a travel version. She was pleased with the branches and leaves she’d collected on her walk.
‘Pork?’ asked Joe between mouthfuls.
Clara nodded. ‘I slow-cooked it to make it really tender,’ she explained. ‘It was on a low heat throughout the day. It’s a real winter warmer, my m – we used to have it at home,’ she finished, feeling a small stab of pain.
Joe apparently hadn’t heard her, too busy wolfing it down. She had never seen anyone eat that quickly. She supposed she should see it as a compliment to her cooking. She looked down at her own almost-full plate.
Joe was wiping his with a piece of bread as she waited for a word from him, maybe a thank-you. His phone lit up where he’d left it on the table and he scraped back his chair as the buzzing began. ‘Got to take this,’ he said. She felt herself bristle with annoyance as he stood up, meal abandoned, moving back through to his bedroom talking at full volume.
‘I told you to tell me when they called. Don’t tell me you’ve only just heard back from…’
She sat and ate the rest of her dinner listening to him through the thin walls.
‘… so tell Clarke he can’t keep dicking us about if he expects us to be able to go to them with a decent offer. You know the drill…’
She realised he probably wouldn’t return and stood up with a sigh, clearing the table automatically. Plates clashed together so that she had to check them for chips. She washed up quickly with fast circular scrubbing, her hands hot and pink in the suds. She could still hear him talking next door, his voice raised at intervals. She wondered who was on the other end of the phone.
He emerged when she was back in the living room, curled up in the large suede armchair, the lamp on next to her, tea lights lit, deep in the middle of her book, lost in a story set in a coastal village in Devon in the 1950s.
‘Sorry, work call; a deal is about to collapse.’ He rubbed at his temples.
Something about the action and his haggard face made her relent. ‘I made risalamande,’ she said, ‘and there’s hot chocolate in the saucepan.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, looking back at the wiped-down table, the washing-up drying on the side. ‘And for – oh.’ The phone had gone again and Clara was left to smile tightly as he answered it.
‘It’s fine,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘My pleasure.’ He looked across at her, but she didn’t think he’d heard her.
This call was quick, Joe turning his back to hiss some pretty blunt messages down the phone. ‘Well, get him back in. Was I wrong to trust you with this?… No? Then sort it.’ He hung up with a huff.
‘YOU’RE FIRED!’ Lady CaCa screamed from her perch, which seemed pretty appropriate.
Clara was about to get up and head to her room, keen to keep reading and drink her hot chocolate in peace, but Lauren’s words returned to her, the plan to force this man to relax. ‘Hold on, sit there,’ she said, hopping up and pointing to the sofa, which she’d covered in blankets. He walked over to it uncertainly and sat down, feet flat on the floor, back rigid, as if he were waiting in a doctor’s surgery.
Moments later, she carried through a tray holding a steaming hot chocolate and a bowl of the risalamande, a sort of rice pudding topped with cherry sauce. ‘Why don’t you have it here, unwind a bit?’ she said. She noticed with a small flicker of triumph that his eyes had widened as she set the tray down on the table in front of him. She moved across the room and put on one of Louisa’s classical LPs. With the lamps and the flickering candlelight, she knew she had created the perfect hygge home.
She watched him from her spot in the armchair, forgetting to even pretend to turn the pages of her book. He had tasted the chocolate, closing his eyes as the warm liquid went down his throat, and exclaimed over the first mouthful of the pudding. He visibly relaxed, his body sinking backwards onto the blankets, his head resting against the cushions. The music wound around them both, the gentle sound of a flute and the soft chorus of woodwind. She felt her own body unfurl, muscles ease, the food and music lulling her into a sleepy happiness. And then, just as her eyes began to close, the insistent, piercing whine of an alarm shattered the calm.
Roddy shot off the sheepskin rug in front of her to cower under her armchair, Lady CaCa started calling out ‘OH MY GOD, THEY KILLED KENNY!’ on repeat and Joe jumped to his feet, slamming down his empty mug as he did so.
‘What the…’ Clara had spilt chocolate down her front.
‘It’s an alarm,’ Joe said, as if she’d thought it was something else entirely. She was Danish, not stupid.
‘I get that, but why?’ she demanded, dabbing pointlessly at her ruined top.
Joe already had his phone in his hands, brow creased, not looking at her as he replied: ‘It’s to remind me that the New York markets have shut, so I’ll need to call in for an update.’
