Twenty-Eight
Friday 9th October
My last night in the Norwegian wilds.
I wandered from the bedroom to the kitchen, then back into the lounge, staring out of the windows to breathe in each view and lock them in my memory. A herd of reindeer were on the edge of the forest, chewing away on the willow tree leaves like they had all the time in the world. Which of course, they did. It was just me who didn’t.
How could I hold on to this place and the feeling of peace it had given me? I didn’t want to leave and let it go. I photographed every inch of the cabin so at least I’d have some pictures to look back on. Had I really been here a whole month? A month that had desperately dragged for the first few days, then flown. I looked around my cosy little nook and reluctantly pulled down my Louis Vuittons, embarrassed at the brashness of my matching designer luggage. Their shiny gold zips were out of place next to the lovingly handmade wooden furniture. I’d had my last silent lunch, my last icy dip and sauna combo, and it was time to put the last few logs on the fire. I was a fussy fire starter these days, always on the lookout for a dry lump of wood that would catch easily, then burn slowly. The only way to make a fire last. I opened both suitcases and laid them on the bed. My wetsuit and karate outfit were still fresh and clean, folded up next to my Jimmy Choos. What was I thinking? I wrappedmy labradorite rocks in my knickers and tucked them inside my trainers, remembering that first accidental hug with Henrik when the geothermal pool had delivered me straight into his arms.
‘Sara, are you home?’ Greta called through the bedroom window. I’d left it open despite the Baltic conditions. The heat from the cabin was keeping the cold at bay, and I wanted to feel everything as deeply as possible before I left.
‘For now,’ I said, opening the door and giving her a hug.
She was holding a huge parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with gold ribbon.
‘I’ve got you a little something,’ she said, handing it to me.
‘Have you? What for?’
‘Because it’s your last day and I’m going to miss you!’
‘Stop it! You’re too cute!’ I said, feeling bad that I hadn’t been as thoughtful.
Greta laughed. ‘You haven’t seen it yet.’
I waved her in, and we sat by the fire. I couldn’t take her gift without giving something back. What could I give her? My kimono? A pair of Jimmy Choos?
‘Honestly, you didn’t need to do this,’ I said, a lump in my throat as I untied the beautiful bow. How exciting to get an enormous, surprise present. It was soft and squidgy, with a flash of purple, then green and red. ‘Oh, Greta!’ It was one of her crocheted blankets in all the colours of the aurora. Allegedly.
‘As I said, I can’t help myself,’ she said with a smile. ‘And I don’t want your sleep patterns interrupted when you get back to London. A magic blanket will help – and remind you of us all.’
I unfolded it and held it up to the window, feeling its weight in my hands. Rows and rows of rainbow colours had been woven together and dotted with luminous fireflies. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said, totally gobsmacked. ‘It must have taken you hours and hours to make.’
‘You’re worth it,’ she said, giving me another hug.
Each firefly had a flash of gold thread running through it, giving the pattern an overall sparkle. It was more than a blanket – it was a work of art. ‘Thank you so much, I love, love,loveit.’
‘You’re welcome. Enjoy it and don’t forget us,’ she said. ‘Henny is going to miss you so much.’
‘Do you think?’ I hadn’t allowed myself to believe that Henrik might have genuine feelings, even though I knew mine were painfully real. I wanted to keep all our wonderful memories safe and protected. I didn’t want to sour them with a sad conversation.
Greta searched my face, confused. ‘What do you mean? Absolutely, he will.’
‘He’ll be on to the next one in no time.’
‘Not Hen. He hasn’t had a girlfriend for years, not since he moved back from New York. The way he’s been with you has been completely… different. He’s clearly smitten.’
‘Really? But he’s so smooth. I assumed it was part of his schtick.’
‘Not. At. All. He has no schtick. He is schtick-less and totally genuine. Can’t you see? His heart is pure and golden, and ordinarily he’s very protective of it. We all are.’
‘He is lovely,’ I murmured, thinking about some of the moments we’d shared. ‘I hadn’t really let myself think it could ever be anything…’
The wood burner popped loudly, and the gently lolling logs burst into flame, spitting fiery flecks at the glass. I’d had a golden heart, once, too. Open and trusting, with no room for cynicism. Where had it gone?
‘You could totally sell these on Etsy, you know,’ I said, changing the subject. I covered my knees in the blanket and posed. ‘For the stylish thirty-something couch potato. Get a production line going.’
Greta smiled. ‘Icould. But I only make them for my special potatoes. The magic can’t be crocheted in en masse.’
