Hygge and Kisses

by Clara Christensen

  Florence took a sip of wine. ‘Would anyone else like some?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ answered Emil.

  ‘Go on then, just a small one,’ said Bo, accepting that her interrogation of Florence would have to wait.

  Florence poured the wine and sat down opposite Simon at the table.

  ‘Shall we put some music on?’ Bo asked, wiping her hands with a tea towel and turning to face the table. ‘It doesn’t have to be my music,’ she added pre-emptively, registering the sardonic look that passed between Florence and Simon.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Simon teased, ‘I don’t think my nerves could stand the greatest hits of Atomic Kitten this evening.’ Florence smirked into her wine glass.

  ‘Fine by me, Simon,’ Bo riposted. ‘Let’s listen to your music then, shall we? I can’t wait to see what delights are on there. My money’s on heavy metal. Something really angry. Slipknot, perhaps?’

  In fact, Simon’s music collection turned out to be a pleasingly un-angry mix of rhythm and blues classics. While Emil fried the fish fillets in a garlic and herb butter, they all sang along to Aretha Franklin and Smokey Robinson.

  They ate dinner and drank wine in the flickering candlelight, and after the plates had been cleared away Bo pulled her phone out of her pocket.

  ‘Here, take a look at this,’ she said, finding the group selfie they had taken at Albaek beach.

  ‘My God, don’t we look wholesome!’ Florence cackled, taking the phone from Bo. ‘It’s like one of those pictures you see on the news.’ Assuming the sombre tones of a crime reporter, Florence pulled a dour expression. ‘Four young, attractive people –’ she paused, then corrected herself – ‘attractive-ish people, enjoying a fun day out at the beach. Little did they know the horror that was about to befall them . . .’

  Simon scowled. He knew what was coming ‘. . . that one of them was, in fact, a psychopathic serial killer intent on murder . . .’

  ‘Here we go,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Are you ever going to give that up?’

  ‘Not until you let us see your novel, Simon,’ Florence replied in a schoolmistress voice, ‘and prove that you’re not secretly plotting how to kill us all.’

  Simon rolled his eyes. ‘You can see it when it’s finished,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ll send you a copy. All right?’ Florence smirked into her wine glass.

  Having been passed around the table so that everyone could admire the photo, Bo’s phone was still in Emil’s hands when it buzzed. His eyes flickered across the screen momentarily. ‘You’ve got a message,’ he said, handing the phone to her across the row of tealights.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ she answered, taking the phone with a tremor of apprehension.

  It was a message from Ben. You free for a chat? I could do with cheering up.

  Bo felt a jolt of discomfort, as if an icy draught had just invaded the room. She had, with some effort, succeeded in keeping Ben from her thoughts all day and she felt irrationally cross with him for interrupting her evening. She frowned at the screen, struggling with the contradictory feelings that raged inside her. There was an undeniable gratification in knowing that he wanted to talk to her, but the thought of having to listen to him complain about his job filled her with dread, and then there was the small matter of what had happened with Emil at the beach . . .

  Bo stared at the text, sensing Emil’s eyes on her. With a pang of guilt, she switched her phone off and placed it face down on the dining table.

  Chapter 16

  Bo lay in bed, staring at the shaft of morning light on her bedroom wall. She hadn’t replied to Ben’s text, and her phone had remained switched off in her bag overnight. She knew she ought to send some sort of response, but to decide what response to give felt beyond her at the moment, as if her mind had been filled by what was happening in Skagen and there was no room left for anything else.

  In truth, she wasn’t sure how she felt about what lay ahead for the day. She had agreed to cycle to a remote sand spit at the northernmost tip of the country, with a man she had only known for a couple of days, in order to scatter his mother’s ashes. It sounded absurd, when she thought about it. What would she and Emil say to each other? What on earth would she do if he cried? What had seemed like a perfectly natural thing to agree to at the beach the day before, now seemed to be ripe with potential awkwardness and embarrassment. She felt flattered that Emil had asked her to accompany him, but also anxious that, when the time came, she would feel like an intruder in what should have been a private moment.

  When she eventually dragged herself out of bed and went downstairs, she found that Simon and Florence had gone out. Emil was filling the kettle at the sink and, although he greeted her with his habitual, ‘Good morning, Boughay,’ he seemed preoccupied. His pensiveness only added to her discomfort, and she kept shooting furtive glances at him as they padded around the kitchen preparing their breakfast in silence.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, when Emil sat down opposite her at the table. ‘I’m okay,’ he answered. ‘I’m ready. It’s the right time.’

  She waited for a moment. ‘And are you sure you want me to come with you? You wouldn’t rather . . . have some privacy?’ she continued tentatively, in case he had changed his mind.

  He smiled shyly. ‘No – I mean yes – I mean, I’m sure I want you to come. I would prefer not to be alone.’ Bo saw tears well up in Emil’s eyes, and immediately felt her own eyes start to prickle in response.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day for it,’ Bo observed, noting the vivid blue sky outside the window.

  Emil looked thoughtful. ‘I want to do it at sunset,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s set off after lunch.’

  Bo glanced at the clock. It was nine-thirty, and the morning stretched before them. ‘Do you want to go to the harbour first? We could get a coffee and a pastry,’ Bo asked, in a purposefully upbeat tone.

  Emil shook his head. ‘I think I would rather stay here.’ He looked sad, and Bo had a sudden longing to reach out and take his hand.

  ‘We could bake something together if you like?’ she suggested. ‘That always helps take my mind off things.’

  After a quick scan of the cupboards to see what ingredients were available, they spent the morning baking saltkringler –salt pretzels. They chatted while they baked, exchanging trivial information about their lives – their favourite books, earliest childhood memories, which TV shows they watched (Bo’s fondness for Danish crime dramas gave them plenty of common ground) – in tacit agreement to avoid the subject of what lay ahead. For Bo, it was not just the thought of the trip to Grenen which loomed over her, but the question of what would happen afterwards. The sole purpose of Emil’s trip to Skagen had been to scatter his mother’s ashes. Once he had done so, there would be no reason for him to stay at the summerhouse.

  She had avoided the subject of his departure and he had too. Eventually, though, leaning against the worktop while Emil slid the pretzels into the oven, Bo asked, ‘So, when will you have to go back to Copenhagen?’ She kept her voice level and her eyes lowered, purposely avoiding his eye line.

  Emil exhaled heavily. ‘I need to be at the restaurant for the weekend service,’ he said sombrely, slamming the oven door shut and straightening up. ‘I will have to go back tomorrow.’ Bo nodded, trying to keep her expression neutral, but she could feel regret start to creep up on her, and with it a conviction that there was not enough time, and that she didn’t want him to go yet.

  After lunch, they wheeled their bikes down the path and picked up the cycle route that headed north. The pale sun hung low, casting long, slanting shadows of their bikes onto the asphalt, and soon the sea appeared on the horizon, shimmering beneath a vast sky.

  The car park at Grenen was enormous, designed to accommodate the summer hoards, but only a handful of cars dotted the tarmac today. They propped their bikes against the perimeter fence and joined the path through the dunes, which opened out onto a seemingly endless vista of sandy beach.
/>   ‘It’s huge,’ Bo said, looking around in awe.

  ‘In summer, there is a tractor bus to take people to the tip,’ Emil explained, faintly apologetic. ‘In winter, I’m afraid we must walk.’

  Bo wound her scarf around her neck and hooked her arm purposefully through his. ‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘You ready?’ He nodded, adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, and they set off along the empty beach.

  As they walked, the beach began to taper, funnelling them towards the waterline. In the distant waters she could see the bobbing heads of seals, and seagulls wheeled and dived overhead. They kept walking until the wide beach was behind them and all that remained was a crescent of white sand about thirty feet long, protruding into the water, curved like the handle of a hunting knife. Waves crashed insistently from both sides and Bo had the strange sensation that the oceans were parting, clearing a path before her and that, if she kept going, she would be able to walk right across the water.

  Shivering, she nestled into Emil’s side and they watched the sun sink towards the watery horizon, turning the sky pink and violet. The seagulls had fallen silent and the seals had disappeared in anticipation of the imminent nightfall. Bo felt Emil inhale deeply, then he lowered his rucksack from his shoulder, dropped to his haunches and carefully removed a grey, vase-like container from inside.

  He stood up and took a few steps forward so that he was standing at the very tip. Bo watched as he unscrewed the lid; he held the vessel upright for a moment, then tipped it sideways. A cascade of silvery ash flew out and hovered momentarily, seemingly suspended in the pink-infused air before being caught by the breeze and dispersing into millions of particles across the waves.

  ‘Farvel, Mor’ Emil said. ‘Goodbye, Mum.’ Bo stepped up behind him and stroked his arm, feeling hot tears starting to form at the back of her eyes. She squinted into the sunset, trying to follow the progress of the tiny particles of ash, but they had all vanished into the ether.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ Emil said. He returned the empty container to his rucksack and turned to face her. His lips were pale and his eyes watery. Without even thinking about what she was doing, Bo put her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug, whether it was to comfort him or because she craved comfort herself, she wasn’t sure. He stepped closer and she felt his arms circle her waist and his warm breath in her ear.

  They clung to each other, the waves splashing at their feet, both savouring the comfort of physical contact. As they began to pull apart his cheek brushed against hers and before she knew what was happening her lips found his and they kissed. His breath mingled with hers and suddenly she was no longer aware of the crashing waves or darkening sky, just a feeling of closeness, as if they were somehow merged with each other, and at one with the sea and the sky. Eventually, she lowered her heels to the ground, put her gloved hands on his cheeks and looked at him intently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to do that. I hope you don’t—’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he replied, sliding his arm tight around her waist and pulling her closer to kiss her again.

  ‘The moon’s going to be bright tonight,’ Bo said, when they finally pulled apart. The sun had disappeared and the sky was dark now, but a luminous white glow shimmered on the horizon over Emil’s shoulder. Emil turned and they both watched, but instead of seeing a moonrise, the glow expanded, spreading sideways, taking on a greenish cast. They watched in awe-struck silence as the glow intensified, revealing a shimmering arc of green light which ran from east to west just above the horizon.

  Bo gasped in amazement. ‘I didn’t know you could see the Northern Lights from here,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ Emil concurred.

  ‘Look, it’s moving,’ Bo murmured, transfixed by the glowing band of green that had begun to sway, undulating like a curtain in the wind.

  They stood motionless, Bo leaning into his body, Emil’s arm draped around her shoulder. ‘I wonder what causes it,’ Bo whispered.

  ‘Danish folklore says it is swans.’ Emil said.

  ‘Swans?’ Bo repeated, looking up at him, puzzled.

  ‘Swans held a competition to see who could fly the farthest north,’ Emil said, curling her in closer to his chest. ‘Some birds became caught in the ice and tried to escape. The movement of their wings flapping produced the waves of the Northern Lights.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bo said, on a strangled note. ‘That’s so sad.’ Her face tightened and she dropped her head.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ Emil asked, tilting her chin up and wiping away the tears which had begun to roll down her cheeks.

  ‘Because of the poor swans!’ she said thickly, peering up at him through the curly strands of hair which had escaped her hat and blown across her face. Emil laughed and tucked the curls tenderly behind her ears.

  ‘It’s just a story,’ he said, with a reassuring smile. ‘I’m pretty sure the scientists have a different explanation.’

  She half smiled, half winced. ‘I know,’ Bo whimpered, ‘but it’s just so sad.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ he agreed, pulling her head in close to his shoulder and rubbing her back, like a parent consoling an upset child. Bo fished a tissue out of her coat pocket and wiped her nose, relieved that her tears seemed to be subsiding.

  ‘Or maybe someone up there,’ Emil continued, looking up at the shimmering sky, ‘decided to put on a show for Mum.’ His words caused Bo to take a heaving breath as fresh tears sprang into her eyes.

  ‘Oh, God!’ she whimpered, mortified, putting a hand to her face to stifle a sob. ‘I’m so sorry, Emil. I should be the one comforting you, not the other way around!’ Emil let out a low chuckle and pulled her closer.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he soothed. Bo wondered if she should say anything else, but there didn’t seem to be the need. Instead she put her arms around his waist and together they stared at the shimmering arc of light until they were so cold they could no longer feel their feet.

  Eventually Emil said, ‘Shall we go home?’ and Bo nodded. They turned away from the luminous horizon and began the long walk back to their bikes.

  *

  Back at the summerhouse, the blinds were lowered and the sound of Otis Redding greeted them as they unlocked the front door. Florence and Simon were in the kitchen, their backs to the door, so neither of them heard Bo’s key in the lock or noticed them wiping their feet on the doormat. Florence was sipping wine at the stove, whilst Simon rummaged through the salad drawer in the fridge.

  ‘Simon, babe. What are you looking for?’ Florence said impatiently, stirring the contents of a simmering pan on the hob.

  ‘Fennel seeds,’ Simon grumbled.

  ‘Well, you’re not going to find them in there,’ replied Florence, and she stepped sideways to pluck a jar from the cupboard.

  ‘Thanks,’ Simon mumbled, taking the jar.

  ‘Something smells good,’ Bo remarked amiably, aware that her stomach was rumbling.

  Florence gave a start and glanced over her shoulder at them. ‘Simon’s cooking dinner,’ she said proudly, stepping across the kitchen to turn the volume control down on the speaker. Behind her, Simon pulled a horrified expression and mimed choking, clutching his throat with one hand.

  ‘You’re just in time,’ Florence added. ‘We were beginning to think you’d done a runner.’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Bo replied, pulling off her gloves and shoving them in her coat pockets. ‘We went to Grenen to . . .’ she stopped mid-sentence, feeling it was not for her to explain the purpose of their trip.

  ‘I scattered my mother’s ashes,’ Emil stated simply.

  Florence’s face softened. ‘Oh, babe, I’m sorry,’ she said sincerely.

  ‘It’s okay, really,’ Emil replied. ‘In fact, it was beautiful. And I was not there alone.’ As he said this, he and Bo exchanged a coy smile and Bo instinctively touched the side of his arm.

  Florence observed the gesture and her eyes flickered betwee
n them shrewdly. ‘Well, in that case . . .’ she trailed off, with a meaningful look at Bo.

  Feeling a blush brewing and keen to move the subject on, Bo said, ‘Have you seen the sky?’

  ‘The sky?’ Florence repeated, a quizzical wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. Simon put the jar of fennel seeds on the counter and went over to the window, yanking up the blind to reveal the glowing green sky outside.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed, peering out through the glass. Florence padded across the room and stood beside him, open-mouthed.

  ‘Bo, babe,’ she said, without taking her eyes off the view, ‘pass me my coat, would you?’

  They all stood shivering on the front lawn, faces raised towards the bright sky, their breath visible in the freezing air. Conscious of Emil’s presence close behind her, Bo instinctively leant backwards and rested her head against his chest, and in response he placed his chin gently on the top of her head and slipped his arms around her waist.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Bo said, glancing across at the others, enjoying their awe-struck wonder.

  ‘Babe, I’m actually speechless,’ Florence answered.

  A moment passed, then Simon remarked drolly, ‘Well, that’s a first.’ Florence responded with a sharp jab of her elbow into Simon’s ribs.

  They stood for a few moments longer, huddled close in their respective pairs, until Florence turned to Simon and said, ‘Babe, did you turn the hob off?’

  ‘Shit,’ Simon mumbled, then bounded down the path and back inside the house. A few seconds later the front door swung open again. ‘I think we might have a problem,’ Simon said sheepishly. ‘The sauce has kind of burnt. It’s stuck to the pan and there are black bits floating in it.’ Florence tutted and Bo fought to stifle a giggle.

  ‘Shall I take a look?’ Emil offered. ‘I’m sure it can be rescued.’ He released Bo from their embrace and followed Simon back indoors.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Bo teased, when the door had banged shut. ‘He’s like a different person.’