The Hygge Holiday

by Rosie Blake

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

It's autumn in Yulethorpe, and everyone is gloomy. It's cold and drizzly, and the skies are permagrey. The last shop on the high street—an adorable little toy shop—has just shut its doors. Everything is going wrong for Yulethorpe this autumn. Until Clara Kristensen arrives.

Clara is on holiday, but she can see the potential in the pretty town, so she rolls up her sleeves and sets to work. Things are looking up until Joe comes to Yulethorpe to find out exactly what is going on with his mother's shop.

Joe is Very Busy and Important in the City and very sure that Clara is up to no good. Surely no-one would work this hard just for the fun of it? Can a man who answers emails at three a.m. learn to appreciate the slower, happier, hygge things in life—naps, candles, good friends, and maybe even falling in love?

Release date: October 30, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 336

Sample

Clara had only been inside for ten minutes when it happened.

It had all seemed like a perfectly normal Tuesday evening. There had been a few people in the pub: a young couple in the corner, the man trying to get comfortable on a narrow wooden pew, his partner opposite him in a chair, understated and pretty in a black cashmere jumper and jeans, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a low ponytail. An older woman with thick eyeliner and dyed auburn hair was propped up on a stool at the bar, making her way through a bottle of red wine. The large barman topping up her glass had a tattoo on his arm of a type of bird that Clara couldn’t quite make out. Another man, around the same age but about half the size, was looking dolefully into his pint in between snatching glances at the woman at the bar and smoothing down stray wisps of hair over his bald spot. A neon slot machine flashed and beeped intermittently in one corner, beside an empty dartboard and opposite the floor lamp next to which Clara was sitting reading her book.

Suddenly a woman appeared in the doorway, hair wet though it wasn’t raining outside, dressed in a turquoise woollen coat and purple wellington boots. Flinging her arms wide, she marched straight into the room. ‘Gin and tonic, Gavin, double, hold back on the tonic,’ she cried, moving towards the bar. ‘I’m done,’ she announced. Every head in the pub, including Clara’s, turned towards her. ‘It’s over, I’m shutting it. I was in the shower and I thought, damn it, I can’t do this any more. I’m off.’

Gavin paused, his hand on the gin bottle, his mouth open.

‘That gin won’t pour itself, Gavin,’ said the woman, whipping off her turquoise coat to reveal hot-pink thermal pyjamas. ‘I’ll take it back with me; my bottle was empty and I’m in desperate need of a stiff drink. You need a stiff drink when you’ve made a difficult decision. I only had Baileys, and that is not a drink that suffices in a moment like that.’

‘But Louisa, wait, talk to us…’ Gavin said, reaching underneath the bar to pull out a tumbler.

The woman with the thick eyeliner muttered, ‘Drama, drama.’

Clara saw Louisa looking sharply up at her.

Gavin shovelled some ice into the glass. ‘Come on, Louisa, love, a problem shared and all that…’

Louisa walked over to the bar. ‘God, you sound like a hideous greetings card, Gavin. Fine,’ she rattled on, throwing her coat over a stool, ‘I’ll stay for one but you won’t change my mind. Oh no, I’ve decided. It’s done. I’m going straight back to book a flight.’

‘A flight?’ Gavin’s hand slipped and he splashed tonic on the bar.

‘A flight. I’m off. Spain. I can’t stay here any more,’ Louisa announced, scooping up the drink and taking a first gulp. She smacked her lips in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Gin. The greatest of all inventions.’

‘But what about the shop?’ Gavin asked, looking at her, hands resting on the bar, fingers like ten splayed sausages.

‘Closing,’ Louisa said after a pause.

‘What do you mean, closing?’

‘Shutting. Finishing. Kaput. The End. It’s over. I’ll close it quietly, no one will notice anyway.’

‘But it’s Christmas soon and —’

‘Woman can’t do anything quietly,’ said the woman at the bar, cutting Gavin off, her thin lips stained red from the wine, her face weathered as if she worked outside.

‘Roz.’ Gavin topped up her drink, giving her a warning look over the bottle.

Louisa spun round to face her, ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

It seemed the whole pub was holding its breath. The couple at the table nearby were riveted, the man with the bald spot nursing his pint hadn’t even realised it was empty and was openly staring. Even Clara, picturing the small bed below the eaves upstairs, her shoulders aching from carrying her rucksack around all day, couldn’t tear her eyes away.

‘You heard,’ Roz said, chin up, staring Louisa down from her stool.

Louisa stood, slicked wet hair dripping, cheeks reddening. ‘Just because you’re a dried-up prune with no fire in her belly.’

The man with the bald spot called out, a sudden fierceness in his eyes, ‘Hey, she’s not a prune!’ Immediately he clamped a hand over his mouth, as if frightened more words would come tumbling out.

Louisa turned on him. ‘Sticking up for your girlfriend, Clive?’

‘She’s not my…’ His cheeks blazed red almost instantly, head lowered so the whole pub could only see the bald spot.

‘Don’t worry, Clive, she won’t do it,’ Roz said. ‘It will be a passing fancy; she’ll go back, dry her hair and change her mind.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Louisa said, slamming the tumbler down on the bar so that one of the barely melted ice cubes popped out and bounced off the surface onto the floor. ‘You think this is just a phase, I suppose, a passion.’

‘One of your many.’ Roz toasted the words, twisting herself back round to face the bar.

‘How untrue,’ Louisa announced. ‘Gavin, more gin,’ she added, still glaring at the woman with the red wine, who was now ticking things off on her fingers, nails painted a deep plum.

‘There was the learning-to-knit course, the time you were gluten-free, Nick and that whole saga…’ She paused to roll her eyes, ‘Reg who replaced Nick, oh, then there was the birdwatching phase, raising funds in here for your proposed trip to Iceland to see puffins that never happened, and Clive gave you five pounds for that one…’

‘Everyone thinks puffins are related to penguins, but they actually belong to two completely different families,’ Clive murmured into his pint.

This wasn’t the evening Clara had envisaged when she’d stumbled across the pub by chance a couple of hours ago. She’d been exhausted, had planned to be in bed by now, but this was better than a TV soap.

‘… the online adult educational course in English literature, the village book club you insisted on starting up – we never even met and I read Mansfield Park for nothing; that Fanny Price must be the most boring woman in literature, I genuinely thought I might die before reaching the end of it…’

She’d thought she had left it far too late to find somewhere to stay that night. She’d been distracted by a stunning sunset over the flat fields, the tea in her Thermos flask still warm as she’d gazed out at the sky cut up into ribbons of orange and pink. The windows of the pub had cast bright pools on the ground outside; the silhouettes of people inside could be seen moving from a hundred yards away.

As she’d approached, she’d stared up at the enormous thatched roof, weighing down the whitewashed walls. A small handwritten sign in the window announced ‘Bed and Breakfast’ and she had felt relief wash over her. She’d moved inside, hoicking the rucksack up on her back, desperately hoping there was a room free. She’d pictured steak and kidney pie in front of a roaring fire, washed down with a smooth ale, and then reading her book and bed. Not this.

She’d soon discovered the light had been coming from a bare bulb hanging between heavy wooden beams and showing up every stain on the swirled red carpet. Dried muddied leaves littered the floor, more blowing into the room as she stood in the doorway. Food wasn’t being served. The bed and breakfast consisted of one small attic room, a miniature packet of cereal and a banana left on a tray.

Still, there was no way she had time to look for another place, and the bar had seemed comfortable enough: clusters of red velvet chairs crowded around walnut-brown tables, the bar in the middle of the room, patrons sitting around in a U shape. She’d ordered some salt and vinegar crisps, two Snickers bars and a pint of the local ale. After the second pint she had forgotten her desire for a cooked meal and was happily ensconced in her book, nestled in a patched armchair next to the only radiator and lamp in the place. Then this wet-haired whirlwind of a woman had appeared, and the night had been transformed.

‘… the Pilates classes you never went to, the pottery wheel you bought on Gumtree because you wanted to make your own ramekins…’

Louisa seemed to dim as Roz’s list went on. Placing her hands over both ears, she shook her head, perhaps hoping it might stop.

‘… the time you adopted a baby giraffe in Niger and invited us all to a slideshow of photos from his first year but the projector didn’t work…’

‘No,’ Louisa piped up in a loud voice, ‘no, no, this time I’m going. Spain. I’m closing it; I’m going to book the flights.’

‘You love that shop,’ Gavin said, pushing a second gin and tonic her way.

‘She won’t do it, Gavin, it’s all talk, talk, talk,’ Roz said, getting into her stride.

‘You’re wrong,’ Louisa said, seeming to rally. ‘I’m going to close the shop, no one comes in; they don’t need me any more.’

Clara wondered what it was that there was no demand for; did Louisa run an internet café, a DVD store?

‘Well, off you go then. Book the flight. We’ll miss you,’ Roz said, rolling her eyes.

The blonde with the low ponytail had stood up and moved across to Louisa. ‘Oh, we will miss you. Are you really leaving?’

Roz slammed a hand on the bar, ‘She won’t go, Lauren.’

The blonde spun around. ‘But there’s no need to drive her away.’

Roz’s eyes narrowed.

The blonde woman’s partner had stayed fixed to his pew, looking utterly out of his depth, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘Darling, shall we…’ He glanced at the door, clearly wanting to do a runner before it all ended in a fist fight.

The three women at the bar were still glaring at each other.

‘There’ll be nothing left open on the high street,’ Gavin said, his double chin wobbling. Clara found herself wanting to go behind the bar and give him a big hug.

‘I can’t carry around that responsibility on my own, Gavin,’ Louisa said, throwing her arms wide. ‘It’s too much for one small woman.’

Roz spluttered into her red wine at the word ‘small’.

‘Hey,’ the blonde said.

Louisa didn’t appear to have noticed. ‘I just can’t go on hoping it will all change; there’s nothing worse than feeling depressed in a toyshop that should be full of happy children.’ She was becoming tearful, sinking onto a bar stool, her wet curls hanging over her face. Clara was about to stand up and move to comfort her when the blonde did just that, putting an arm around her shoulders and shushing her.

‘Oh, bring on the waterworks,’ Roz sighed.

‘She’s upset,’ the blonde snapped.

Roz shrugged and drained the last of her red wine. ‘Woman’s always causing a scene. Nothing’s changed.’

‘And I suppose you’re going to bring up the fete again now?’ Louisa looked at the other woman, defiance in her eyes. ‘I really didn’t mean to do it.’

‘Likely story,’ Roz scoffed.

‘Roz,’ Clive whispered from his spot nearby.

She turned towards him. ‘Don’t you get involved; I didn’t see you getting involved then.’

‘The fete again?’ Gavin glanced at them both. ‘Shouldn’t you two let bygones be bygones?’

Clara couldn’t help wondering what on earth could have happened at a village fete to cause this tension.

‘Gavin, drop it,’ Louisa said in a low voice, wiping at her face. ‘Just leave me the bottle.’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘Well, if you don’t, I’m off. I’ve got a hundred and one things to do anyway, and a full bottle of Baileys.’

And as quickly as she had arrived, she left, in a whirl of turquoise, the cold air sweeping in as she swung open the door, leaving the whole pub staring after her at the empty doorway.







Clara had always got up early. She could see sunshine straining at the thin red cloth of the curtain over the small window set into the eaves. Kneeling on the bed, she drew back the material.

Blinking at the winter sunlight, a slow smile crept over her face as she took in the view. She pushed the catch, feeling the nip in the air as the window opened. There was frost glistening on the grass of the pub garden, the benches speckled in white. Beyond the hedge at the back was an uninterrupted view over fields, some churned up in uniform lines, some patches of green hidden beneath the thin layer of diamonds sparkling in the morning sunshine. The sky was streaked with pinks and pale blues and Clara felt the familiar thrill of a new day in a different place.

Ignoring her box of cereal and the trickle of the en suite shower, she rummaged through her rucksack, pulling on her jeans and a thick woollen jumper, unearthing a knitted hat, which she pulled on over her hair, hiding the dull blonde in need of a wash. Leaving the rest of her things in the room, she crept down the wooden staircase into the bar area and through the kitchen, letting herself out of the back door.

She knew the shops would be shut at this time but she had a faint hope that she might stumble across some kind-hearted baker who would open his door just for her. She could almost taste the thick warm dough, sniffed the air for a telltale whiff of it. There didn’t appear to be a bakery in the village at all. Or a café. In fact, as she moved down the high street she was shocked to see so many ‘For Sale’ signs, shops with nothing in the windows but a few chairs or rolls of carpet. Other windows were boarded up, even the graffiti half-hearted, illegible squiggles in spray paint, dull colours. There was faded writing drawn into the dust on one window, a notice promising an end-of-stock clearance sale in another.

She tucked her hands into her pockets, the breeze picking up as she continued to take in the deserted high street. She imagined it bustling in the summer months, window boxes bursting with colour, the cobbled side streets holding treasures, secret shops, antiques piled high outside, cafés making up smoothies and juices, people ambling through the village before heading off to walk across the fields, take in the views. What had happened?

It never failed to surprise her, even after all these years of living in England, how quaint the villages could look, all the cottages squeezed together, so different to the city in Denmark that she’d grown up in. As ever, when she thought of home she felt a lump in her throat; she swallowed it back down.

Across the way she stopped, taking in the brightest shop, a burgundy façade, golden letters spelling ‘Alden Toys’, kitsch but eye-catching, and she frowned as she realised that this was clearly the shop shutting its doors. It seemed terribly sad that in the next few weeks, as people geared up for Christmas, it would remain closed, the dark interior at odds with the cheerful shopfront.

She reached the end of the street, the road disappearing around a tree-lined bend. Opposite stood a small church, entry through a lychgate, fields beyond. The village was a stunning, romantic place, but in that moment Clara felt as though she might be the only person living there. She looked back down the street, closing her eyes briefly and taking a deep breath.

‘’Gain, ’gain.’

Her eyes snapped open at the sound behind her.

‘Really? OK.’

Singing soared out of the side street: ‘Five little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away, mama duck said quack, quack, quack, quack, but only four little ducks came back…’

‘Why?’ came the younger voice.

‘I’ve told you why,’ the female voice said. ‘Because a duck ran off, darling. Hence there are now only four ducks left.’

‘What happened to the duck who ran away?’

‘Nothing too nasty.’

‘Did he die?’

‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’

‘Did he break his leg?’

‘No, no, I don’t think so, he comes back at the end.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he was probably missing his mama, like you would miss me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What do you mean, maybe? Of course you’d miss me. Who would make you pancakes?’

‘Daddy.’

‘OK, that’s a fair point. Who would give you juice?’

‘Nana.’

‘Rubbish, Nana never gives you juice, she thinks it’s got too much sugar.’

‘I like sugar.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘’Gain, ’gain.’

A sigh followed. ‘OK, but I’ll start when there’s only one duck left, because your attention span is… RORY.’

Suddenly a toddler burst out from the side street, stopping short to stare up at Clara before his eyes widened in panic and he spun on his heel to dive behind his mother’s legs.

‘What is it? I told you not to ru – Oh, hello.’ It was the woman from the pub last night – Lauren, the strawberry-blonde lady who had comforted Louisa. ‘Sorry, we’re disrupting the peace.’

Clara looked at her, at her impossibly straight hair, her camel-coloured coat, the freckles on her nose the only sense of disorder about her. ‘It’s fine. I thought it was a very cheerful song.’

Lauren hid her head in her leather-gloved hands. ‘Oh God, how embarrassing.’

Clara laughed. ‘No, honestly, it was wonderful. I’d never heard it before, actually,’ she admitted. ‘We don’t have that one at home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Denmark. We’re more about fish than ducks really.’

‘You’re a long way from home,’ Lauren commented.

Clara nodded, unwilling to add more.

Not noticing Clara’s change in tone, Lauren explained, ‘Well, it’s about five ducks who run away and then all come back. There’s not much of a narrative to it. Rory was right to have some questions.’

‘Rory right, Rory right.’ The little boy started helicoptering round his mother.

‘The ducks are really not very safety-conscious, but you do have to question the mother’s competence – I mean, after losing three of them, you’d think she’d think twice about sending the other two out on their own.’

Clara laughed, the sound seeming to reverberate around the street. ‘She does sound quite irresponsible.’

‘I can’t judge, though, I can barely control one,’ Lauren said, watching Rory dangle off the end of a bench. ‘Rory, careful.’

‘Cafful, cafful, cafful,’ he said, letting one arm go, his bobble hat dropping to the ground, his light brown hair falling down in a curtain.

‘We never really see anyone at this time, but he goes stir crazy if he doesn’t get out, and frankly, I hate sitting in the house being reminded that I have a pile of ironing to do and pans to wash up.’ Lauren held out a hand as Rory toddled back over on uncertain legs. ‘Sorry, I’m Laur – RORY, NO!’ she said, the hand she was holding out whipping down to stop Rory picking up an empty chocolate wrapper. ‘Lauren,’ she finished, scooping up her son. ‘And this, as you’ve heard, is Rory.’

‘I’m Clara.’

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ Lauren said as Rory started kicking his legs, wanting to be released. ‘Stay on the bench,’ Lauren said as Rory roared away in the opposite direction. ‘Wow, it’s almost like he doesn’t listen,’ she laughed. ‘Sorry. Kids are not great at social niceties. Last week he went straight up to an old man in the supermarket and told him to punch his willy. I literally died in the cereal aisle.’

Clara made a face, unable to stop marvelling at Lauren’s energy. ‘Do you know anywhere I can get something to eat?’ she asked. ‘I was hoping for a pain au chocolat or a muffin, or… well, just a coffee would do.’

Lauren shrugged, her smile fading. ‘Only online now, or the big supermarket in the next town if you have a car. There’s a good farm shop, but that’s a decent drive too.’

Clara shook her head. ‘I haven’t got a car.’

‘How very environmentally friendly.’

‘No, I just never learnt to drive. Cars cost a fortune back home and I used to walk everywhere in…’ Clara faded off, not wanting to say the name of her home town, not even wanting to think about it. ‘So there’s nowhere?’

Lauren sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘There used to be Bertie’s – an amazing restaurant that did incredible breakfasts, which were so wrong but so right: basically French toast, banana, a heap of bacon topped with maple syrup. I miss Bertie,’ she said wistfully.

‘Where did he go?’

‘Opened up in the next-door village about six months ago; he was one of the last to leave. And now…’ Lauren pointed at Alden Toys opposite. ‘Although do not tell you-know-who unless you want to see a small person’s world end before eight a.m.; it really won’t be pretty.’

Clara nodded, knowing that Lauren was trying to make light of things but aware of her sad smile.

‘It’s horrible,’ Lauren said, looking around. ‘When we moved here five years ago, it was this gorgeous corner of the world, independent shops, people saying hello in the high street, but now, so many of the familiar faces have gone and the shops, well,’ – she indicated the boarded-up windows – ‘you’ve seen. Now it’s just the pub left. And Roz sells milk and things from the post office but there are funny opening times and I never seem to get them right. You could try there.’

Rory had run back over, his mittened hand creeping up into Lauren’s.

‘Roz,’ Clara repeated, picturing red hair and thick eyeliner, ‘wasn’t she in the pub last night?’

Lauren nodded. ‘Ah, you were there for that. God, that was pure drama. She and Louisa don’t see eye to eye. They’re neighbours, but not very neighbourly to each other. There’s history,’ – she waved a hand – ‘I think . . .