The Hygge Holiday: The warmest, funniest, cosiest romantic comedy of 2017 Page 15

  ‘But it’s nine p.m. and we’re eating risalamande,’ she said.

  He looked up at her then, as if she’d spoken entirely in Danish. ‘But the New York markets have closed,’ he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard the first time. ‘It might impact our deal.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, closing her book, unable to pretend any more tonight. ‘Have the room to yourself, ring all the markets, for all I care.’ She knew she sounded petulant, but she was tired from her day and just wanted to relax and enjoy the evening. There was no way this experiment was going to come off.

  There was no response from Joe; he was still staring at the phone in his hand and didn’t seem to have heard her. Nor did he notice her getting up to leave.

  She blew out the tea lights on the mantelpiece and snapped off the lamp by the chair. He was tapping on the mini keyboard on his phone and the noise of the buttons made her clench her teeth as she pulled the arm off the record player so that the music came to a screeching stop. Not only was he nowhere near being hygge, she wondered if he was stealing her ability to relax too.

  She moved across the room, past the table towards her bedroom.

  ‘Clara,’ he called out, hand over the phone as he looked over at her.

  She exhaled quickly and turned around. ‘Yes,’ she replied in a tight voice.

  ‘Thanks for dinner.’

  She was too cross to do anything but acknowledge him with a half-wave of her hand as she spun back round, pushed into her bedroom and closed the door behind her with a slam.

  Chapter 18

  Waking with bubbles in her stomach, Clara lay in bed excited for the day ahead. She couldn’t wait to see the reaction to her new venture and had completely forgotten why she had tossed and turned before falling asleep the night before. So distracted was she by thoughts of what the day held, she couldn’t even be cross with Joe when he emerged, and found herself pouring him a coffee and sharing a croissant with him as he read the news on his tablet and she sat in tense anticipation, barely able to concentrate on her breakfast, watching the hands of the clock move round.

  ‘Have a lovely day,’ she called, clattering down the stairs to the shop.

  She couldn’t hear any response over Lady CaCa’s call of ‘SUITS YOU SIR, SHITHEAD.’ Had she imagined his hand reaching into his pocket and popping a pill from a strip as she’d rushed past? The thought disappeared almost as soon as it had arrived as she dragged the blackboard outside. She felt a thrill as she positioned it on the pavement, the words standing out in primary colours, the letters bold and cartoon-like. Would people be intrigued by its announcement?

  It was a crisp day: a clear blue sky, sunlight hitting the other side of the high street, slicing the houses in half with its golden glow. The wind had dropped to a gentle breeze. She turned back into the shop, fetching the large wooden zero for the window. This was it. Would people still be interested?

  Lauren arrived moments later, puffing and pulling off scarves and gloves. ‘I’ve dressed for deep winter but it’s boiling out there,’ she said, her cheeks flushed. ‘Well, boiling is probably going too far – it is November after all – but still…’

  Clara felt doubts building as she looked around the empty shop. What if no one came and she’d asked Lauren to be here for nothing?

  ‘Soooo?’ Lauren said, smiling. ‘Can I see it?’

  Clara found she couldn’t speak, a lump now in her throat as she moved silently through the shop, leading Lauren to the room in the back. The space had been transformed, and Clara watched Lauren’s face as she stared around.

  ‘It’s huge,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t this just a stockroom?’

  Clara enjoyed her confused expression, a reminder of how far the room had come from the dusty space she’d first laid eyes on, home to broken toys and empty cardboard boxes.

  The table had been wiped down and covered with newspaper, and stools had been placed all around it. In the middle of the table were tubes of paint and PVA glue, jugs of water, pots of sequins, buttons and beads, and paintbrushes. A large red bin stood in one corner. On the other side of the room were clusters of comfortable-looking chairs around low tables. There were lamps on in every corner, candles in brackets on the walls and a small table to one side covered with a gingham cloth, kettle and mugs, and a selection of home-made cookies and cakes on plates under cling film.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Lauren said, moving through the room as if in a daze. ‘It looks so cosy and inviting. I can just picture it filled with people.’ She turned back to Clara, her eyes sparkling. ‘It must have taken you hours. It’s fantastic. Just what we all need: a place to bring our children, somewhere to spend some time with friends.’

  ‘But will anyone come?’ Clara bit her lip, the nerves making her stomach leap about.

  ‘Of course. The sign outside is great, and did you see the local paper this morning? There’s a fab piece in it all about today, with a gorgeous photo of you. You’ll be on the website too.’

  ‘Really?’ Clara felt her earlier excitement build and they both turned towards the sound of the bell above the door.

  ‘All right,’ Lauren said, heading out into the shop, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’

  Clara followed her, pleased to see a few children already browsing the counters, where a choice of wooden toys was out on display.

  ‘It’s a Paint Your Own Toy workshop, shall I show you?’ Lauren was already bustling people through. She bent down to a young girl with a long brunette plait who was clutching a wooden dinosaur. ‘Is that what you want to paint?’ The girl nodded quickly, her mother peeking through to the workshop, moving towards one of the armchairs. ‘Clara, she wants to paint a T rex,’ and with that, Clara had her first customer.

  The morning was filled with noise, questions, the smell of coffee, parents laughing and swapping stories. The cakes had all but disappeared and Lauren had barely strayed from the counter, tapping up things on the till and sending customers through to Clara.

  Clara felt a lurch of joy as she looked at the large table crammed with children on stools, tongues out, concentrating their hardest on painting their toys, some parents leaning over to help, others sitting in the armchairs watching them enjoy themselves over their coffee.

  Only once did they come close to disaster. One of the boys was so excited to finish the wheels on his wooden car in fire-engine red that he bounded over to show his father. At which point Joe appeared in the doorway and tripped over said excited child, causing Joe to yelp and the child to cry. Other children then looked up from what they were doing, hands and faces smeared with paint, as if the room was filled with little savages. Clara swallowed as Joe made his way over to her, frantically dabbing at his trouser leg.

  ‘Here,’ she said, reaching for a sponge. ‘It’s water-soluble, so it’ll wash out,’ she added.

  He looked at her, then at the sponge. He didn’t take it. ‘What’s going on? Have you opened a crèche? Have you invited half the village round to smash up the place?’

  Clara took a breath, desperate for him to see what she was trying to do. ‘I’ve turned this room into a workshop and café,’ she said. ‘There’s nowhere in the village for anyone to go in the day. I wanted to create a warm, cosy place where people could bring their children. The room was just being wasted; now it’s full of life.’

  ‘Full of mess,’ he corrected.

  ‘That too,’ she nodded, trying to stay upbeat. The frown on his face was making her nervous. ‘But it will all be tidy in the end, and look at the fun they’re having.’

  Joe gave the table a cursory glance and grunted. At the sound, the little boy who had told Clara about his parents’ divorce the other day looked up from the table and gave him a gap-toothed grin. Joe met his eyes, his expression changing in the face of such happiness.

  ‘Can you draw ducks?’ the boy called out.

  Joe took a step forward, and then looked over his shoulder as if the boy was talking to someone else.

  ‘Can you d
raw ducks?’ the boy repeated, head tipped to one side.

  ‘Ducks?’ Joe said, looking impossibly awkward leaning down in his sharp suit to address the small boy on the stool.

  ‘Yeah. I can’t draw them. My dad could draw but he doesn’t live with us any more. Can you try?’

  ‘I… Oh, well, I…’ The boy thrust a pencil into Joe’s hand. ‘Um… I’m not sure…’ Joe turned to Clara, holding out the pencil as if it was a contaminated item. ‘He wants me to draw him a duck.’

  ‘An excellent idea.’ Clara beamed at the little boy. ‘I often think there should be more ducks on trains.’ She stifled a giggle as Joe turned back round, an uncertain look on his face as he hovered over the wooden toy.

  Then he leaned down and started to draw: a careful rounded eye, a beak, wings, spindly legs. As he worked, the boy was growing more and more excited, sitting on his hands and calling out ‘That’s it. That’s really cool.’

  It took an age, but Clara watched Joe slowly create a cartoon duck, reaching for a rubber when he thought the tail could be improved. He was all concentration, a methodical worker, a small smile tugging at his mouth. ‘I’ve done webbed feet,’ he pointed out to the boy.

  The boy craned his neck to see better. ‘Awesome.’

  ‘Do you think the wings look right?’ Joe asked him, pressing the pencil up to his mouth as if he was studying a portrait.

  ‘The wings are the best bit,’ the boy said solemnly.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Joe said, and Clara had to hide a laugh in her hand.

  He flushed red as he stood up, giving the pencil back to the boy, who was already turning towards the tubes of paint. ‘Gonna paint him blue.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Joe said, placing a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder before snatching it away as Clara looked up at him.

  ‘He likes you.’ Clara smiled as the little boy gave Joe a double thumbs-up before slapping blue paint all over his duck.

  ‘Nice boy,’ Joe mumbled to his shoes.

  Lauren’s head appeared in the doorway. ‘Clara, you’re needed,’ she called, giving Joe a cursory nod.

  Joe’s eyes widened as he turned in the direction of her voice, all thoughts of the previous few moments seemingly forgotten as he asked in a businesslike tone, ‘Are you paying staff?’

  Lauren’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I offered to help Clara, actually. And you are?’

  Joe sniffed and mumbled something about being the proprietor.

  Lauren breathed out slowly. ‘Of course you are.’

  Clara cringed. ‘Tell them I’ll be along in a minute.’

  ‘Shall do,’ Lauren said cheerily, before turning to Joe. ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ she said with a small huff, then turned back into the shop.

  Clara laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but Joe hadn’t noticed anything amiss, back to looking harried, smoothing at his suit.

  ‘Look, I need to get to a meeting; in fact I’m already late. I’m not sure if I’ll be back this evening.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Clara said, eyes darting past him, hoping he wouldn’t notice that one of the children had left a massive purple hand print on the freshly painted cream wall behind him.

  He pulled out his phone. ‘What’s your mobile number, in case I need to get hold of you?’

  ‘Ah…’ The purple-handed child was coming their way. ‘Um… I don’t have one.’ The child passed with no paint-based drama and she breathed out.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, lowering his own phone, unable to conceal his surprise. ‘Everyone has a mobile.’

  She shrugged and looked up at him. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But… that’s just archaic. How does anyone get hold of you? Smoke signals? Telegram? Jesus Christ, no phone,’ he said, as if she had just announced that she had no vital organs.

  A mother looked at him sharply from one of the armchairs.

  ‘I have email!’ Clara said, wanting to cheer him up a bit, bring back the Joe she had just glimpsed. ‘Though actually,’ she had to add, ‘I rarely check it.’

  Joe rolled his eyes.

  Clara bit her lip, restraining herself from making a joke about carrier pigeons. Joe suddenly didn’t seem to be in that kind of mood, and she didn’t want to ruin the small progress she’d made over the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘Right, I really do have to go.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘I’ll call the landline in the flat when I’m heading back and let you know my ETA.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she said, punching him lightly on the arm. He took a step back. ‘Hope it goes well!’

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Your meeting,’ she said super-slowly, wondering why he looked so strange. Where was he going? Did he really have a meeting?

  ‘Yes, that,’ he mumbled, not quite meeting her eye. He turned to pick his way back through the room the way he had come, only just avoiding having his feet stuck to the floor by the purple-handed child, who was back holding a whole tube of glue.

  ‘Let’s find your mum, shall we?’ Clara said brightly, steering the child quickly away.

  By the time she looked up again, Joe had disappeared.

  Chapter 19

  Joe had finally shut the laptop in the early hours and was considering taking a shower. He’d snuck in late, around midnight, and Clara had been in bed. He’d been tempted to wake her up, apologise, tell her the workshop had been a good idea. After he’d left that morning, he’d had more time to think about it. His reaction had been a confusing mixture of tiredness, nostalgia and guilt. The atmosphere had been buzzing. It had reminded him of those early days in the shop with his mother, children racing around in excitement, new toy deliveries, giggles and chatter. He had loved the place then. Why had he been so unpleasant?

  He drew his arms over his head, cracked his knuckles. His back muscles ached from leaning over the computer, his eyes were strained from the light and he just wanted to wash the day away.

  As he padded to the bathroom, towel looped around his neck, he paused in front of her bedroom door. The shower was ancient, pipes clanging into life the moment you twisted the hot water on; it would wake her, and although a few days ago he probably wouldn’t have cared, now he found himself wavering. She had obviously spent hours preparing the workshop; she must be exhausted too.

  Ever since the row by the field when he’d ruined a £230 pair of brogues, she’d been nothing but nice to him. He hadn’t been expecting it, had only agreed to stay in the flat because another night on that single bed in the pub and he’d be seeing a chiropractor for a year. Yet all week she’d been leaving him thoughtful dishes, little notes, and his initial suspicions had started to melt. Perhaps it was just her way of getting him on side, but he wasn’t sure any more. He had been short with her earlier; he couldn’t keep taking her niceness for granted. He felt a surge of relief that she didn’t know what he’d been up to that day.

  He turned to head back to his room, the living room empty, the dark squares of familiar photographs along one wall. He found himself drifting towards them, his hands clammy as he stood in front of them.

  His proud mother had displayed numerous photos of him at different ages: his graduation day, when he’d had the most horrific hair in straight curtains; in a too-big suit as a pre-teen at an older cousin’s wedding; his mum and him, mouths wide open, arms in the air as they hurtled down a ride at Alton Towers; standing by his first car, a battered Ford Fiesta that he’d paid for out of his first pay cheque. He looked impossibly young, a different person, and yet it had only been just over ten years ago.

  He’d been avoiding it. The last photo, older, faded: him blowing out candles at his eighth birthday party, his dad in a heavy cable-knit jumper, one arm resting on Joe’s shoulders, his mother, wild curls tied back, on the other side, so proud as he puffed them all out. He examined the photograph as he always did, felt the same pain. His father had left the week after, telling his mother he’d be living with Rachel, the PA who used to accompany him on his overseas b
usiness trips. Such a stereotype.