Page 43 of A Copenhagen Snowmance

Jamie’s phone suddenly pings. He gives the screen a cursory glance, then double-takes. Anna sees his eyes widen as he opens the text.

“Everything OK?”

“Look.” He turns the phone. It’s a picture of a little girl by a Christmas tree, opening her presents. “It’s from Lajla. It says Merry Christmas.”

“Sounds like a bit of a breakthrough, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t give her a present,” he suddenly says, looking the most worried she’s ever seen him.

Anna instinctively puts her hand on his, then instantly removes it again.

She can’t cope with the spark. He didn’t miss it either, and turns his hand over, palm upwards, fingers lightly curved, creating a space for hers.

An invite. She looks at it, considers it, then slides her hand into her lap.

“Jamie, don’t worry about it,” she says, reassuring and distracting him.

“Lajla won’t be expecting anything. You weren’t expecting her to send you a photo, were you? ”

“No.” He moves his offered hand to play with his fork.

“Maybe this is Lajla reaching out. An olive branch, or moving things on a small step at a time. And Nikoline won’t notice you haven’t given her a gift.”

“Right. Right, sure.” He’s flustered but still gazing at the picture. It’s a lovely shot and one where she particularly looks like her father. Anna suspects this will be his screensaver within minutes.

“On the subject of goodwill and olive branches, you should be honest with your dad and tell him the whole story about why you’re here.

” She sees a cloud cross his face, but ploughs on.

“Explain about Nikoline, and he’ll get it.

He’ll understand why you’re so set on staying.

And he might also be delighted to have a granddaughter.

You think it’s too much of a mess, but life is messy, your dad already knows that.

If you won’t give him the full picture, then how can he support you? ”

Jamie keeps his eyes on the photo, deep in thought.

She might have spoiled the evening by overstepping, but it needed to be said.

Finally he gives a small grunt and says, “I’ll think about it.

” Then, he takes a sip of the wine, shows her the screen again and asks, “What will they be doing this evening?”

“Pretty much what we’ve just done,” says Anna brightly, feeling the mood lighten again.

“Unless they’re uber-traditionalists and then they’ll have started with a rice pudding, which is what they did in olden times to fill the stomach before the more expensive food, so they didn’t have to buy as much.

But normally nowadays, they’ll have had family dinner, presumably with Lajla’s parents, and they’ll have had duck, like us, or perhaps goose or roast pork with crackling, with the same sides we’ve had.

Then dessert at the end and when they’ve finished eating, they’ll hold hands and walk around the Christmas tree singing carols. ”

“Really?” asks Jamie, incredulous, “Singing?”

“Sooo much singing! You’ve been to parties over here. You’ve experienced the singing.”

“And that spreads to Christmas, does it?”

“Very much. So, you sing carols as you walk around the tree, sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, depending on the song.”

“Sounds like a treat,” says Jamie with a smirk. She does not believe he means this.

“I cannot imagine doing it with someone who hasn’t grown up like this,” says Anna, already feeling the blush creep up her face.

“And then after the singing has finished, people open their presents and, again, it depends on the family how they do it. Some will take it in turns, opening one by one, so everyone gets to see what everyone has received, or for some it’s a free-for-all and everyone just opens their gifts at the same time.

Then they drink lots of port, while the kids play with their things.

And there’s no need to get up ridiculously early on Christmas morning.

” Danish Christmas 101 over, Anna stands. “Ready for dessert?”

“Is this the secret thing you were doing when you sent me out this afternoon?”

“Busted. But we did need port and a good red wine, so it wasn’t a wasted trip.”

She heads into the kitchen and pulls out from the fridge two small glass bowls. Each is full of what looks like tufts of whipped cream.

“Taa-daaaah! Risalamande,” she says.

“What the what now?”

“It’s French. Riz à l’amande. Rice with almonds.” She explains it like it is totally obvious.

“OK,” says Jamie slowly, “and what do we do?”

“Well, you can look at, but not touch, the two bowls while I heat some cherry sauce. Then you get to pick which of these two bowls you’d like.

It’s rice that’s been boiled in milk and vanilla, cooled and mixed with chopped almonds and then folded into whipped cream.

Somewhere in one of these bowls is a whole almond and whoever finds it wins the prize. ”

“Like the sixpence in a Christmas pudding?”

“I guess so. This is going on in every home, but they might have one big bowl and then people scoop out a spoonful. Seeing there’s just two of us I did two bowls, and you can pick.

But no touching, Jamie, no prodding with a spoon, nothing devious or underhand.

I’m going to turn my back and trust you while I heat the cherry sauce. ”

“Fine. Got it,” says Jamie. “But I can look from all angles, right?” He’s looking mischievous, so Anna waves a wooden spoon at him in a threatening way, or at least as threatening as a wooden spoon can be.

It must work as he sits peacefully in his chair watching her, swilling the Barolo around in his glass, while she warms the sauce and transfers it to a pretty crystal bowl, all the while hyper-sensitive to his gaze. As she places it on the table, he selects the dessert bowl to the right.

Anna drags a breath through her teeth. “Are you sure about that choice, Jamie?”

“Don’t you play mind-games on me, Lundholm. I made my choice.”

She brings the bottle of port from the kitchen counter and pours them each a glassful. “This is what goes with it,” she says.

“I can totally respect dessert which has its own specified alcoholic accompaniment.”

It takes Jamie three mouthfuls to find the almond.

“I win!” he gloats.

“Noooo! You’re not supposed to tell me. You need to hide it until the end, so people don’t stop eating as soon as it’s found.” She still has half a bowl left.

“Is that a thing? This is good,” he says, eating on. “And you didn’t mention that rule, so how was I supposed to know?”

“Fair point,” she mutters, a bit gutted she didn’t win. There’s that competitive streak.

“Um… You mentioned a prize?”

“What are you? Six?” she asks, amused by his keenness. It makes it easier to be a gracious loser. “Right, yes, your mandelgave.” She heads for a cupboard.

“My almond gift,” he says, and she gives him a “well done” for his translation skills, just as she places his prize in front of him.

She averts her eyes, drawn as they are to the kilt, the hem brushing the skin above his knees, as he shifts in his seat.

If he put his hand on her hip now, warm on the slinky satin of her skirt, she doesn’t think she’d be able to withstand sinking onto his lap.

“A pig,” he says, staring at it.

“A marzipan pig, Jamie,” she corrects, and then with her pointy finger she lifts each side of his mouth in turn. “It’s the traditional prize.” She tries to ignore the residual feel of his skin on her fingertip.

“Traditional. Got it. Well, I won something and that’s what counts. It’ll sit on my shelf, with my other trophies.”

“You have trophies?” she asks. She hasn’t seen any, and really, was that the kind of thing he packed when emigrating?

“Not yet, but maybe one day, and this pig will be ready and waiting for them.”

* * *

As she later lies in her bed, Anna’s thumb and fingers rub lightly together, as she imagines the feeling of his wrapping them in that proffered hand.

She thinks about the skin at the base of his throat, just above the neckline of his T-shirt, and his corded forearms when he pushed up his sleeves as the evening drew on.

She even thinks about his knees, visible thanks to the kilt.

His knees! Honestly, who thinks about a man’s knees? She needs to get a grip.

Turning crossly onto her side, she wills herself asleep, away from her lusty thoughts, which will do her no good. What had felt good, were his hands on her during their Once-and-Done, and in her hair, his steady breath at her ear, his tongue – dammit, her thoughts are off again…

Anna sits up, properly annoyed. This is maddening.

She knows this is not something she wants; she doesn’t want to hurt him, she doesn’t want a relationship again, she doesn’t want to let herself fall.

But what she cannot deny, is that she wants him.

What if, she wonders, just to put it out there, what if Once-and-Done was Twice-and-Done?

Would that be so bad? She’s made her position plain to him.

He understands. He’d toasted to their separate futures. Anna’s sure he’s clear on her position.

Somewhere in her thinking, her feet have slid themselves out of the bed and onto the floor.

Life can be mysterious at times, and she’s always been “woo-woo open”, so chooses not to question this too much.

Which means she goes with it, as they carry the rest of her to the door, which she opens veeeery quietly, and tiptoes, on her totally autonomous feet, out into the hallway and to the stairs.

Anna has on occasion during her teen years, snuck out of the house. She knows exactly where to step to avoid the squeaky stair and does so now, more from muscle-memory than design, yet another sign that it’s not her head steering this.

And then she’s outside his bedroom door.

She listens, not sure what for – snoring perhaps, or deep breathing, at least – but hears nothing.

Her hand raises to knock, but hangs there in the air.

What if he doesn’t answer? How humiliating would that be?

Or what if he is asleep, and in not answering she’ll never know if he was avoiding her or not?

Her hand lowers to the handle, pausing just before her fingers reach the metal.

Could she just open it and peer in? But what if he discovered her standing in the doorway like some stalker?

She shakes her head at that scenario. Or she could slide in and slip into his bed.

The thought of holding him, spooning into his warm body, plays across her mind and into her belly.

However, her hand drops to her side, as her head shakes itself in shame.

What is she thinking?? How intrusive would that be?

Jamie hasn’t asked her to his bed tonight.

He did before, but now he’s asking her for more.

He’s been clear in that; something more, a future, not “another night of epic sex”, she would have remembered that, even through the many glasses of port they’ve drunk this evening, and the rest of the wine, as they stood side by side, him washing up and her drying.

Anna hangs her head, then backs quietly away.

Her desire does not override his right to an assault-free night’s sleep.

Her head back in charge now, she swivels silently on her wayward feet and creeps back up to her room and into bed, where she lies, a mess of feelings; of shame, and embarrassment about her unrelenting want, and what might also be disappointment.

Why is this so hard? She has her plan, she knows her course and it’s a sound, well-reasoned one.

Anna starts to list the reasons in her head why she has just done the right thing, but only gets as far as reason three, before something suddenly stops her.

Her eyes snap open and her breath catches in her throat.

She knows that sound, it is very distinct.

The squeak of the third step. Jamie’s on his way up the stairs.

Her heart picks up its beat at the thought of him knocking, or sliding in, she doesn’t mind which.

He’d be the best Santa ever. She takes a quick moment to smooth her hair and wishes it was longer, just for the night, so it could fan out on the pillow.

A panic then ensues as to whether she should feign sleep, or simply watch him cross the room, with a smile, but she settles on the latter as she prefers things honest.

But seconds, then minutes, pass and nothing happens. There is no footfall outside her room or knock on the door, nor body sliding into the bed to spoon hers.

And then she hears the squeak again, as he retreats.

Anna stares at the ceiling and now she’s in no doubt about the disappointment. It’s crushing.