Connie groaned. ‘It’s work, isn’t it?’
‘It’s an industry awards thing. Newspaper Circulation Awards. But it will be fun and I love my job.’
‘Riveting. Not.’ She put her glass down and pushed the exercise books to one side. ‘Seriously Katie, I worry. You’re like a little hamster on its wheel. Running, running, running and occasionally you dive off for a sunflower, but you ram it in your cheeks for later. I know I work hard but at least I have the school holidays to unwind. When do you take time for you? When I go home for the weekend, Dad makes an effort. When you go home, you clean your dad’s house, tidy up after him and your brothers. And restock their kitchen cupboards. You can’t fill in for your mum for ever, you know. They have to do it for themselves eventually.’
‘I worry about them. I worry about Dad not eating properly.’
‘And you think that’s going to help?’
It certainly helped assuage the guilt that I’d abandoned the three of them.
‘They’re family, I have to help them. I earn a lot more than them.’
‘I know, but let’s face it. John could bloody pull his weight. How many jobs has he had? He always has to leave before he’s sacked because he’s a lazy git. Brandon, well,’ her mouth lifted in the slightest of smiles when she mentioned my younger brother, ‘he’s something else. But he’s not stupid. That replica Tardis was incredible. Daft sod.’
My brother was a sci-fi fan and in his spare time liked to knock up life size replica models of things from his favourite films and TV series.
Connie tapped her glass against her fingernails and straightened up. ‘If he stopped bloody playing effing Fifa, he could get a much better job. He ought to be doing more than having a pissing part-time job in that car breakers yard. And your dad is not as useless as he likes to make out.’ Her mouth firmed in a zipped shut line as if she’d said as much as she was going to on the matter.
An uncomfortable silence threatened to descend. I loved her dearly and she certainly understood me better than the menfolk in my family but they were mine to criticise, not hers.
‘You said you needed my help, so if it isn’t setting out to track down bastard Delaney with a very sharp knife, which probably wouldn’t go down with my Head if we got caught, what did you want?’
‘That book of yours. The one about candles.’
‘The Art of Hygge.’
‘Pardon?’ I laughed. ‘You’re not going to be sick, are you?’
‘No, you numpty.’ She grinned at me and just like that, we were back to normal. ‘It’s a Danish word,’ she said the word again, which sounded like Who-ga and still sounded like she was praying to the big white toilet god. ‘Spelt h-y-g-g-e.’
‘That’s how you say it, is it? I did wonder. So what’s it all about? Danish interior design?’
She turned horrified eyes my way. ‘Nooo, it’s much more than that. It’s an attitude. An approach to life.’ She rummaged in the big shopping trolley that always seemed to be at her feet. Being a teacher seemed to involve carting around an awful lot of stuff. ‘It’s by some hot Danish guy, second cousin to Viggo Mortensen, who runs the Institute of Happiness or something.’
I perked up at the mention of Viggo. Both of us had had a serious crush on him ever since we’d seen Lord of the Rings.
‘I’ve been reading all about it. Did you know Denmark is the happiest country in the world?’
‘I was reading an article about it on the tube this morning, but I’m not convinced. They seem to have a very high death count, obsessive female detectives and never-ending rain according to all those Scandi thrillers I’ve seen. Not looking that happy to me.’
‘No, seriously. It’s all about making your life better through the little things.’ Her earnest expression stopped me from taking the piss. ‘Hence the candles.’ She pointed to three candles on the mantelpiece and pulled a face. ‘They’re supposed to help make it cosy.’
‘They’re not working.’
‘I know. The mould on the wall doesn’t help.’
‘We should get onto the landlord again. Although after Dad’s house, my expectations are pretty low these days.’ I rubbed at the shadows under my eyes. She was right about the hamster wheel. There just weren’t enough hours in the day. ‘I need a crash course in hy … however you say it. I’ve got a pitch the day after tomorrow. Can I borrow your book?’
I was having second thoughts. It was the day of the pitch. The biggest pitch of my career and my one chance to show Josh and the board exactly what I was capable of. So why was I placing a hell of a lot of faith in a few candles, some birch twigs, an expensive lamp and the combined efforts of the studio team’s furniture removal talents? When Megan promised to sign off my expenses, I’m not sure a two-hundred-pound lamp was quite what she had in mind, but the effect of its gentle pool of golden light was exactly like the picture in Connie’s book.
I couldn’t afford to think about how tired I was. Last night I hadn’t got home until gone ten, after trawling Oxford Street, then staying up until the small hours perfecting my traditional Danish oat biscuits that Connie had sworn were so hygge.
Yesterday’s preparation for my big pitch involved reading Connie’s book from cover to cover, studying images on the internet of socks, candles, cashmere blankets draped around loved up couples and mitten covered hands clutching steaming cups of chocolate, followed by a shopping marathon.
Apparently, the Danish love affair with candles extended to the work place which was the principal starting point for my campaign to win Lars’ business. I’d arrived at the office at seven this morning with the sole goal of hyggifying, a new verb in my vocabulary, the smallest meeting room in the building. Making it cosy was going to be a tall order, but I had every faith in candles and expensive lamps.
There was also tea, two brightly coloured mugs bought from Anthropologie, with an L and K on them, and the plate of my home-made cookies. Even though they looked very wonky and that was the third attempt, I’d had quite a job keeping the rest of the office in check around them.
The scene was set or as much as I could hope for. I’d arranged two chairs, which didn’t match but they were the most comfortable I could find, after a Goldilocks’ style tour of every room in the building, around a rather lovely birch table, a forgotten sample from Ercol which had been used for a photo shoot. On a bookshelf that I’d commandeered from another floor, I’d removed all the books and then scouted round to find ones with colourful spines that looked pretty together.
I’d not gone overboard with the candles, sticking to five; a tasteful group of three on the table and two on top of the bookshelf where I’d also put the kettle, a coffee pot, tea pot and milk and sugar etc. Apparently, it’s a Danish thing. Making a thing of making the tea and the coffee.
I fiddled with the birch twigs which I’d arranged in a cheerful sunshine
