We started getting together after lectures and slowly he opened up, telling me about his family – who he really admired – and his hobbies back home. He’d cook for me and we’d make out and not do any exam revision. The thing was, he was only taking part in the exchange programme for one semester and I knew that come Christmas, he’d be gone. But, I didn’t hold back, I liked him too much for that. Short-term relationship or not, I just wanted to make the most of the time we had together.
It took us nearly the whole semester to get really close, just getting to know each other’s bodies slowly. I think that’s what made it so special between us. Other guys would have been pressuring me into bed but he wasn’t like that at all. And based on all previous experience, I’d had no idea a guy could be so hotandso considerate. Meeting Stellan was like expecting yet more bath salts and unwrapping a Fabergé egg. In the end though, I guess I rushed him. I wanted more and more, emotionally I mean, and he pulled away. I was so young, and we both had our degrees to finish, I wasn’t thinking clearly about what kind of long-term, long-distance future we might have together, or anything like that, all I knew was I’d fallen for him, and hard.
He left early, at the beginning of December, right in the middle of the winter exams, and I carried on at uni alone, without him. I missed him so much. I just couldn’t understand why he’d disappeared like that.
We’d known each other for a couple of months by then, ten weeks at most, and we’d only had actual, proper sex a few days before he took off, and that’s when I’d told him I loved him. I’d even learned how to say it in Finnish – I thought it would be so cute and he’d say it back and we’d joke about my pronunciation and fall into bed laughing. How wrong I was! He just looked at me, all sceptical, and told me that where he came from people only said they loved each other if they really, really meant it, or if they were dying or something.
The thing is, Ididmean it, but I guess he wasn’t sure of me. I was two years younger than him, which is a lot when you’re a teenager. Maybe he thought I was some love-struck kid. Anyway, off he went, and I never spoke with him again. And I don’t mind admitting, I was devastated.
At the risk of sounding like Old Mother Time, this was in the days before Instagram and WhatsApp, and we just didn’t keep in touch.What?We were all too busy listening to James Blunt, wearing pashminas and following our Atkins diets. It was the early noughties, OK! An age ago. And he knew where I was. He could have got in touch, if he’d wanted to.
So I bumbled on, heartbroken. At the end of our degrees, me and Nari moved in together and she encouraged me to go on some (pretty unsatisfying) dates, and then I met Cole just before I graduated with my teaching qualification. I was twenty-four by then and already a part-time classroom assistant, and we quickly moved in together.
If I’m making comparisons, maybe there wasn’t any great passion there, but he was bold and glamorous, and he arrived like a breath of fresh air at the end of what had become a stale, monotonous slog through my studies. We settled down and enjoyed blowing our combined incomes, and we got Barney, and snatched a few summer weekends in Cornwall and spent our Christmases – when Cole wasn’t flying – snuggled up together. Perfect, right? Until his cold feet carried him away.
The stark reality of all those years wasted with Cole and the last of my girlhood squandered on him always brings back the familiar ache in my chest. And I’m back where I was at the start, only now I’m thirty-four, single and alone and, thanks to Nari and her clever travel ideas, I’m giving far too much head space to an old flame who was last seen hightailing it for the Arctic Circle faster than I could say, ‘minä rakastan sinua’.
That’s ‘I love you’ in Finnish, if you’re slow on the uptake.
Chapter Six
Hello stranger! I’ll be in your town over Christmas. Care to show a girl the sights? If it still is your town? You could be anywhere these days, but anyway, I’m coming to Lapland, Sylvie, xoxo
Oh my God, no! Delete, delete, delete.
Hi Stellan. Just letting you know I’ll be in Saariselkä with a friend for Christmas, if you happen to be at your parents and free to meet up for a cup of glögi. No pressure, obvs p.s. my friend’s a girl, with a boyfriend, well sort of, he’s more of a shag-buddy than anything. What I’m saying is, I’m single.
His beautiful Finnish wife will love reading that, for goodness’ sakes. Delete. This is impossible. OK, how about…
Hi, it’s Sylvie Magnusson from Uni. I’m spending Christmas somewhere near your parents’ resort. Maybe message me if you are around? All the best, Sylve
And… send. It took half an hour and a stiff gin to compose that rubbish. I don’t know why I’m getting so wound up. He hasn’t even accepted my friend request, not that I’m checking every twenty minutes.
Right, I’ve had it with this! I’ve got to get some sleep. Nari’s picking me up for the airport at four a.m. and I’ve still got to get Finnish sauna ready. Nari’s already threatened to drag me to one, so I’d best shave my legs. And I’ve neglected my roots all winter, so I’d better touch them up a bit. There’s a box of dye in the bathroom cabinet. I wonder if Stellan likes redheads, well, bottle-red heads?
Ugh!Why am I doing this to myself? He’s in his mid-thirties, we haven’t seen each other for fifteen years, and we were together for mere weeks before he bolted. It’s hardly the love story of the century. I’m boring myself now, thinking of him – or what only really amounts to hazy memories of him. I need to remember he was the first guy to run out on me; my first broken heart, and it really did hurt. Why am I letting him get in my head like this? Time seems to have worn away the sharp corners of my memories of Stellan. It was so long ago, it’s somehow easier to remember the lovely bits, and reminiscing over a gorgeous teenage boyfriend has made a refreshing change from moping over Cole, but this just isn’t healthy. Right, I’m done. His name won’t pass my lips again.
I go through my hand luggage one last time. Tickets, passport, euros. I guess that’s it. I’m ready. My suitcase is positively bulging and I have to sit on it to get it zipped up.
Earlier today, me and Nari tried on all our cold weather gear back at her place, layering it up until I looked like the Michelin Man’s pastel pink cousin. Nari opted for classic white instead and I’m regretting my choices now.
The dreaded long johns went on first with a thermal vest, then a black merino wool mid-layer like a baby’s sleepsuit, then a thick pink fleecy top and bottoms, stretchy under-gloves with pink ski gloves on top, then a pink balaclava thing, a bobble hat and scarf. I was sweltering and that wasbeforeI put on my pink snowsuit. Nari says we’ll be provided with proper arctic snowsuits and boots when we check in at the lodges, but I liked the look of the pink one in the shop and couldn’t resist. Stephen’s PA let Frozen Falls know our sizes and she’s sorted out some on-resort surprises too, apparently. Nari said all this while still managing to look cool and glamorous in her umpteen layers of winter white wool. I, on the other hand, was an itchy, sweaty mess with a polyester induced static electricity problem. Why am I bothering shaving my legs for this?
After the year I’ve had, all I want to do is recline in a bubbling hot tub, see the snowy sights, and catch up on some sleep. Nari might have a similar idea. She told me she was packing her laptop for working on the blog, a bundle of steamy novels and a selection of Korean facemasks her mum sent her, so I guess she’s got her evenings sorted. I’ll pick up some magazines at the airport. Since the summer and all the upheaval of moving house and losing Barney I haven’t exactly been able to settle to reading anything that requires much attention, which made marking the kids’ exam papers and homework sheets pretty tricky. Unless, of course… There is something in my bedroom that would make interesting holiday reading.
I go in search of it. It’s so spacious round here, now that I’ve finally blitzed Box Mountain and found a place for everything. In fact, the flat feels much more like home today. It was quite nice seeing all my old familiar belongings after so long, and I sorted through that box of Uni stuff too, and that’s where I found it, my diary from 2004, the year I met… you know who.
All right, just a quick peek before I de-fuzz and retouch. Just a page or two. I turn my diary over in my hands. There are pictures of the boys from Busted stuck all over the covers, and here was me thinking I was all cultured and grown up at nineteen. I open it up somewhere around the centre pages. It’s an academic diary so that just happens to be nearing the middle of the winter semester.
Twenty-ninth of November. Missed the history lecture again today. That’s the third one this month. Not good. But it was sooo good having the flat to ourselves. SV made lunch, a sort of smashed chickpea thing on toasted baguette slices. He is so sophisticated. I offered to do him a Pot Noodle but he wasn’t keen. He was, however, pretty keen on what I had planned for dessert. ME!
Bloody Hell, Sylve! Back then I was sure I was a suave mixture of Sylvia Plath’s searing intellect, with all the irresistible sensuality of Linda Evangelista, and the rock sensibilities of a north of England Courtney Love, but this is toe-curlingly cringe-inducing stuff. And I can’t stop reading. Before I know it, half an hour’s passed and I’ve devoured every salacious morsel about his wonderful kisses, and how amazing he smells, and how dreamy his eyes are. I obviously kept the details of my tentative teenage sexual shenanigans pretty brief – I’m not sure why I did this; Mum wasn’t the type to go snooping in diaries when I was at home between semesters – but there’s lots of none too subtle code words, such as me wondering if instead of just undressing each other and making out, we’d finally DTD (Do The Deed). Clever, Sylve. Real Alan Turing, Enigma code stuff.
But what really shocks me is how obviously good my Finnish boyfriend was for my self-esteem. I hadn’t really thought about it before, but one entry in my embarrassing teenage journal really brings it home and I stop wincing and smile as I read.
This morning we were just lying in each other’s arms in bed and I needed to get up for a drink of water. I was trying to find my clothes without getting out from under the duvet and he asked what I was doing. I told him I didn’t want him seeing me naked in the harsh daylight and he said the sweetest thing to me. He said, ‘Please don’t hide your body away. You are a woman with a woman’s body. Enjoy being this body. It is strong, it is feeling, it is you.’ OK, maybe he didn’t say exactly those words, I’ve made him sound weird, but it was something like that. So I got up and walked to the kitchen in the buff – bare arsed all the way. He says this kind of thing to meallthe time.
I close the diary, a wave of nostalgia flooding over me as I remember how, that semester, I really took his words to heart. I was happier then than I’d ever been. And maybe it wasn’t just his words; it was the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, like I was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. And he wasn’t shy about his own body at all. Quite the opposite.
