Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ Bo replied briskly. ‘I’ve been thinking about Denmark,’ she said decisively, fixing Kirsten with an intense stare. ‘Let’s do it.’

  *

  When Bo woke up the following morning she felt fully alert, as though she had hardly slept. She lay for a few moments staring at the ceiling, before twisting onto her side to grab her phone to look again at the photo on Facebook. Surely, Bo reasoned, Ben would not be so openly demonstrative towards Charlotte if anything was going on between them? If her own experience was anything to go by, if anything were going on between Ben and Charlotte, he would want to keep it secret. Bo stared at the image until her eyes began to ache, then abruptly exited Facebook, turned the phone off and pulled the duvet up over her head.

  Facing another day alone in the flat, Bo knew she needed something to distract her from the doggedly persistent mental image of Ben’s arm around Charlotte’s shoulder, and researching her forthcoming trip to Denmark with Kirsten presented her with the perfect displacement activity. Kirsten had not said much about the location of her family’s summerhouse other than that it was in a seaside village called Skagen in Northern Jutland. She spoke about it with the mild complacency bred from countless family holidays in the same place, and teenaged summers spent wishing she was somewhere hotter and more exciting. Bo recognised the sentiment, having felt a similar ennui about her annual visits to the same cottage in Devon throughout her adolescence. But for Bo, the summerhouse in Skagen sounded like the perfect antidote to everything that was wrong with her life in London, being remote, quiet, and several hundred miles away from Ben.

  On Saturday morning, Bo and Kirsten sat down together at the laptop.

  ‘What’s the weather going to be like over there?’ Bo asked, scrolling her cursor across the airline webpage, her credit card in front of her on the table.

  ‘Shit.’ Kirsten replied matter-of-factly. ‘London is Mediterranean by comparison, and of course it’s November so it’ll be dark fifteen hours a day. Stock up on thermals before we go.’ Bo nodded, undeterred. ‘Oh and by the way, there might be a couple of other people staying at the house at the same time as us,’ Kirsten added. Bo glanced up from the laptop. ‘Just a couple of my mum’s ex-students. She’s always offering the place up to people. She says it makes sense for it not to stand empty all winter.’

  Kirsten’s mother, Pernille, was a ceramics tutor at an art college in South London, a bohemian-looking lady with hennaed hair and a penchant for bold jewellery. Although Bo felt a mild misgiving at the thought of sharing the house with strangers, she knew it would be churlish to begrudge anyone else the same hospitality she was being offered. Besides, even if there were other people staying at the house, that didn’t mean she and Kirsten would be required to socialise with them.

  A few clicks later, she had booked their flights for a week’s time. ‘Done!’ she announced. As if in answer, her phone beeped, announcing an incoming text message: You free tonight, Blu-ray? Dinner?

  Bo frowned, then passed the phone to Kirsten.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked. Kirsten gave a diplomatic shrug.

  ‘D’you think he realised you would’ve seen the photo on Facebook?’ she asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Bo replied.

  ‘Maybe he wants to make amends,’ Kirsten added hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Bo gave a wry half-smile. ‘I guess there’s only one way to find out.’ With a deep breath, she opened the text message and clicked ‘reply’.

  Okay, she typed. What did you have in mind?

  Chapter 9

  Ben had booked a table at an expensive restaurant in Soho, a fact which Bo spent much of the afternoon analysing, wondering if it was a sign that he had a guilty conscience, or that he wanted to make amends to her, or even if this was going to be a pre-cursor to breaking up with her – a treat to sweeten the bitter pill of hearing that he had found someone else.

  She wanted to look her best so that, if Ben was about to tell her that he was dumping her for Charlotte, he would at least be reminded of what he would be missing. It was also of the utmost importance, however, that she did not appear to have gone to any special effort; the last thing she wanted was for Ben to think she was trying to lure him back. She had more self-respect than that, she reminded herself sternly, as she set to work with her hair straighteners. Achieving a look of effortless sexiness entailed emptying her wardrobe onto her bed, and ruling out any items that she deemed either too frumpy or overtly sexy. Eventually, after much trying on and discarding of outfits, Bo settled on her best clingy jeans with a black blouse and long boots.

  Her hair straightened and make-up applied, Bo set off for the West End. It had only been a week since she left Aspect, but she felt an uncomfortable jolt of disconnection, of having become an outsider in what had used to be her manor. She strode through the maze of Soho streets, telling herself to stay calm and keep an open mind, but by the time she reached the restaurant she was in a state of such heightened anticipation that she pushed the glossy front door open with such force that the adjoining windows rattled and several diners looked up, startled by the noise.

  Ben, who had been sitting at the bar to the right of the entrance, turned and looked at her over his shoulder. He was wearing an open-collared shirt underneath a well-tailored, close-fitting waistcoat, the charcoal-grey silk panel taut across his shoulders, emphasising the well-toned muscles underneath. Bo tried to ignore the flutter of attraction in her stomach, reminding herself sternly not to allow physical attraction to override her principles. Ben stepped down from his bar stool and advanced towards her, smiling.

  ‘That was quite an entrance,’ he murmured, moving in for a kiss. She averted her face, and his fractional hesitation before brushing his lips against her cheek communicated his wounded pride.

  At the bar, Bo ordered a gin and tonic without further ado. She had decided, with Kirsten’s encouragement, that tonight was not a night to be endured sober. (In fact, she had already soothed her nerves with a vodka and tonic before leaving home.) Ben sat beside her, sipping his whiskey and ginger ale, while they watched the barman prepare her drink. The restaurant had a discreetly affluent ambience which felt far more grown-up than most of the places she and Ben had frequented. There was not a preening Instagrammer in sight, but Bo found herself feeling faintly self-conscious, and uncharacteristically at a loss for something to say.

  ‘So, how’s life as a lady of leisure?’ was Ben’s opener, when the bartender had placed Bo’s drink in front of her. Bo winced at the phrase, resenting its implicit suggestion that redundancy would give her time for leisurely pursuits, such as flower arranging or needlework. She took a fortifying sip from the tall glass at her elbow.

  ‘Okay so far,’ she said demurely, deciding it would be ungracious to slap down Ben’s attempt – albeit a poorly phrased one – to show an interest in her. Besides, she was determined to put a brave face on what had, in truth, been a resoundingly disheartening and dispiriting week.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with a few contacts, and picked up some good leads,’ she went on, hoping to give the impression that her redundancy was no more than a blip, a temporary setback which she was confident would come to an end imminently. She picked up her glass to take another sip, surreptitiously glancing at Ben out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he could tell she was lying.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get snapped up soon,’ he said with a flash of his straight, white teeth. Something about his tone inclined Bo to think that Ben had seen through her attempt to appear blasé. She gave a tight smile, and there followed a slightly awkward silence, during which they both sipped their drinks.

  ‘Actually, I can’t take on anything immediately,’ she said finally, ‘I’m off to Denmark next week.’ She raised her glass to take another slug of gin, and was surprised to find that her glass was empty, but for a mound of ice cubes. The attentive barman wasted no time in gliding over to offer her another. ‘Yes please,’ Bo replied without hesitation.


  ‘Denmark? How come?’ Ben raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘I’m going with Kirsten, to stay in her family’s summerhouse.’

  Ben let out a noise which Bo felt to be dangerously close to a snigger. ‘A summerhouse?’ he repeated, trying to contain a smile. ‘In Denmark? In November? Don’t forget your sunblock, will you?’ he started to laugh. She felt a flash of rage sweep through her.

  ‘I’m not going there to get a tan,’ she said self-righteously. ‘I just thought it would be good to get away, and Kirsten offered, and –’ Ben was still smirking, but Bo’s self-justification was cut short by the appearance of a suited waiter at their side, informing them in deferential tones that their table was ready. Bo stepped down unsteadily from her stool, and picked up the replacement G&T which had just been placed in front of her. As she swayed along behind the waiter through the hushed, elegant restaurant, Bo suspected that she was doing a poor job of masking the effect of the gin and vodka that were swilling around her otherwise empty stomach.

  Their table was in the middle of a row of others already occupied by diners, most of whom, Bo couldn’t help noticing, were older couples, the women all sporting expensively maintained hair-dos, their wrists and necks draped with serious jewellery. Bo had the unpleasant sensation of feeling like a child who had been admitted, erroneously, to a grown-up party, and felt acutely conscious of her high-street clothes and beaded choker from Accessorize. Get a grip, Bo, she told herself, making an effort to project mature sophistication rather than the wobbly tipsiness she really felt as the waiter pulled back her chair for her to sit down.

  Once the formalities of perusing the menu and ordering food were completed, Bo launched into an account of her planned trip to Denmark, partly to prove to Ben that she had made an informed choice to go there, but also because she didn’t yet feel ready to tackle the conversational elephant in the room: the photo on Facebook.

  ‘It’s a place called Skagen at the northernmost tip of the country,’ she explained, ‘a former fishing village, now a popular holiday destination for the Danes. It also used to be an international meeting place for artists, because of the quality of the light. It’s known as the Land of Light, in fact.’ She was aware that she was talking fast, and suspected that she was furnishing Ben with more detail than was strictly necessary, but she had a point to prove, and the gin had loosened her tongue. Ben leaned back in his chair as she talked, looking faintly amused.

  ‘Surely more the Land of Cold and Dark at this time of year?’ he quipped. His comment took the wind out of her sails.

  ‘Well, yes, it probably is. But that’s not really the point,’ she mumbled petulantly. The conversation ground to a halt and in the silence, Bo took a long slug of her second gin and tonic. ‘So, what have I missed at Aspect? Have any more redundancies been announced?’ Bo asked with a forced lightness, taking a forkful of the seared scallop which the waiter had placed on the table in front of her. Ben pulled a face that suggested he was racking his brains, before eventually volunteering the names of a couple of techies and someone from sales who had been given their notice.

  ‘What about account management? Are you all safe?’ she probed, with a veneer of concern which belied her itching curiosity to know whether Hayley had been right about Charlotte being lined up for redundancy.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve made a few changes, too,’ he replied evasively.

  ‘Oh, really?’ she prompted, sipping white wine whilst waiting for him to elaborate.

  ‘Matt’s gone, for starters.’ Bo’s eyes widened in surprise; as well as being the accounts director, Matt had been one of the founders of the company. ‘He can afford not to work. Took early retirement, basically. Plans to see out his days on a golf course. Lucky bastard,’ Ben muttered, a touch bitterly.

  ‘Have they found someone to replace him?’ she asked, doing her best to sound like she cared about Matt, whilst in fact she was trying to formulate a way of asking about Charlotte’s fate without being too obvious. Ben looked down at his plate and began to push his food around with his fork.

  ‘Yeah, actually, they have,’ he said, avoiding her gaze.

  It took a moment for Bo to process Ben’s sudden, uncharacteristic bashfulness, and to realise what it meant. Then, in a moment of stunning clarity, the photo from Facebook flashed into her mind – the assembled group of workers, a laughing Ben at its heart, his hand proprietorially around one of his colleagues as if he were a king holding court. Suddenly, it was blindingly obvious: the occasion wasn’t just the usual after-work drinks; it was a celebration. For Ben. Bo felt a flush start to rise from her neck to her cheeks.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said. It was a statement rather than a question. Ben glanced up at her through a strand of wavy dark hair which had slipped forward over his right eye, and nodded. Bo felt her face set into a rigid, artificial smile.

  ‘Wow, congratulations,’ she said. ‘Accounts Director at twenty-nine. That’s amazing.’

  Ben smiled bashfully. ‘Thanks,’ he replied.

  As an afterthought, she asked, ‘How long have you known?’ Ben looked down at his dinner plate.

  ‘Matt was negotiating his leaving settlement for a while. They first sounded me out about replacing him a month ago.’ It was taking all the self-control Bo had to maintain her calm, civil façade, but inside she was raging. Not just at the irony that whilst she had worked her way up through the ranks for five years, just to find the door slammed in her face due to ‘efficiencies’, Ben had landed a massive promotion after less than a year at the company. She felt the beginnings of a feminist rant brewing, and was looking forward to getting home and offloading to Kirsten who, being half-Danish, was fiercely egalitarian in her workplace attitudes. But what stung most was that Ben had kept his promotion secret from her at the time.

  ‘You never mentioned it,’ she said lightly, taking a rather larger sip of wine than she had intended. Ben gave a little shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t official till this week,’ he said, ‘and besides, it was confidential, and—’

  ‘And you couldn’t trust me not to blab to the whole office,’ Bo cut in, fixing him with a stare. Ben gave a small, brittle laugh.

  ‘Course not, babe, but you know how these things go. If word had got out, they’d have known it had come from me. The whole deal could have gone tits up.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ Bo concurred, draining her wine glass. God forbid that Ben’s gilded promotion might have been in jeopardy because he trusted her – his girlfriend – enough to confide in about it. At that moment, the suited waiter re-appeared at her shoulder to clear away their starters.

  ‘Can we get another one of these, please?’ she asked sweetly, grabbing the empty wine bottle by the neck.

  ‘Of course, Madam,’ the waiter purred, before disappearing in the same silent, gliding motion that had brought him to the table.

  ‘So, when do you start?’ Bo asked.

  ‘Monday,’ he answered. She nodded slowly.

  ‘Are they bringing in anyone to replace you?’

  ‘Not as such,’ Ben answered. Bo detected a reluctance to elaborate, but continued to look at him expectantly. ‘Charlotte’s taking over my accounts, the day-to-day stuff,’ he said, finally.

  ‘Of course she is,’ Bo whispered, a rueful smile spreading across her lips. ‘So you’ll be working pretty closely with her from now on, I guess. Teaching her the ropes.’ Her eyes glittered harshly and there was an unmistakably sardonic emphasis to the way she drawled the final phrase. A slight frown clouded Ben’s brow.

  ‘Well, we’re doing a handover, if that’s what you mean,’ he said, noticeably on the defensive. Bo gave a sudden, un-ladylike snort, which caused the grey-haired couple at the next table to stop, mid-conversation, and look at her.

  ‘A handover?’ she sneered. ‘Sh’rly leg-over would be closer to the truth?’ Bo was hazily aware of the slurred quality to her speech, and the curious glances from the neighbouring tables gave her reason t
o think she might be speaking more loudly than normal. Opposite her, Ben was sitting perfectly motionless. Even though his meal was only half eaten, he seemed to have lost interest in his food. ‘Had enough?’ Bo asked, gesturing with her knife towards his half-finished sea bass.

  ‘You could say that,’ Ben replied quietly, pushing his cutlery neatly together at the edge of his plate.

  ‘Oh! Where did you come from?’ Bo exclaimed tipsily, upon noticing the waiter who had reappeared at the side of their table. He inclined his head and proffered the replacement bottle of wine, presenting the label for Bo’s approval. ‘Lovely, thank you,’ Bo said with an attempt at suave sophistication. The waiter smiled and deftly uncorked the bottle, wrapped the base in a linen napkin and poured a splash of wine into Bo’s glass for her to taste. Beginning to tire of the display of wine-based reverence and ritual, Bo made an impatient, flicking gesture with her hand. ‘No need, I’m sh’r’ze fine. Fill her up!’ Another slight incline of the waiter’s head. Ben glared at the tablecloth while the waiter filled both their glasses.

  When they were alone again, Ben leaned forwards and placed his hand on Bo’s arm as she was about to lift the glass to her mouth.

  ‘Don’t you think you should slow down, Bo? That’s a fifty-quid bottle of wine and you’re drinking it like Ribena.’ The jibe, and the implication that she was behaving immaturely, stung, but Bo was not in the mood for accepting criticism.

  ‘And very lovely wine it is too,’ she grinned. ‘Deliss – delishush, in fact. Besides, I’d have thought an Accounts Director could afford to splash out on a decent bottle of wine. Or two.’ She removed her arm from underneath his hand, and lifted the wine glass to her lips. Ben’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing until she had returned her glass to the table.

  ‘Look,’ he said seriously, leaning closer in, possibly in an attempt to encourage Bo to speak at a more discreet volume. ‘Charlotte’s taking over my accounts, that’s all.’ His voice was a low-pitched monotone, and Bo fleetingly wondered if he was trying to hypnotise her.