Page 37 of A Copenhagen Snowmance

Chapter Twenty-Six

Her eyeballs are hurty. That’s all she can think. She hasn’t even used her eyes yet so how can they be hurting already?

Raising up on one elbow, Anna promptly drops down on the bed again.

It’s not just her eyes. Her entire frontal lobe is being squeezed by gravity.

Her mouth feels like something has scrubbed it dry.

And then shat in it. Slowly, so slowly, she squints at the bedside table to see if there’s any water and is gobsmacked to see there is in fact a full glass.

How very practical and forward-thinking of Yesterday Anna.

Not that she has any recollection of pouring it.

Nor of digging out the blister pack of paracetamol that stands propped against it.

It dawns on her that it was none of her doing.

Yesterday Anna was her usual unpractical self ahead of a snaps-fuelled lunch.

Which is disappointing. This was not her first Julefrokost rodeo.

She is old enough to know better, and yet here she is.

She rolls onto her back with a pathetic moan.

Why is she so weak? She blames Katrine. She always gets her into trouble.

There will be a snippy text later. At the very least, she hopes Katrine’s feeling as grim as she is.

That’s only fair, given it was Katrine’s idea.

Eventually, she emerges from her pit of despair, barely able to handle the bright sunlight in the snug.

Squinting again – it’s the only way, given her sunglasses are downstairs – she almost misses the change on the jigsaw table.

It’s now complete. Only, the missing piece isn’t there, the hole being filled instead by a perfectly made piece of card which “someone” has covered in gold Sharpie.

She stares at it for longer than necessary – hiding the fact that getting this far has taken it out of her – before moving on, enticed by the scent of coffee.

Such is her current need for a cupful that if anyone or anything gets in her way she might have a full-on breakdown.

“Well, go’ morgen’,” says Jamie, as she rounds the doorframe, now wrapped in the tartan throw from upstairs. He looks at her over the rim of the cup he’s holding and the amusement in his eyes does not help. She’s found her sunglasses, and they are firmly on her face.

“I think I’m dying, Jamie,” she says, dragging her sorry carcass towards the coffee pot. After a moment she points out, “You do not appear to be dispensing sympathy.”

“Apologies,” he says, still with little sympathy. “Sit down and I’ll get you a cup.” She waves his offer away. Apparently, she does have some pride left. Not a lot, but in the face of his amusement, she manages a show of indignation.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“Thanks for the paracetamol and the water,” she says, at a low grumble.

“Anytime.” His tone is kinder.

Sitting helps. The hot cup in her hands helps. The coffee in her throat, the caffeine gushing towards her veins all helps, and she drops her head back and lets out a deep soul-felt moan. Opening her eyes, she sees he’s gazing at her, an expression on his face she can’t quite read.

“What?”

“Just pleased to see you alive. The Copenhagen snaps-reserves took quite a hit yesterday. It’s on the news this morning.”

“Shut up.” She manages a pathetic smile. He is literally a sight for sore eyes, but she keeps this to herself. “I saw the jigsaw. You made the piece.” She thinks of the perfect fit. It must have taken him a while with a scalpel.

“Seemed a shame to leave it incomplete.”

“The gold was a nice touch. Like those Japanese Kintsugi vases.”

His smile widens. She can see he likes that she’s got the reference. She quite likes that she’s got the reference. The paracetamol and the caffeine must be kicking in.

“I think it’s OK to recognise the loss in the jigsaw’s story. Recognising its journey,” he says in a posh way, like he knows it might sound wanky, then reverts to his normal tone. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be fixed. Doesn’t mean it’s only fit for the bin. Now it has a new life.”

It’s such a Jamie thing to do. Of course, his job is about fixing things, giving them longevity or renewal, but she can see how he can be quite granular about it, seeing it through in his life. She can respect that.

The eco-Christmas tree behind him catches her eye and suddenly the memory of walking in last night is back with her.

It spurs her to get up and walk across to it all, taking it all in again, the reunion with all the old pieces giving her a tender ache in her heart.

She picks up a small nisse from a shelf and moves it to stand in the street scene in the window.

That was where she always liked this figure to be.

He’s a cheeky little chap, bent over double in laughter.

As a child, she would make up stories about the source of his mirth, and she sees him now as a long-lost friend.

“Thank you for doing this,” she says quietly. “It was so thoughtful.”

Jamie doesn’t turn towards her, she sees, looking his way; he simply takes a sip from his cup and says, “My pleasure.”

Pleasure. That rings a bell somewhere in her tender brain.

Casting her eyes around the room, they settle on the wall on the other side of him.

Something about that. Her fingers rise up and touch her lips.

Hmm, something about kissing… She looks back towards him just as Jamie raises his right arm to stretch.

It lifts the hem of his top and she sees a sliver of soft Jamie skin above his waistband.

Her fingertips tingle in further recognition.

Jamie sighs into his stretch … and there it is.

It all – well, enough significant parts – comes flooding back into her delicate head.

Her launching herself at him, his responding, her pressing him against the wall, touching him, stroking him, kissing his neck, wanting to get up inside his Henley, really wanting to get it all off, his stopping things; his declining her, his putting her to bed like a child. Oh. My. God.

Standing statue-still, Anna doesn’t quite know what to do. Instinctively, she wants to run from the room. Possibly screaming. Yep, the caffeine is switched on now.

The quiet obviously transmits to him, as from the corner of her eye she sees him turn.

“Anna? You OK?” She’s turned a little towards him at the sound of his voice, but her frozen body is very much facing that space at the wall, and his eyes track there as well. He bites his lower lip. Is he remembering, too, or is he just worried about what she’ll do next? Well, same, she thinks.

“Are you having an internal seizure?” he asks.

“Is that when your insides contract into a huge knot of embarrassment and self-loathing regarding your behaviour, which hurts right the way down to your toenails and makes you want to punch yourself in the face? That sort of thing?”

Jamie gets up and walks to her.

“That wall is my current favourite place in the house. Do not spoil it for me by feeling in any way sad, bad or embarrassed about what happened there.”

Right, so he was remembering, too. Good to know.

And like last night, he leans into her, though very deliberately it seems without touching her, and says in a low voice which makes her edge closer, “If you’d been sober last night, your feet wouldn’t have touched the ground.”

And then he’s walking back to his chair, the warmth of his breath gone, the air between them empty. She holds back a low keening.

“That bikini you wore at the hot tub. Is that dry yet?” he asks from the table, the least expected question ever. Her head is still full of the whisper, her body with its meaning. The change in direction is befuddling. It makes her laugh.

“There’s so little fabric in that bikini it was probably dry by the time we got home.”

“Good. I have something planned for us.”

He has?

“That involves swimwear? It’s still December. There’s still snow on the ground.”

“Sure. But the hot tub was fun, no? And that involved both those things.”

It had, to be fair. And so far, he’s been very good at both picking things to do and as a companion.

“I don’t think I’m up to harbour swimming,” she says. In the summer it’s fun, dropping off the baking quayside into the frigid water, but she’s never quite been up for the winter swimming.

“Might clear the hangover,” he suggests.

“Might kill me, too.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not a harbour dip.” Thank fuck for that. She’s wracking her pathetic brain for what it could be.

“If you’d told me, I would’ve bought a new swimsuit. Something more sensible.”

“Maybe I like that bikini.” He doesn’t turn around to face her, which is good because her face is heating up. She’s not sure she’ll be able to stand in front of him in the itsy?bitsy teeny-weeny bikini now without it feeling charged in some way. He’s made his thoughts clear.

“If you’d been sober last night, your feet wouldn’t have touched the ground.

” It’s still buzzing around her ear. She’s trying to parse it.

Is last night the key bit and the moment is gone?

Or is it just the sober bit, in which case she’d like to state for the record that she is most definitely sober now.

She does however consider she might not look her best. Or even smell her best. She is in need of a shower.

Quite why she hadn’t had this thought before she came downstairs and let his eyes behold her, she is ashamed to say she has no idea.

She is clearly very comfortable around him, which feels at odds with her current bashfulness.

How does this make sense when she simultaneously has an underlying urge to climb him like a tree, too?

“Go get dressed, Anna. Dig out that bikini, and be back down here in,” he checks his watch, his back to her still, “twenty minutes. I’m finishing up here and then we’ll go. I’ll drive.”