Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  Soon a month had passed, then another. Bo had accompanied Ben to the launches of bars and restaurants in all the trendier parts of London, sampling dining concepts which ran the gamut from ‘nose-to-tail eating’ (featuring an unpleasantly high proportion of offal) to raw cuisine (lots of wheatgrass and uncooked vegetables). Bo threw herself into each experience with enthusiasm, relishing the feeling that, not only was she enjoying the best that London’s culinary scene had to offer, but that she was doing so with a good-looking, charmingly attentive companion.

  Bo was in no doubt that Ben liked her: she could see the way his eyes lit up when she removed her coat to reveal a tight-fitting dress, and there was no question that they got on well, never running out of conversation, whether it was their opinions on the food or venue, or gossip about work. Her only reservation was that, in spite of the fun they had together, Ben seemed stubbornly reluctant to make their relationship public.

  The element of office subterfuge had added a certain frisson to the early phase of their romance – meeting in secret outside the office after work; surreptitious messages on the company intranet; the thrill Bo felt when Ben casually brushed past her in the kitchen. But by the time they had been seeing each other for three months (a period of time which Bo had always considered to be an unofficial relationship milestone), the novelty of conducting a secret office romance had begun to wear off. Any pleasure that she had derived from deceiving her colleagues had long since evaporated, and Bo found the need for secrecy impractical, inconvenient and immature.

  But when she raised the issue, at a pop-up restaurant in the shadow of London Bridge one night in April, Ben’s boyish features assumed a tortured expression, making her feel like a critical mother unfairly chastising a small child. He placed his drink on the table and, in a low, confiding tone explained that he had been in a relationship with a colleague at his previous employer, a fellow account manager who had turned out to be needy and controlling, and she had begun bad-mouthing Ben to their colleagues when the relationship turned sour. He had ended up leaving the company to get away from her.

  ‘I guess I got my fingers burnt,’ he said, reaching over to sweep away a stray curl that had fallen in front of Bo’s face. ‘I swore I’d never date anyone from work again. But then I met you . . .’ He gave her a coy smile, and took her hand in his. This time, he wanted to keep office politics out of it, he explained. Ben had chosen his words carefully, and Bo had felt flattered by the implication that, unlike his ex, she was not needy and controlling.

  ‘Don’t worry, I get it,’ Bo reassured him, squeezing his hand. And, in that moment, she did.

  Nevertheless, when Bo was alone, she found that her niggling doubts returned. She sought Kirsten’s opinion one night, over a bowl of pasta and a bottle of wine in the flat.

  ‘Do you think it’s weird that he still doesn’t want anyone to know about us?’ she said. Kirsten narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. As a recently qualified solicitor, she liked to reserve judgement until she knew the relevant facts.

  ‘How long have you been seeing each other?’ she asked.

  ‘Three months.’

  Kirsten nodded. ‘What’s his relationship status on Facebook?’

  ‘Single,’ Bo said morosely, pushing a piece of soggy pasta around her bowl.

  ‘Hmm,’ Kirsten replied, sensing her friend’s disappointment. ‘Maybe he’s just not ready for something serious yet,’ she said gently.

  ‘I’m not expecting him to propose,’ Bo protested, refilling her wine glass. ‘Just to acknowledge that we’re a couple. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Of course you’re a couple!’ Kirsten riposted. ‘You’re always out with him –’

  ‘Yes, but all we ever do together is eat out then go back to his place!’ Bo cut in, her eyes gleaming with frustration. Kirsten’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Food and sex. Sounds like a perfectly sound basis for a relationship to me. What’s your point?’

  Bo sighed and took a gulp of wine. She was beginning to feel like she was being cross-examined in court and her defence was crumbling. ‘Don’t you think it’s just all a bit too much . . . fun?’ she pleaded. Kirsten considered her friend thoughtfully across the rim of her wine glass.

  ‘You’re worried because you’re having too much fun?’ Kirsten repeated, with a puzzled smile.

  ‘Well, no, of course not,’ Bo replied exasperatedly. ‘It’s just – don’t you think it’s weird that we don’t ever do any of the normal stuff couples do, like spend an evening in front of the TV, or go to the supermarket together. And he’s never once spent a night here.’ Kirsten inclined her head in acknowledgement. She had often hoped for an opportunity to meet the elusive Ben for herself, but Bo had never managed to persuade him to come back to N7.

  ‘The older I get, the further away from a grown-up relationship I seem to be,’ Bo said dejectedly. ‘Do you remember Miles? Can you believe we actually used to talk about getting married?’ Kirsten slapped her forehead in mock despair. Miles had been a boy Bo spent (or ‘wasted’ as she now realised) her final year at university dating: an English Literature student who had excellent bone structure, was sensitive and thoughtful, and had ultimately turned out to be gay. (He had broken the news to her as they sat in a minibus en route to their graduation ball). Kirsten had borne witness to the relationship and its abrupt, mortifying ending.

  ‘I rest my case!’ Kirsten shrieked. ‘Just think what your life would have been like if you had married Miles.’ Bo winced.

  ‘But the fact remains, the only man who has ever expressed a remote interest in wanting to marry me was gay!’

  ‘So what?’ Kirsten shot back with a derisory snort. ‘You’re twenty-six, Bo! Too young to get married. And you’re having fun with Ben, aren’t you? Just enjoy it.’

  Bo agreed, in theory, that she was too young to get married, and she couldn’t deny she was having fun with Ben. But there remained a part of her which believed that a relationship should follow a certain trajectory, and that if two people enjoyed each other’s company as much as she and Ben did, the natural next step was to become more involved in each other’s day-to-day lives. And that could only happen if their relationship was public knowledge.

  She knew that it was perfectly normal for millennials to have relationships which didn’t conform to traditional patterns. Most of their friends, Kirsten had reminded her, were involved in romantic dalliances which did not fit the conventional ‘couple’ mould: variations on the ‘friends with benefits’ set-up, or the emotional minefield offered by Tinder. But, much as she tried to tell herself that what she had with Ben was perfectly compatible with the millennial mindset, the lingering suspicion persisted that something was missing from their relationship and that Ben was reluctant to commit. At least, reluctant to commit to her.

  Bo’s doubts persisted, but she kept them quiet from Ben, feeling that it would be somehow unreasonable to challenge him. He had been honest and open about his reasons for keeping their relationship secret, after all, and perhaps it would be immature or needy of her to complain. So, rather than voice her concerns to Ben, she had silently nursed them into a full-blown grudge that he was dictating the terms of their relationship to suit his own needs rather than hers.

  Bo’s growing ill-feeling was not helped by Ben’s tendency to flirt with other women in front of her. Her heart would sink whenever a pretty waitress approached their table, as she knew that Ben would be unable to resist engaging the girl in mildly flirtatious banter about where she was from, how long she had worked there, and so on. The boyish smile on his face suggested he considered his behaviour charming, but Bo found it tedious and irritating. His repartee with the payroll women in the office kitchen that Monday was a case in point. Bo knew that she had no reason to feel threatened by his flirtatiousness with Becky and Alison, and – that he was no more likely to date either of them than he was to date Tess Daly – but she suspected that the real purpose of the exchange had been to make her feel jealous: hi
s way of reminding her that he was in control.

  Bo cursed her own complicity in his behaviour. The truth was she had chosen to put up with Ben’s flaws because the alternative – singledom, and finding herself back on the dating scene, perhaps even reactivating the dreaded Tinder – seemed infinitely worse. Her frustration was as much with herself as it was with Ben, so she berated her shallowness and lack of resolve as soon as the lure of a new cocktail bar was dangled in front of her.

  When Friday arrived, the bad mood which had been festering all week was exacerbated by having to sit through a particularly boring meeting with her team. The marketing department was preparing for an upcoming trade-fair, at which Bo would be responsible for greeting the hundreds of delegates who would mill through the draughty conference centre over the course of the day, encouraging them to take a leaflet and Aspect-branded pen, before shepherding them towards one of the suited techies for a software demonstration. The very thought of it filled her with bone-crushing boredom.

  The hours dragged by until finally it was six o’clock, and around the office people began switching off their computers and putting on their coats. Bo stayed at her desk, pretending to be busy at her keyboard until quarter past six, when the rest of her team had made their farewells and she was able to slip to the Ladies to fix her hair and make-up without having to submit to their chatty queries about what her plans were for the evening. Ten minutes later, she slipped out of the office to catch the tube to Farringdon. Ben had been out all day with a client, and she was to meet him at the bar.

  It was a blustery, grey evening, threatening rain. When she emerged at Farringdon station, Bo tightened the belt on her trench coat and lowered her head against the wind, and would have walked straight past the venue were it not for Ben pulling up in a taxi as she arrived. He jumped out of the car and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Is this it?’ Bo asked, baffled. The venue bore no name over its dark front door and its blacked-out windows gave no indication of what was inside. Ben nodded, but Bo detected a slight frostiness in his manner and wondered if he, too, was in a bad mood.

  Bo pushed open the door and stepped into what appeared to be a prohibition-era speakeasy. Tiny spotlights on the ceiling cast pools of light onto small, round tables, and the walls were lined with black leather banquettes. A bow-tied man was playing jazz at an upright piano, and white-jacketed waiters glided between the wooden tables with elegant-looking concoctions in glasses.

  A beautiful young woman with a glossy mane of chestnut hair wafted in front of them clutching a clipboard, wearing a silky black dress with a neckline which revealed the pale curve of her cleavage. Ben grinned as Bo’s heart sank.

  ‘Hi, good evening’ the woman intoned huskily. ‘Are you on our guest list this evening?’

  ‘Ben Wilkinson plus guest,’ Ben replied smoothly. Bo couldn’t help but notice how his bad mood seemed to have evaporated in the brunette’s presence. The woman checked the sheet of A4 on her clipboard.

  ‘I’ll show you to your table’ she purred, looking up at Ben with an ingratiating smile. She led them past the bar, behind which a row of mixologists was assembling complicated drinks with expressions of utmost seriousness. Bo was aware of the eyes of some of the overly attractive young people at the bar following them as they walked past.

  They sat down at a tiny dark wood table near the bar and the brunette handed them each a cocktail menu.

  ‘Enjoy your evening,’ she said, holding Ben’s gaze for a fraction longer than was necessary. Bo noticed Ben’s eyes drift to a space over her shoulder and wondered if he was checking out the rear view of the woman as she sashayed away.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ she asked snippily, glaring at him over her menu.

  ‘Sorry?’ Ben said, his eyes sliding back to her face with a faintly guilty look.

  ‘Which cocktail?’ she clarified. Bo had been hoping that an evening out would lift her spirits after a dismal week, but was beginning to realise that being in this phony speakeasy full of beautiful people was making her feel worse rather than better. Perhaps she just needed to start drinking, she reasoned. She was bound to feel better after a cocktail or two. Bo scanned the menu of cocktails in front of her, not recognising a single name on the list. Each one seemed to involve ingredients, botanicals and even spirits she had never heard of, and she felt too tired and hungry to know which one to choose.

  ‘Would it kill them to do a Cosmopolitan?’ she muttered crossly. Across the table, Ben pulled a face.

  ‘A Cosmo?’ he repeated dubiously, ‘Very Sex and the City.’ Then he raised his head and cupped his hand around his mouth as if about to shout. ‘Hey, Blu-Ray, the Noughties called. They want their cocktail back!’ he mocked. Opposite him, Bo stared at her menu in simmering silence.

  ‘I’ll have a Hoxton Martini,’ Ben said nonchalantly to the white-jacketed waiter who had appeared beside them. ‘I’ll have the same,’ murmured Bo, pointedly avoiding Ben’s eye line. The waiter nodded, scribbled on his pad, then left.

  Drinks ordered, Bo glanced over her shoulder at the cluster of gorgeous girls posing and preening at the bar. They seemed mesmerised by their mobile phones, compulsively photographing themselves and their surroundings without really interacting with each other. It was the same behaviour she had witnessed at countless other launch nights, and she knew that it was part of the deal at events like this – that posting shots of the event on Instagram was, in truth, why they had all been invited in the first place. But tonight, Bo was suddenly struck by the utter hypocrisy of it all, and the fact that how much fun you were having was much less important than how much fun you appeared to be having.

  She slid her gaze back to Ben, who had also picked up his phone, and was scrolling distractedly across the screen with his thumb, scowling slightly in its blue light. Bo drummed her fingers on the lacquered wood table, waiting for him to finish.

  ‘So, good day at work?’ she asked dutifully, once Ben had returned his phone to the table.

  ‘Not really, no,’ came his curt response. ‘It was fucking tedious.’ Ben’s eye line hovered above Bo’s shoulder again, and she suspected he was checking out the girls at the bar. The waiter returned and reverentially placed two martini glasses on paper coasters in front of them.

  ‘Well, cheers,’ Bo said tetchily, and took a grateful sip from the glass. The cocktail was delicious, herbal and sweet without being sickly, and she savoured the ice-cold chill of the liquid in her throat. Bo took another sip, waiting for Ben either to elaborate on the nature of the day’s tedium, or reciprocate by asking how her day had been. But Ben did not seem predisposed to say anything at all. ‘How’s the new client?’ she persevered. With a wince, Ben let her know that he had no desire to talk about the new client.

  The sound of female laughter at the bar mingled with the tinkling jazz at the piano and, almost in spite of herself, Bo felt her mood soften. The iciness of her first few sips had given way to a warming sensation, and a pleasant fuzziness filled her head, as if someone had removed the sharp, jagged edges and replaced them with tufts of cotton wool. Feeling her animosity fall away, she leaned across the table and took Ben’s hand.

  ‘Look, I’m starving. Shall we finish these and go and get something to eat?’ she suggested, her voice conciliatory. ‘Nothing fancy. There’s a Pizza Express over the road.’

  ‘We’ve only just got here,’ replied Ben, his mouth forming a petulant pout. ‘Besides, I think we could do better than Pizza Express,’ he sneered, draining his glass. Wounded, Bo withdrew her hand sharply and sat back in her seat.

  ‘I’m hungry, that’s all, and I could murder a pizza,’ she said defensively, aware that her eyes were starting to prickle. Across the table, Ben continued to look appalled, as if he had taken the suggestion of pizza as a personal slight. She felt a sudden flash of irritation and, galvanised by the cocktail, decided to seize the moment.

  ‘It’s just that – haven’t you noticed how all we ever do is go out?’
she said. Ben’s eyes met hers with an expression caught between appalled and dumbfounded.

  ‘And your point is . . . ?’ he replied, looking genuinely baffled.

  ‘We’re always eating out, or going to places like this, but we’ve never eaten a single meal at home together, either at your place or mine. Don’t you sometimes just want to . . . cook up a big bowl of spag bol and just chill out?’

  ‘Wow, Blu-ray. I had no idea you were so . . . conventional,’ Ben said, after a stunned pause. The barb stung, and his use of the nickname during a row rankled.

  ‘Well, if I am, what’s wrong with that?’ she countered defiantly. Ben’s lip curled upwards into a sneer.

  ‘Besides,’ she went on, incensed, ‘I thought you liked nothing better than a Saturday night on the sofa in front of Strictly. Or was that just some bullshit you made up for the benefit of the payroll girls?’ Ben looked momentarily caught out, but he quickly recovered his composure.

  ‘Horses for courses,’ he shrugged, giving a snide little laugh. ‘I was just messing around.’

  The awkwardness between them was broken by the reappearance of the waiter at Ben’s shoulder. ‘Same again for me,’ Ben said, without consulting Bo. She could feel her rumbling stomach crying out for something solid and sustaining, but she nodded at the waiter to indicate likewise.

  ‘This isn’t really a relationship at all, is it?’ she said, once the waiter had gone. With the merest flicker of his facial muscles, Ben managed to convey how disinclined he was to answer. The halogen spotlight above them cast shadows across his face, emphasising his prominent cheekbones and jawline. Bo continued to glower at him, determined to wait for his response.

  ‘I don’t know what kind of relationship you want, babe,’ he said at last, with an injured, martyr-like tone. ‘I thought we were having fun together.’

  ‘But fun only gets you so far, doesn’t it?’ she riposted. ‘Life can’t always be fun, can it? There’s the boring stuff too. Chatting about work, doing the laundry, cooking dinner. That’s real life.’ Bo was warming to her theme, ignoring Ben’s evident discomfort. ‘Going to non-stop restaurant launches and drinking ludicrously expensive cocktails isn’t real life.’ As if on cue, the waiter reappeared and placed the fresh drinks in front of them with professional seriousness.