The Hygge Holiday: The warmest, funniest, cosiest romantic comedy of 2017 Read online

  ‘You’ll need to be in first thing. We’re going to be here all night and there’ll be more to proofread. Five o’clock sharp. I can send the car again.’

  Pam’s face fell, the lines around her eyes deeper than he remembered, the grey at her temples obvious now in the glare of the strip light. The sight jolted him, and he remembered Matt telling him about her new grandchild. He should ask her; he should let her leave early another night to be with her family. They were just so busy.

  ‘The car would be good, thank you, there’s no Tube at that time,’ she said.

  Joe nodded brusquely, glad to see half his team arrive in the lift behind her.

  ‘Mercer, Adams, anything for Pam before she gets off for the night?’ He asked it quickly, Pam spinning around, perhaps dreading the next words.

  Mercer, a rotund guy with chubby cheeks and a barrelling laugh, looked across. ‘Nothing from me; you have a good night on the tiles, girl.’

  Adams, wiry, quiet and bespectacled, shook his head. ‘Thanks for staying on so late, Pam,’ he said, causing colour to edge into her cheeks.

  Joe waved a hand. ‘The car will take you back,’ he said, turning to Mercer and Adams. ‘I’ve ordered from Nobu, but don’t think it’s going to be all sushi and caviar; we’ve got work to do.’

  Mercer’s smile dimmed. ‘Never, boss,’ he said, removing his jacket.

  Adams was already turning on his computer screen. ‘I’ll bring the numbers I worked up earlier…’

  Joe felt something easing in his stomach as he looked around at the desks. It wasn’t that he’d been lonely, he thought. They had to be here; this deal was important, another bank could sneak in and steal it from under their noses. Still, he couldn’t help a small smile as he saw the reflection opposite, three heads leaning over computers, more voices in the room.

  Chapter 7

  She’d needed to get out, had been talking to herself for the past hour, muttering Danish obscenities as she replayed the conversation with Roz, rewound Joe’s answerphone message again and again. She had bundled into her coat and walked back along the high street, stamping out her anger as she puffed out cold air.

  She noticed the old-fashioned street lamps in the high street for the first time, glowing orange in a sea of grey. The shop receded into the distance and she headed to the only place that was open, windows blazing. Pushing into the pub, she was surprised to see the bar empty. The enormous fireplace was swept but unlit, the tables polished, but there were no coasters on the surface, no glasses, and no customers.

  Gavin appeared, humming to himself, from the staircase to the rooms above, stopping quickly when he saw Clara standing in the doorway.

  ‘Where have you been? You’re smiling,’ she said, feeling lighter on seeing him. He had such an open face, his ruddy cheeks reminding her of her dad’s back home. She needed to write to Dad, she thought; he liked her to check in despite having his hands full with her young twin stepsisters.

  Gavin’s smile froze and he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Nowhere,’ he blurted, slamming the door to the staircase shut, a shudder tearing through the bar.

  Clara’s eyes widened, wondering what it was that she had just said.

  ‘You don’t want to stay, do you? It’s just I haven’t had the room cleaned yet and the other room…’ He trailed away, Clara becoming more and more confused. He had definitely said there was only one bedroom up there.

  ‘The other room?’ she said, inching forward.

  ‘No other room, I meant,’ he said. She watched a red stain creep up his neck, over the top of a tattoo she couldn’t make out.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m not staying,’ she said, and it seemed to be that comment which reminded Gavin where she’d been all day.

  ‘Hold on, why are you here? Don’t you have a house to sit in and a shop to run?’

  Clara had propped herself up on a stool and was scratching at the counter with a nail as he moved behind the bar, watching her.

  She nodded her head. ‘I do.’

  ‘Well then.’

  She paused, took a breath. ‘Do you think Louisa really wants me there?’ The sentence was out in a rush.

  Gavin frowned. ‘What do you mean? Of course she does, she gave you the keys, didn’t she?’

  ‘She did,’ Clara said, scratching the counter again, the earlier doubts starting to subside. Gavin was right, she hadn’t misread things. ‘I was just worried that maybe I’d bullied her into it.’

  He snorted. ‘Have you met Louisa? Woman couldn’t be bullied into anything. She once chased a UKIP councillor down the street with an umbrella.’

  Clara found herself smiling.

  ‘What’s happened? Earlier you were so sure about it, and now all this.’

  Clara bit her lip, not wanting to tell him about Roz, about the voicemail from Joe. ‘Nothing. Just being silly.’

  Gavin reached underneath the counter and pulled out a glass, shovelling some ice into the bottom and reaching to spray lemonade into it. ‘Here,’ he said, pushing it towards her. ‘On the house.’

  The kind gesture almost made her well up; she hadn’t realised that she needed reminding that people cared. ‘Thanks.’ She took a sip, watching him tie an apron behind his back and bend to start stocking one of the small fridges, the glass beer bottles clinking as they butted up against each other. She could feel her muscles easing, the sugar from the lemonade racing around her veins and renewing her energy.

  She was just about to ask about the argument the previous night, the history between Roz and Louisa, when the door opened and a blast of freezing air swirled around the bar. Clara longed for the huge fireplace to be lit, or even the radiator to actually radiate heat. Then she heard the voice and felt a cold hand grip her insides.

  ‘You again.’

  She snatched a look over her shoulder, hoping that it was just her imagination. But no, there she was again, same suspicious expression, lips stained a deeper red, a long black winter coat making her look like Death itself. ‘I was just going,’ Clara said, stumbling off the stool and hitting her knee on the bar. ‘Ow, lort!’

  ‘What did you call me?’ Roz said, still standing in the doorway with her coat buttoned to her neck.

  ‘I didn’t, it was Danish for… um, it’s a swear word, but it wasn’t at you, it was at my knee, see…’

  ‘I don’t know what minee is; is that Danish for something obscene too?’

  ‘Roz, let it go,’ Gavin called.

  ‘No, my knee, not minee…’ Clara repeated slowly.

  ‘I thought she would have gone by now.’ Roz spoke as though Clara wasn’t there.

  Gavin’s mouth puckered. ‘Oh, I see. So you’ve had a few words, have you?’

  Clara found her eyes darting around the carpet, at the threadbare patches, coloured swirls, the legs of chairs and stools. ‘I’ll just be off.’ She wasn’t in the mood to get another dressing-down from Roz.

  ‘Finish your lemonade,’ Gavin growled. This menacing edge was new and Clara found herself slipping back onto the stool. She hadn’t been too keen on the idea of walking past Roz in the doorway anyway. ‘Now, Roz. Coming or going?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not thirsty,’ she said, sniffing and turning on her heel. The sound of the wind picked up as she moved back outside, Gavin’s mutterings lost as the door finally closed on her.

  The room seemed to hold its breath until Clara bit her lip and looked back at Gavin. ‘So, to answer your earlier question, someone might have had a word.’

  She found herself telling him everything – Roz’s visit, Joe’s message – as he topped up her lemonade and then added vodka. ‘I think she wants to talk to Louisa about something, but she wouldn’t tell me what.’

  Gavin sighed, taking out a stack of coasters and littering them along the bar. ‘She’s been after the shop for years; she put in an offer ages ago, but Louisa pipped her. Roz has always been desperate to get rid of her, and as you saw, they’re not exactly bosom pals…’

  �
�No, I, um, picked up on that,’ Clara said, a small smile escaping. ‘And the fete? What happened at the fete?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Gavin stopped what he was doing. ‘Yes, that was unfortunate. There was a disagreement over the judging of the Most Moist Cake and somehow Roz’s entry fell. She had it out with Louisa, who had been judging, by the coconut shy, and a few of the coconuts were just within their reach…’

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘Yes, it was quite spectacular. For a thin woman, she has an excellent arm. But it wasn’t just the cake; Roz and Louisa have been on and off with each other for years. Planning permissions rejected, some row over a shared fence, a gentleman I think they both rather liked…’ He coughed at that part. ‘It just sort of exploded that day. Literally.’ He leaned over the counter towards her. ‘Come on, Clara, you were so excited earlier; don’t let her stop you. She’s all right really, Roz. Bark a lot worse than her bite. She just likes things as she likes them.’

  ‘She doesn’t like me,’ Clara pouted.

  ‘That’s her loss,’ he grinned. ‘And look, I got this earlier.’

  He wiped his hands on his apron and reached for his phone by the till, holding it out to show her a text from Louisa: Found fabulously pretty house-sitter for Lady CaCa and Roddy. She’s going to run the shop, poor lamb, so be sure to visit her lots as she’ll get lonely. But if anyone can do it she can. The message made Clara smile, heat rushing into her cheeks at the compliment.

  ‘Oh, and she did have an S and she hit the triple word with SUNG, forty-two points!’ Gavin smiled fondly at the phone. ‘So you can’t go,’ he said, coughing and tapping the screen off, placing the phone back by the till. ‘She’s relying on you, you promised.’

  ‘But what about Joe? His message was s —’

  Gavin put a hand up. ‘No, no, no, it’s not anyone else’s decision. It’s Louisa’s and she wants you and that’s the end of it.’

  Clara’s mouth was still open.

  ‘Now do you want to live there for a bit?’ Gavin asked her.

  Clara nodded.

  ‘And do you want to run the shop?’

  She paused, thinking of her earlier plans, her head nodding quickly.

  ‘So that’s settled,’ Gavin said, clinking her glass with his. ‘You’re staying.’

  A woman appeared from the staircase behind, hair tied back with a knotted headscarf. ‘All done, Gavin, I’ve put it back like you said I —’

  ‘That’s GREAT,’ Gavin said, lurching towards her, blatantly cutting off the rest of her sentence. ‘I’m sure you have,’ he added.

  The woman looked at him in surprise. ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you next week, same time,’ she said, moving past him.

  Gavin nodded quickly. ‘Same time, yes, same time.’

  Clara watched this bizarre exchange in silence. The vodka had gone straight to her head; food seemed like forever ago. Who was this woman? What had she been doing upstairs?

  Gavin was puce when he returned to the bar after ushering the woman out into the street. They’d stood under the porch for a while, Gavin handing her something, and then she’d left. Clara was about to ask what it was all about, but found the question freezing in her throat as she looked at his expression.

  ‘Well,’ she said, stepping off the stool and pushing her empty glass across the bar. ‘I’d better get going then.’

  Gavin couldn’t meet her eye, was scrubbing at the spotless countertop.

  ‘Thanks for everything, for everything you’ve said,’ Clara said, hoping he’d look up and smile at her.

  He flicked his eyes over her face. ‘Not at all,’ he said, his voice low. ‘My pleasure, you come back in here soon.’ At last he looked up properly, meeting her eye.

  Clara wiped the puzzled expression from her face and gave him a small wave. ‘Shall do. And I’ll see you in the shop. Two days, OK? Come along in two days’ time. I’ve got a surprise.’

  The thought made the walk back a lot quicker. She let herself in and rushed straight through to the shop, where she pulled out one of the oversized wooden numbers, a large number 2, which she placed in the window to the side of the shutters, grinning as she did so.

  Tomorrow was where it was all going to begin, she thought as she climbed the stairs. Tomorrow she’d unpack, deal with the carnage of the flat and everything else. She wouldn’t think about Roz or anyone else who didn’t want her here. She was going to make a difference. She didn’t notice the answerphone this time; she didn’t see the red 4 blinking into the darkness.

  She was just dropping off into the deepest sleep when out of the silence she heard ‘MY PRECIOUS, SHITHEAD.’ At least Lady CaCa was pleased to see her.

  ZE is not a real word, Gavin, and why do you ALWAYS have the Zs, Xs, Qs and Js when I’m left with six vowels and absolutely no hope of using them?

  I’m sorry I left in such a hurry but I really couldn’t wait around. I knew you’d talk me out of it and I needed to escape. I’m so glad Clara is taking on the flat. Lady CaCa does enjoy company; perhaps she will pick up some Danish? Roddy of course won’t notice that anything has changed. Do be sure to remind Clara that he adores salmon fillets with sweet chilli sauce and there are lots in the freezer.

  Madrid is a hoot. I’m right in the centre of things so there are dozens of shops and squares and outdoor cafés serving tapas. I have eaten so much paella in 24 hours I feel like I am now half woman, half prawn.

  I’ve been walking everywhere and starting to get my bearings. The galleries are something else. I adore all the art and have convinced myself that I should now retrain as a surrealist painter. I feel that style might suit my personality. You know how I like to experiment in the kitchen? This seems the painting equivalent. No one thought bacon, syrup and chocolate sprinkles would work until I pulled out my fabulous Chocolate Surprise. I had to look at lots of Goya, as he is a local lad so to speak, but his pictures are all rather dark and terrifying. I think I’ll stick with telephone lobsters and men with apples for faces.

  I’m writing to you from the café outside my hotel as I smoke from a shisha pipe! It’s only raspberry tobacco, so don’t have heart failure; this is no Amsterdam. Later I’m planning to drag myself back up to my room. I have a small stone balcony that I can sit out on as gorgeous Spaniards, a lot of swarthy Heathcliff types, walk by with beautiful women draped on their arms. Then I’ll get dolled up and head out into the city for a night on the tiles.

  Chapter 8

  She’d changed Louisa’s sheets, the new cream duvet cover smelling of lavender washing powder, the duck-feather pillows impossibly soft. She had unearthed the softest grey cashmere rug from the top of the wardrobe and had draped it over the duvet. She lit a candle by the side of the bed, pulled out a dog-eared novel from her rucksack and nestled down under the covers. Despite the haven she’d created, however, she barely slept, woken by the ideas tugging at her, Roz’s disgruntled expression, Gavin’s kind words, everything batting back and forward.

  She yawned as the sunlight leaked through the edges of the curtains and the blind above her head. Lady CaCa looked at her in disgust; she quickly covered her mouth. Bleary-eyed, she stood in her woollen slipper socks, hands wrapped around her mug of coffee, and started planning the day ahead. With lilting country music playing out of Louisa’s record player, she set about tidying the flat: packing away clothes, piling up ironing, scrubbing at the bathroom and kitchen, dusting and polishing until the whole place sparkled. When she eventually stopped, her stomach was growling, her arms were aching and she was in desperate need of a shower.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, she felt lifted, the flat already seeming bigger, a smell of bleach underpinning everything else. Later she would give the place a few personal touches, but for now she popped the last of the carrot cake in her mouth and made a mental note to go food shopping.