Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  Thwarted, Simon let it pass, and made a note of Bo’s modest score on the marking sheet.

  ‘No need to look like you’re sucking a lemon, Simon. You’re still in the lead,’ Florence teased. When it came to Simon’s turn, he stared at his row of little plastic tiles, face twisted in agonised indecision. ‘Come on, Simon,’ Florence chided. ‘It’s one word, not a fucking novel. How hard can it be?’

  Eventually he leaned forwards and placed xygote on a triple word score. Florence groaned and rolled her eyes, while Simon totted up his score. ‘I think, including the double letter score on the X, that makes... eighty-four points.’ Bo sank forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands. This was going to be a long evening.

  In the background, a Sugababes track segued into Girls Aloud on the speaker dock. ‘Bo, is there anything on your iPod other than girl groups of the Noughties?’ Simon asked, deadpan, as he restocked his letter tiles.

  Bo looked up, hurt. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Girls Aloud,’ she said, affronted, but she noticed Florence seemed to be stifling a laugh, and Emil stared hard at the board, keeping a diplomatic silence. She caught Florence’s eye and gave her a hurt look.

  ‘Sorry, babe’ Florence said earnestly, ‘It’s just . . . have you added any music to your collection since 2004?’

  ‘Actually, I have,’ Bo countered defensively. ‘There’s some Taylor Swift on there as well.’ A derisive snort issued from Simon’s direction. ‘It’s the music I grew up with. Sorry if it isn’t cool enough for you,’ Bo said peevishly.

  Bo’s music preferences had long been subject to the teasing of her peers, being firmly at the mainstream end of the pop spectrum. Flicking through the playlist on her iPod once, Ben had laughingly dismissed her as having ‘the musical taste of a nine-year-old girl’. Even during her teenage years, she had never had any inclination to seek out the edgier, more alternative groups that the cooler groups of girls were into. As far as she was concerned, if a song had a melody she could sing along to and a beat she could dance to if she felt so inclined, where was the shame in that?

  The game wore on. Simon’s victory was never in doubt, but he became less doggedly pedantic as the evening went on, and when Florence placed the word psycho with a barely concealed smirk, he made a note of her score without mentioning compound words once.

  When Bo climbed the stairs to go to bed that evening it occurred to her that, for the first time since she had arrived in Skagen, she felt properly relaxed. She wasn’t sure if it was the arrival of Emil or the effect of the schnapps on everyone’s mood, or even the Scrabble, but she had not thought about Ben, or Charlotte, or her redundancy all evening. Closing the bedroom door softly behind her, she switched on the desk lamp and padded over to the window nook and fished her phone out of her bag.

  Her feeling of bonhomie immediately drained away upon discovering a text from Ben: An apology for what?

  Chapter 14

  ‘Hey Blu-ray,’ Ben’s pixelated image appeared on her phone via Skype. He was lying on the sofa in his flat, still wearing his work clothes.

  ‘Hi. How are you?’ she replied, curling herself into the cosy window nook and propping a cushion behind her head.

  ‘Knackered,’ he answered, shielding a yawn behind the back of his hand. He looked it: grey shadows circled his eyes, his complexion was pallid and his wavy hair looked messy and unkempt. Bo could hear the tinny babble of the TV in the background, and behind the sofa she could see the remains of a takeaway on the dining table: a crumpled brown paper bag, sauce-spattered foil trays and a single dirty plate.

  ‘How’s the new job going?’ Bo asked dutifully. Ben’s brow furrowed and he took a long gulp from a bottle of Cobra. She watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed; there were shaving cuts and an angry rash on his neck.

  ‘Stressful,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. ‘Being accounts director means the whole department’s shit ends up as my shit.’ He sounded bitter. ‘I’m basically the whipping boy for any client with an axe to grind.’

  She heard the angry honk of a car horn close outside his window; it made her jump but Ben didn’t even notice. The soundtrack of urban life seemed jarring and discordant in contrast to the elemental quiet of Skagen. ‘Oh dear. I’m sure it’ll settle down soon. It’s only been two days,’ Bo soothed blandly.

  Ben sneered. ‘Yeah, we’ll see about that.’ He took another swig of beer and looked down the lens at her. ‘So, I got your text,’ he said guardedly. ‘Apologise for what?’

  She inhaled deeply through her nose. ‘For what I said about Charlotte,’ she replied expressionlessly. ‘About Milton Keynes. Hayley got the wrong end of the stick, and when I saw that photo on Facebook, I just assumed . . .’ On her phone screen, Ben’s face twisted.

  ‘Yeah well, I tried to tell you nothing happened, didn’t I? And we were all pissed in that photo. You of all people should understand that drink can make you do stupid things.’ His speech was slightly slurred, and she wondered how many Cobras he had consumed.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I just jumped to conclusions. I—’

  ‘Forget about it,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘But it is a big deal. I accused you of cheating. Aren’t you pissed off with me?’ In the corner of Bo’s phone screen was a thumbnail-sized image of her perplexed face, her mouth forming a pout.

  ‘To be honest, Blu-ray, I’ve got enough work shit pissing me off at the moment.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘I really haven’t got the energy to be pissed off with you too.’ Bo wasn’t sure how she felt about this remark, so she said nothing.

  ‘How’s Denmark, anyway?’ he asked, in a changing-the-subject voice, and raised his beer bottle to his lips once more.

  She glanced out of the rain-speckled window beside her, into the blackness of the night. ‘Cold, dark, wet,’ she said frankly. ‘But kind of invigorating.’

  ‘Sounds . . . Scandinavian,’ he replied, bemused. ‘Done anything exciting since you arrived?’

  She considered the question for a moment. ‘Um, not a lot. I walked to the marina this afternoon for a pastry. Tonight, we played Scrabble.’

  ‘You and Kirsten really knowhow to have a good time, don’t you?’ he teased, but there was affection rather than malice in his voice.

  ‘Oh, Kirsten’s not here yet,’ Bo said quickly, ‘Her grandfather had a stroke on Friday. She’s planning to fly out as soon as the weather improves.’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied, raising a faintly quizzical eyebrow. ‘So, who did you play Scrabble with?’

  She hesitated. ‘One of Kirsten’s mum’s friends is staying here too. She’s called Florence,’ she said in a light, incidental tone.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Ben’s eyes glazed over and he gave another wide yawn. They talked for a little longer, with Bo asking innocuous questions about his new job which led into another diatribe about his frustrations with work. Bo listened patiently, aware of a tightening sensation in her chest and a gnawing in her stomach, as if she was physically absorbing his stress. ‘They’re all fuckwits,’ he concluded contemptuously, shaking his empty bottle by the neck before tossing it into a wastepaper bin next to the sofa.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she soothed blandly.

  He pushed his hair out of his eyes and smiled at her. ‘It’s good to see you again, Blu-ray,’ he said. ‘The office isn’t the same without you.’

  A little later, lying in her single bed in the pitch darkness, Bo replayed their conversation in her mind. It had not gone at all as she had expected. She had expected sarcasm and sly remarks about how she had believed office tittle-tattle and jumped to conclusions. But instead, Ben had told her that he couldn’t be bothered to be angry with her. She knew she ought to feel grateful, but in fact she felt obscurely short-changed.

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the pine scent of the duvet then exhaled slowly, trying to expel the agitation which she had absorbed from B
en. His casual dismissal of how she was spending her time in Denmark had stung, but hadn’t surprised her. Ben would go out of his mind with boredom in a place like Skagen, without the buzz and bustle of city life, of restaurants and bars and parties and casual flirtations with attractive women. How would he cope being cooped up in the summerhouse with nothing but Scrabble for entertainment? She imagined his reaction: ‘Fuck me, this is tedious,’ he would mutter, pacing back and forth, staring out of the window at the rain. Then he would make some joke about this being why there are so many serial killers in Scandinavia, because at least murdering someone would give you something to do. The thought made her smile.

  Before long, her mind started to wander and she knew that sleep would soon arrive, bringing respite from her confusion, temporarily at least. The last conscious thought to dart through her mind was to wonder why she had not mentioned that Simon and Emil were also staying at the house. What was behind the omission? she wondered drowsily. It was not like she had anything to hide, after all. But before she could come up with an answer, her thoughts scattered and she drifted into the oblivion of sleep.

  *

  When Bo padded downstairs the following morning, she found all the others seated around the dining table. Simon was working at his laptop, Florence was sharpening pencils, and Emil was sipping coffee and flicking through a newspaper. He glanced up at her as she walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning, Boughay,’ he smiled. Something about being addressed by her full name made Bo feel unaccountably bashful. It struck her as endearingly polite and old-fashioned and, she had to admit, it felt so much nicer than being called Blu-ray.

  ‘Morning,’ she murmured in his general direction, without meeting his eyes. Her conversation with Ben the previous evening had left her feeling even more preoccupied and troubled than before, and she had a vague notion that Emil’s presence was adding to her confusion.

  She made herself a coffee and sat down in the empty chair opposite Emil. Simon’s look of fierce concentration had the effect of making the others feel they ought not to talk so, for want of something to do, she checked her emails on her phone. She felt a tiny flurry of excitement when she saw she had a message from a recruitment agency informing her of a job opportunity that had come through. But upon closer inspection it turned out the job was a junior marketing position at a company in Staines, offering a salary significantly lower than the one she had been on at Aspect. She sent a polite reply declining to apply for the job. She set the phone back on the table with a disappointed sigh and wandered through to the living room.

  The weather worsened as the morning went on, the rain turning to sleet and, at times, snow. The sound of Simon’s typing and the occasional gentle ting as Florence dropped a sharpened pencil into a shallow tin box were the only sounds that drifted through the double doors.

  ‘Does it ever get you down, Emil, the Danish weather?’ Florence asked, when they all gathered to prepare lunch.

  Emil looked out at the rain billowing past the window. ‘In Denmark we have a saying: there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ Bo said ruefully, thinking of her woefully inadequate wool coat which was still drying out after her last foray into the Danish weather. She was leaning over the table, lighting a row of tealights in an effort to counteract the gloom.

  ‘But even with the right clothing, there’s only so much you can do in weather like this,’ Simon observed, slicing a loaf of bread at the worktop.

  Emil nodded. ‘Yes, of course. That’s why we have hue-gah.’ From their various positions around the room the others looked up with puzzled, uncomprehending expressions.

  ‘Hoo-what?’ Florence repeated. Emil scribbled on a pad of Post-it notes then held it up for the others to read: HYGGE.

  ‘Higger?’ Florence said, squinting.

  ‘Pronounced hue-gah,’ Emil explained. ‘It’s what the Danes do in winter. We spend time in our homes, getting cosy, being with friends and family. And avoiding the weather,’ he quipped, pressing the Post-it lightly onto the fridge door.

  ‘That’s all I’ve done since I got here – I’m great at hygge,’ Bo joked, shaking the match.

  ‘Maybe you are part-Danish after all,’ Emil said approvingly, and she found herself, unaccountably, blushing.

  ‘So, in other words,’ Simon clarified, assuming the supercilious expression which Bo had privately begun to think of as his Scrabble face, ‘if you’re going to be stuck indoors for weeks on end, you might as well make yourself cosy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Emil replied cheerfully.

  ‘Well, come on then, Emil,’ Florence said, placing a plate of cold meats on the table and sitting down. ‘What should we all be doing, while we wait for the weather to improve? How can we get some hygge?’

  Emil sniffed and looked around thoughtfully. ‘We have the perfect hyggeligt environment,’ he said. ‘A cosy house, a fire in the stove, candles . . .’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is that hygge, basically, is all about soft furnishings?’ Simon said archly. There it was again, the Scrabble face.

  ‘I think you’re missing the point, Simon,’ Florence tutted, shooting him a stern look.

  ‘Not just soft furnishings,’ Emil answered patiently. ‘Hygge is a feeling of well being, of togetherness, of enjoying what you are doing, and who you are with.’ Bo glanced at Simon, half expecting him to make some quip about how hygge would be out of the question, if it required him to enjoy their company. But if he was thinking it, he didn’t say it.

  Sensing their scepticism, Emil went on, ‘Last night, we played a game. That was very hyggeligt. Today, we could cook together.’

  ‘Cook? Together?’ Simon repeated, dubiously. ‘All of us?’

  ‘Why not?’ answered Emil. ‘To be hyggeligt we must do it together. Hygge is about the shared experience, not the end result.’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Florence said decisively. ‘It sounds like fun. And besides,’ she added, with a sly grin at Simon, ‘your Scandi-slasher-thriller can wait for a few hours.’ Simon glared at her indignantly, but let the comment pass.

  ‘What do you suggest we cook, Emil?’ Bo asked, feeling a flutter of childlike excitement at the prospect of having a project for the afternoon.

  Emil pondered for a moment. ‘To be hyggeligt, it should be something slow and simple. You can’t rush hygge. How about braised pork, perhaps with a celeriac and potato mash?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Bo said enthusiastically.

  ‘And to me,’ Florence concurred. ‘I’ve been living off cheese and rye bread for the last few days. Simon, how does braised pork grab you?’

  Simon was cultivating the resentful air of a teenager being corralled into some sort of family activity against his will. He chewed on a mouthful of sandwich and shrugged to suggest that, when it came to braised pork, he held no opinion either way.

  ‘But before we can cook, we need to shop for ingredients,’ Emil said. As one, they all turned to look at the rain which was pounding the windows with renewed vigour.

  ‘I think we should all go. That’s fair, isn’t it?’ Bo said eventually. Emil nodded. Simon glowered.

  ‘Come on, Simon,’ Florence insisted, blowing out the candles and rising from the table. ‘You haven’t left the house since you got here. You need some fresh air. It won’t take long and, besides, it’ll be fun,’ she insisted brightly. As the others gathered on the doormat waiting for him, Simon had no choice but to finish his sandwich and do as he was told.

  *

  The walk to the large supermarket on the outskirts of town was a freezing, windswept affair, during which they were alternately assailed by rain, sleet, and even a brief snow shower. Simon kept up his surly demeanour inside the supermarket, trailing three paces behind the others to signal his resentment at being made to forgo writing time for this. Emil located the ingredients for his dish quickly, they paid at the till, and within an hour they were back at the
house, laden with carrier bags.

  ‘See, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Simon?’ Florence teased, stamping her wet boots on the doormat. Bo’s woolly gloves were soaked through and her work coat, she noticed with mild alarm as she peeled it off, was acquiring the odour of mildew.

  In the kitchen, Emil fastened an apron behind his back and briefed the others. ‘To cook the Danish way means we share responsibility. This is about working together.’ He placed the bag of vegetables onto the kitchen table.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Florence joked, rifling through the cutlery drawer.

  ‘No, not boss,’ Emil corrected her.

  Florence looked chastened, ‘All I’m saying is, you’re the one who’s the actual professional chef. Which, whether you like it or not, kind of makes you the boss. Not that I’m underestimating the importance of my contribution as peeler-in-chief,’ she added, pulling the peeler out of the drawer and slamming the drawer shut with her hip.

  Florence and Simon sat either side of the dining table, peeling and chopping vegetables, while Emil browned the pork cheeks on the hob. Bo, on a whim, had added the ingredients for chocolate muffins to their shopping basket, and she stood at the worktop whisking eggs and sugar in a large bowl.

  ‘What do you think, Emil?’ Florence said, holding up a peeled celeriac for his approval. ‘Would you give me a job at your restaurant?’

  Emil smiled. ‘Well, first of all, it’s not my restaurant,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m a sous-chef. But I think your peeling skills are . . . impressive.’ Florence beamed.

  ‘Is this the kind of food you make at the restaurant, Emil?’ Bo asked, lifting the whisk to check the consistency of the pale, fluffy egg mixture.

  Emil shook his head. ‘No, the restaurant serves New Nordic cuisine.’