Of course it would have been better if it had been autumn or winter in order to conjure up the perfect Hygge atmosphere, and to be honest the amount of tea-light candles she had burning was making her feel unbearably hot.
She ripped off her cardigan, refusing to open a window and ruin the ambiance, and went to check on the starters, which consisted of rye bread fashioned into a selection of fiddly prawn and avocadosmorrebrod. For the main course she’d followed an online recipe of salmon fish cakes with capers, pickles, tarragon and mayonnaise and a beetroot salad to go with it. The beetroot had stained everything it had come in contact with, including a tea towel that now looked as if it had been used to clean up a massacre.
Pudding was fresh strawberries and cream and served in teacups, an idea she’d thought was cute earlier, but now she wasn’t so sure about – Paul would think it was pretentious. He’d probably prefer something with a bit more stodge to it, like the steamed syrup sponge his mother had served during their visit to Shropshire. Admittedly strawberries and cream was an easy cheat, but Rachel hadn’t had time to do anything more elaborate.
If she’d known this Hygge lark was such hard work, and so expensive, she wouldn’t have bothered. But there again, Paul was worth it. Ever since she’d met his parents and he’d said he loved her, she had felt as though they were on course for … well, just on course.
Another look at the clock in the kitchen told her Paul was now forty minutes late. What was more, he hadn’t responded to either of her texts. She didn’t want to be cross with him, but she was fast heading that way.
He could have been involved in an accident, she told herself in an attempt to assuage her anger; he could be lying in the road somewhere, bones broken, an ambulance hurtling through the busy traffic to reach him. But then she felt guilty for wishing him harm just to stop herself from being angry.
Okay, an accident that he’d witnessed and which he’d got caught up in by offering his assistance. Yes, that was a better scenario. She could forgive him for being late if he’d been a selfless hero.
Ten minutes later, her patience and imagination exhausted, she snatched up her mobile once more.
Where on earth are you????
She added a worried face, although what she really wanted to add was a furious face with steam coming out of its ears.
When still she got no response, she decided to hit the jug of aquavit and rosemary cocktail she’d made. Unable to find any rosemary syrup, she’d cheated and added a spoonful of sugar, along with a few sprigs of rosemary and twists of orange peel. She filled her glass, added some ice cubes from the freezer, swirled it round, then swallowed a large mouthful. She shuddered and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘Not bad,’ she gasped, raising the glass again to her mouth. ‘Not bad at all.’
She was well on her way to finishing the jug when finally the intercom buzzed and she heard Paul’s voice. She let him up and listened to the door downstairs onto the street bang shut and then footsteps clumping up the stairs. They were not the hurried guilt-laden steps of a man who knew he was in trouble, but the slow deliberate steps of a man in no particular hurry. Which only added to her worsening mood. He could at least, after all the work she’d put in to making this evening so special, bound up the stairs as if he couldn’t wait to see her.
She opened the door and stepped back to let him in, at the same time denying him the chance to kiss her. ‘You’re late,’ she said, ‘didn’t you get my texts?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Something came up and I had to … you’ve done something to the room,’ he said, looking around him.
‘Ten out of ten for observation,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m surprised the candles are still burning, you’re so late.’
‘Don’t be like that. I got here as soon as I could.’ He plonked his bag down on the floor by the door. ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘It’s an aquavit and rosemary cocktail, but there’s hardly any left.’
He pulled a face. ‘I’d prefer a beer anyway.’
She watched him go over to the fridge and help himself. Something in his proprietorial manner, the way he took for granted there would be his favourite beer waiting for him, added fuel to the fire.
‘You’ve been busy,’ he said, rummaging in the drawer to find the bottle opener while eyeing up the plates of food on the worktop.
‘Busy,’ she repeated, her hackles rearing up through the lagoon of aquavit she had consumed, and which had now reached her blood system and was circulating through her body with intent, causing the floor to wobble beneath her feet like a giant jelly, ‘you don’t know the half of it! You swan in here nearly two hours late without a word of apology, and then—’
‘That’s not true,’ he interrupted her, ‘I did say I was sorry. It was the first thing I said. And if we’re going to be accurate, I’m only an hour and a half late.’
‘Well, that’s all right then.’
‘Let’s not argue. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Who’s arguing?’
He pointed at her with his now opened bottle of beer. ‘You’re giving a fair impression of somebody who’s arguing.’
‘Do you blame me? I’ve put a lot of effort into this evening. I even got off work early to make everything perfect.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, why?’
‘I mean what’s different about this evening compared to any other?’
