Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  ‘What do you think, Simon?’ Florence said, nudging his arm with her shoulder, as they ate their sandwiches on the bench. ‘A moving desert. A buried church. Perfect setting for a murder mystery, don’t you think?’

  He gave her a withering look. ‘Good idea. You should write it,’ he said drily. Bo laughed and wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve to remove the layer of salty sand which had settled on her lips.

  ‘I saw you take all those photos,’ Florence went on, teasingly. ‘Don’t try and tell me you’re not plotting something in that brooding head of yours.’

  Simon took a sip from his water bottle but permitted himself a trace of a smile. ‘Just research, that’s all,’ he said.

  After lunch, they climbed onto the bikes and doubled back towards Skagen, skirting around the town to the beach at Albæk Bay. The sun was already beginning its descent by the time they arrived and the beach was deserted apart from the odd dog walker. Simon opened his rucksack and pulled out the kite from the under-stairs cupboard.

  ‘You brought the kite, Simon?’ Florence asked, astounded.

  ‘Yep,’ he replied, ‘You jealous?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘just surprised. I would have thought flying a kite would be a bit . . . fun . . . for you.’

  ‘I don’t have a zero-fun policy,’ he shot back, methodically unwinding the strings from the plastic hand-grip. He placed the kite gently on the sand and began to walk away, unfurling the strings behind him. ‘If you’re lucky I might let you have a go,’ he said, turning to grin at Florence over his shoulder. He yanked on the handle to pull the strings taut and the kite fluttered into life, soaring upwards towards the sky. Beaming, Simon jogged away across the dune, the kite snapping and straining above him.

  ‘I might take you up on that,’ Florence shouted after him, before adding in a quieter, faintly lascivious voice, ‘And when I’ve done that, I might have a go with the kite, too.’

  Bo giggled. Oblivious, Simon ran at full pelt along the beach, yanking at the kite’s cords to make it swoop and dive.

  The others watched him for a few moments, till Florence sighed and said, ‘Right, I’ve got work to do. The light will be going soon.’ She unstrapped her folding stool from the back of her bike and grabbed the rucksack containing her art materials. ‘I’m heading that way,’ she said, gesturing to a sheltered spot further along the dune, in the shadow of a grassy bank. ‘See you guys later.’

  A freezing gust of wind from the sea made Bo shiver and wrap her arms across the front of her body.

  ‘Shall we walk?’ Emil asked.

  The low sun cast long shadows beside them as they walked along the wet sand. The feeling of self-consciousness she had experienced that morning had returned, and she had the uncomfortable sensation of feeling like a gawky schoolgirl on a first date. She cast sideways glances at Emil as they walked, wondering if he felt awkward too, or whether he was just lost in thought.

  ‘Did you used to come to this beach as a kid?’ she asked eventually.

  He nodded. ‘Every year. It’s a lot busier in the summer.’

  ‘Yes, I bet it is.’ Bo smiled.

  They walked on, side by side but maintaining a chaste distance from each other. In the distance, Simon had stopped at the water’s edge, his arms braced to maintain the tension on the kite-strings. Even from a distance Bo could make out the look of fierce concentration on his face as he stared up at the kite. He yanked sharply on one of the strings, forcing the kite into a spin which turned into a sharp nosedive. It zoomed downwards, landing in a crumpled heap about thirty feet away from him. Simon’s head dropped and he jogged forwards to rescue the forlorn kite, picking it out of the wet sand and dusting it down tenderly, like a wounded bird.

  ‘Oh dear, poor Simon,’ Bo murmured compassionately.

  A gust of wind roared off the sea, temporarily halting Bo in her tracks and making her squeeze her eyes tight and purse her lips.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Emil asked. She opened her eyes to find Emil facing her with a concerned look.

  ‘I’m fine, sorry,’ she mumbled, feeling foolish. ‘It’s just – the wind goes right through me.’

  Emil playfully tugged at the sleeve of her coat. ‘Like I said, there is no such thing as bad weather –’

  ‘– only bad clothing. You think I don’t know that, now?’ Bo interrupted, half laughing, half exasperated. ‘The gloves are helping, though,’ she said, raising her hands in the borrowed gloves and waggling her fingers. ‘I’m snug as a bug in these,’ she said.

  Emil looked perplexed. ‘Snug as a bug?’ he repeated.

  ‘I mean my hands are lovely and cosy,’ she explained, ‘Very hyggeligt, you could say. Can you have hyggeligt hands?’

  Emil pulled a face that suggested he was struggling to find a polite way to say no. ‘Not really,’ he said diplomatically, ‘But I think I understand what you mean.’

  He smiled at her and she smiled back, and when they started to walk again Bo felt her self-consciousness start to recede. Her stride fell into step with his and she was no longer worried about whether she was walking too close to him, or whether she ought to say something to fill the silence.

  ‘It’s amazing how much more you appreciate the sunlight when the days are so short,’ Bo remarked.

  ‘That is very hyggeligt,’ Emil said approvingly, ‘appreciating what you have, living in the moment, and being grateful.’

  Bo looked across at him and, from nowhere, felt her eyes start to prickle. She was suddenly struck by the poignancy of Emil talking about being grateful, when he had so recently lost his mother. Not wanting him to see how moved she was, she looked out towards the sea.

  ‘Well, Simon certainly seems to be living in the moment,’ she laughed. After many failed attempts, Simon had finally succeeded in making the kite perform a loop-the-loop, and he punched the air in delight.

  They walked on until they found a cluster of rocks sheltered from the wind by the edge of the dune. Bo perched on the largest rock and Emil came and sat beside her. Bo was acutely aware that Emil’s leg was touching hers, but she made no attempt to move apart, and neither did he. Behind them, the sun was sinking ever closer towards the horizon, turning the sky pink. They sat in comfortable silence, staring out at the crashing waves, lost in the moment.

  ‘So, Emil, if you don’t mind my asking, how come you’re scattering your mum’s ashes on your own?’

  It was a question Bo had been pondering since Emil first explained the purpose of his trip, but she had felt it would be impertinent to ask. Her eyes flickered across to gauge his reaction, hoping he wouldn’t find her question intrusive. But, if anything, he looked relieved.

  ‘My brother lives in Germany. He took a lot of time off work while our mum was in hospital. He had to go home after the funeral.’ He sounded sad, but there was no resentment in his voice.

  ‘And, what about your dad?’ Bo probed gently. ‘Is he . . . still alive?’

  Emil nodded. ‘He lives in Aarhus. My parents divorced when I was little,’ he explained matter-of-factly.

  Bo felt a rush of compassion, a deep sadness for the loss Emil had suffered and for the way he had been left to say goodbye to his mother on his own. And yet she could not help but admire his quiet stoicism and that, in spite of everything he had been through, he never sought her pity.

  ‘That’s me done.’ Florence’s voice seemed to come from nowhere, startling Bo out of her contemplation. As one, she and Emil turned to see Florence striding along the dusky beach, her sketchbook tucked under her elbow, her stool folded and hanging from its shoulder strap. ‘It’s too bloody cold out here for me to do any more. Where’s Simon?’

  Bo gestured towards the sea. ‘Doing stunts with the kite,’ she said.

  Florence gazed out at the darkening waterline, just as Simon succeeded in weaving the kite into a figure-of-eight manoeuvre. ‘Who knew he had it in him?’ she remarked wryly.

  As if he sensed he was being talked about, Simon wound the kite
in and ran across the sand towards them, arriving at the cluster of rocks out of breath and exhilarated. His eyes glinted with boyish excitement and his cheeks were rosy. ‘Nailed it,’ he said proudly, winding the kite-strings around the plastic handle. He glanced bashfully in Florence’s direction. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘Course we did, babe,’ Florence cooed.

  ‘Is it time to head back?’ Bo asked, reluctant to bring their day out to an end.

  The others nodded. Bo stood up and dusted the sand off her trousers, while Simon packed the kite carefully back inside his rucksack. They walked along the beach beneath a violet sky, discussing what they wanted to eat for dinner and arguing over who should be first to have a shower when they got back.

  ‘Hang on!’ Bo shouted, as they neared the start of the dune path. ‘Group selfie!’

  They huddled together with their backs to the sea, wincing into the sunset. Bo held her phone in an outstretched hand and called, ‘Say “Hygge” everyone!’

  ‘Hygge!’ they shouted in unison, and Bo’s phone clicked.

  They fell into pairs to walk through the dune to their bikes. Bo wasn’t conscious of slowing her pace, but she became aware that the distance between them had stretched. Up ahead, Florence and Simon disappeared around a bend in the winding path, and Bo noticed Emil slowing to a halt beside her.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Bo?’ Emil said.

  She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘Course you can,’ she answered. For the first time, there was an unmistakable sadness in his pale blue eyes.

  ‘Tomorrow, I’d like to go to Grenen to scatter my mother’s ashes.’ He paused for a moment, and Bo found herself fighting the urge to step closer to him and stroke his cheek. ‘Would you come with me?’

  Bo felt a swell of emotion which made her throat constrict. ‘Of course, it would be an honour,’ she replied. His eyes creased into a smile and for a moment they stood facing each other on the sandy path, both unsure what should happen next.

  ‘Come on, you two!’ Florence had reappeared in a gap between the dune grasses some way ahead, and was waving at them impatiently.

  ‘Coming,’ Bo called. She glanced at Emil, he smiled shyly and, without thinking, she slipped her gloved hand inside his.

  *

  On their way back, Bo and Emil stopped at the harbour to pick up some fresh fish for dinner. It was dark by the time they arrived at the summerhouse. Frost was already beginning to glisten on the tarmac as they wheeled their bikes up the path.

  The windows were unlit. ‘Aren’t they back yet?’ Bo asked, twisting the key in the lock.

  ‘Maybe they stopped for a coffee,’ Emil replied with a shrug.

  Inside, the house was dark and still.

  Bo flicked on the lights. ‘They must be back. Their stuff’s here,’ she noted, seeing Florence’s goose-down coat hanging from the rack and Simon’s rucksack on the floor.

  Emil removed his boots and jacket. ‘I’ll take a shower before dinner,’ he said, and loped upstairs.

  Bo placed the fish in the fridge, switched on the kettle and looked around the dining room. This was the first time she had ever been in here alone, without Simon typing on his laptop or Florence chatting at her sketchpad. She made herself a tea and lowered herself stiffly onto a dining chair. The exertion of the day had caught up with her: the combination of cycling and scrambling up the sand dune had left her aching and sore. Sipping her tea, she heard the thrum of the shower pump through the ceiling. She found her thoughts returning to Emil, and what had happened at the beach. But what had happened? They had sat next to each other on a rock, and she had held his hand for a few minutes as they walked back to the bikes. In physical terms, it was childishly chaste. And yet he had also asked her to be with him when he scattered his mother’s ashes which, surely, suggested a growing intimacy between them.

  She yawned and rubbed her eyes, reluctant to dwell on an issue which seemed riven with complication and confusion. Instead, she picked up her tea and shuffled across the wooden floor to the double doors, reasoning that she might as well light the fire before dinner.

  Some movement in the dark living room made her jump back and emit an involuntary ‘oh!’ of surprise.

  She instinctively reached for the nearest light switch, illuminating the floor lamp in the corner. A pool of yellow light was cast over the leather sofa to reveal Florence sitting astride Simon, her arms wrapped around his neck. Blinking in the light, Florence pulled away from Simon’s face.

  ‘Oh, hi, Bo.’

  Bo felt frozen to the spot, torn between shock at what she was witnessing, and mortification that she had found herself, unwittingly, in the role of voyeur.

  ‘Oh, my God, sorry!’ she squeaked. At a loss for what else to do, she switched the lights off and took a backwards step towards the door. Florence giggled in the darkness.

  ‘It’s all right babe, you can put the lights on. We’re fully dressed!’ she said cheerfully.

  Bo set her face into what she hoped was a look of blasé indifference, then flicked the light switch.

  ‘Sorry,’ she repeated sheepishly. ‘I didn’t realise you were in here.’

  ‘No worries, babe,’ Florence replied amiably, as if she had been interrupted doing a crossword puzzle. A pause followed, during which Bo scoured her mind for something to say, and settled on the most banal thing she could come up with.

  ‘I’ve just made tea. Would either of you like one?’

  ‘Nah, I’m good, thanks, babe,’ answered Florence. ‘Simon, do you want tea?’ she said, as if he might not have heard Bo’s question.

  Simon twisted his head to look over the back of the sofa at Bo. ‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

  Bo stared at him, half-expecting to see a look of embarrassment or even terror in his eyes. But Simon looked far from terrified. In fact, he looked, as Bo’s mother would put it, like the cat who had got the cream.

  A moment passed, then Bo sniffed and said purposefully, ‘Right, well, I think I’ll just take my tea and . . . go upstairs. To my room. For a bit.’ She reversed out of the room as nonchalantly as she could, making a point of closing the double doors firmly behind her. Then she stood for a moment, cradling her steaming mug of tea in both hands and staring into the middle distance for a few moments, before climbing the stairs to her bedroom.

  A little later, after Bo had showered and washed the sand out of her hair and skin, she curled up on the window seat in her dressing gown and opened her phone’s camera roll. The photo she had taken at Albaek Bay filled her screen. The four of them were all smiling widely, with rosy cheeks and wind-swept hair. Behind them, the sea glistened beneath a sky streaked with pink.

  ‘We look so happy,’ she said out loud. Feeling sentimental, she texted the photo to Kirsten: It’s stopped raining! Made it to the beach today! Wish you were here!

  She was blow-drying her hair when her phone buzzed with Kirsten’s reply. You all look like a bloody Boden catalogue! Is that Emil Jenssen? Haven’t seen him for years!

  *

  When Bo went downstairs she found Emil filleting fish at the kitchen worktop. She cast a surreptitious look through the double doors as she walked past, but the living room was empty.

  ‘Have you seen the others?’ she asked with a forced casualness.

  ‘They went upstairs, I think,’ he said, and his even tone suggested that he had no idea what had happened while he was in the shower. She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the sink.

  ‘Can I help?’ she offered, taking a sip. ‘It’s not very hyggeligt for you to be cooking on your own.’

  Emil’s eyes flicked over to her and he smiled gratefully. ‘You could slice some onions and potatoes if you like?’

  ‘Yes, chef,’ she quipped, touching her forehead in a pretend salute.

  She placed the chopping board on the worktop next to him.

  ‘Would you like to have your own restaurant, one day?’ she asked, peeling the papery outer layers from the onions
.

  Emil straightened his back and looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps,’ he said modestly. ‘One day.’

  ‘Did your mum ever get to eat in your restaurant?’ She kept her eyes on her hands, hoping that the question would not upset him.

  ‘Yes, a few times. She loved to cook too, before she got cancer.’ He trailed off, and a poignant silence filled the room.

  ‘She must have been very proud of you,’ Bo said softly, glancing sideways at him.

  Emil’s head was lowered, his fair hair falling forwards obscuring his eyes. ‘Yes. I know she was,’ he said quietly.

  Bo felt an overwhelming sadness rising in her chest. The more she learned about Emil’s situation, the sorrier she felt for him. But alongside her sadness, she felt humbled by the way he seemed to have accepted the hand he had been dealt, apparently without anger or bitterness. She thought of her own family circumstances, of Barbara and Clive and their comfortable house in the Chilterns. She had always taken their presence for granted, with the complacency that comes with a privileged upbringing, untouched by tragedy or loss. She felt a flicker of resolve to do things differently when she got home, to be more grateful, to make more of an effort to see Lauren, and try to have more patience with her parents. To be more grown-up. She stared at the chopping board, grateful that the raw onions gave her a pretext for her watering eyes.

  She was layering sliced onions and potatoes in a dish when Florence appeared at the bottom of the stairs, fresh from the shower, damp-haired and fragrant-smelling. She wandered into the kitchen and nonchalantly took a bottle of wine from the fridge.

  ‘Evening,’ she said, beaming like a hostess at a cocktail party. ‘Emil, babe, this looks amazing,’ she cooed, touching him on the shoulder as she reached into the cupboard above his head for a glass. Bo caught Florence’s eye as she poured the wine, and raised a quizzical eyebrow at her, but the sound of Simon’s footsteps on the stairs prevented her from saying anything.

  ‘All right, everyone?’ Simon said in a voice that almost sounded cheerful.

  Bo looked across, registering his relaxed manner and unfurrowed brow.