This time I know what to expect. We make the lavvu with the poles, fetch firewood and birch branches, light the fire and get the water on to boil. Then we feed the dogs and scatter pellets on the ground for the reindeer, which are milling in amongst the trees, pulling at branches and snuffling for lichen. I find Rocky an extra big lump of lichen and feed it to him, thanking him for today and for stopping before the herd leapt into the river.
As Björn feeds the fire, kneeling beside it, watching the flames build and grow in character and confidence, I sit on a log, pull out my little notebook and start to record today’s adventures, my writing as tiny as I can make it, using every spare bit of the page, even up the edges and in the little margin.
‘Thanks for today. I know you could have left.’ He hands me a cup into which he’s poured a clear liquid.
I stop writing, take the cup and sip. It burns as it slips down.
‘Lingonberry vodka,’ he tells me.
It gets all my taste buds standing to attention.
‘It’s fine. I need to get my bag, remember. The rings.’
‘And the travel log,’ he adds.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘And my travel log.’
‘To write up your journeys,’ he says, the flames softly lighting his face. ‘To save them to show your husband.’
I swallow and grip my little notebook, then take a deep breath and look up at him in the firelight.
‘Yes,’ I say steadily, almost steely, because that’s what I’ve learnt to do: protect my shattered heart with a steel casing.
He holds my stare and for a moment I wobble; then, just as I feel the final thick layer of my protective casing about to crack, he pulls out the piece of antler from his pocket and starts whittling it again.
‘And what have you got to tell him about this trip, your husband, in your journal? What will you say?’
‘How I’m stuck with this really annoying man and lost and nearly killed his husky team. I’ll tell him about the fish I ate straight from the snow hole, which tasted so delicate and melted on my tongue. The pine tea I thought was like grass to start with that I now find myself craving. My lovely reindeer Rocky, how I’ve come to trust him. And how I can be around the dogs now without breaking into a cold sweat and wanting to run for the hills every time they bark.’
‘And the river crossing. Don’t forget the river crossing!’ He waves his knife at me but doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.
‘And the river crossing.’ I find myself smiling.
‘The way you saved little Robbie and stopped the rest of the herd going back. And you didn’t scream, which would’ve scared the dogs.’
‘And I didn’t scream,’ I agree, and nod.
‘And my impromptu snowmobile ride!’
I smile at the thought of bringing the herd back together and the euphoria I felt after we’d crossed the river safely and know that’s a memory that will stay with me forever. It’s in my head, imprinted. A happy memory. And it’s been a while since I’ve had any of those. It feels like an old friend returning to reacquaint itself with me. I smile wider.
‘And those ridiculous pants you bought from the souvenir shop. I bet he’d laugh at those.’
‘He would’ve done.’ I smile and blush. ‘He always thought I had great taste in underwear. He’d definitely have laughed at these ones!’ and suddenly I stop, and try to recover. ‘I mean, he thinks I have, always, he tells me.’
Björn looks up from the antler in his hand. The candles he’s put round the fire and in lanterns hanging from the temporary washing line light up the contours of his face, which, if I’m not mistaken, is actually really good-looking underneath all that hair. The orange glow illuminates his features, creating golden highlights, and the cream canvas of the lavvu behind him makes him look really soft, like there’s someone very kind beneath that bad-tempered exterior. Like a Kinder egg, hard on the outside with a surprise in the middle.
He just looks at me, patiently. It’s as if he’s waiting for me to take the first step.
I open my mouth and close it again. The words just won’t come out.
‘Say it,’ he encourages quietly.
I look down, my vision blurred by the tears filling my eyes and falling in big heavy plops into the notebook in my lap.
‘I can’t,’ I whisper.
‘He’s not working away, is he?’ Björn says in the same low voice. I turn my head to the left and then very slowly to the right, and find that I am shaking it. ‘When did he die?’
‘Two . . .’ I manage to get out before my throat tightens so much it threatens to strangle me.
‘Two years ago?’ he helps.
This time I lift my head and slowly drop it to my chin. ‘In Afghanistan. Landmine,’ I manage. ‘Night patrol.’
He nods slowly. ‘And you don’t tell people?’
I shake my head and then manage to say in one big breath through my tight and painful chest, ‘They don’t need to know. It’s no one’s business but mine.’
He says nothing. Outside I can hear the reindeer moving around, the clicking and snuffling that have come to be familiar sounds out here now, and I seem to actually be drawing some comfort from them.
‘And that’s why the book is so important to you, this travel log?’
I just nod, without looking at him, like his voice isn’t actually part of a real person sitting just a few feet away from me. If I don’t look at him, this conversation isn’t really happening.
‘It’s why you keep travelling, doing this job, so you don’t have to stand still and live in the real world.’
My head snaps up. ‘I picked up my passport and haven’t looked back. I have a great life right now!’
He lets out a long blow of air and then says with his usual directness, ‘Looks to me like you’ve learnt how to survive . . .’
‘I have,’ I agree.
‘. . . but not how to live,’ he finishes, and once again, I’m lost for words. Then suddenly the dogs bark, making me jump, and Björn’s eyes release mine. I’m relieved, yet feel I’m in free fall, terrified of what might be outside.
‘I’ll check.’ He picks up the gun that has been lying by his side and pushes back the flap of the lavvu, letting in a freezing-cold blast of air, giving me a reality check, letting me know that I am very much living in the real world. I pull the shutters back down on my memories whilst Björn checks the herd.
‘Something’s out there, but it’s gone now,’ he says, ducking back inside. ‘The dogs’ll let us know if anything happens. I think you’d feel better if we went to bed. No point trying to fight it.’ He starts undoing his trousers.
‘What?!’ Suddenly all sorts of thoughts are crashing about in my mind. I’m not looking for a new relationship, or even a brief encounter. I’ve kept every man at arm’s length for the last couple of years. I’m just . . . not ready. ‘Look, Björn. It’s very flattering and I realise that underneath that grumpy exterior you’re really quite nice, but just because you’ve found out I’m widowed doesn’t mean I’m going to—’
Björn suddenly stands up very tall, holding onto his trousers, which are halfway down, revealing thermal long johns over tightly muscled thighs.
‘I meant we should get into bed, our own beds!’ he says with the ferocity of an injured dog fighting its corner against a hostile pack. He’s so fierce it makes my eyes smart. ‘Just . . . just go to bed and get some sleep.’ Suddenly he sounds like an exhausted parent. ‘Here’s your sleeping bag.’ He tosses it in my direction and I catch it, embarrassed by my mistake.
‘Do you need to go outside before I turn off this lamp?’ he adds with a sigh, pointing to the final lantern. ‘I promise not to look, just in case you think I’m trying to make a pass at you.’
‘I just thought—’ I want to put things right between us, but he cuts me off.
‘I know exactly what you thought. So let’s get this straight. I’m sorry you’ve lost your husband, I really am. But I am not about to turn into some sex-starved beast. I wasn’t attracted to you before I knew you were . . .’ he falters just for a split second and then recovers, ‘a widow. And I’m not attracted to you now. Are we clear?’
‘Perfectly!’ I say, tight-lipped and feeling very, very stupid. I’ve spent so long trying to make sure no man comes within a mile of me, being loyal to the memory of Griff, that I’ve convinced myself every eligible male is going to jump on me. I mean, why would they? I think about how long it is since I’ve actually had a proper shower or change of clothes. What was I thinking? That every man who finds out I’m alone is going to want to sleep with me?
‘I can go alone,’ I say, and rush outside into the bitter air, holding the lantern high and finding the biggest tree without batting an eyelid. Anything that might be lurking in these woods can’t be half as terrifying as the angry reindeer herder inside the tent.
When I return to the lavvu, Björn is stoking the fire. It’s roaring, pumping out yellow and orange flames. I head straight for my sleeping bag, pull up the covers and turn my back to him, facing the tent wall. Then I curl up into a ball, like a hedgehog making sure its spikes stick out to deter anyone who tries to get too close.
Björn looked up at the clothes hanging along the string inside the tent. The jeans, totally unsuitable for these conditions, and still damp from their soaking in the river, despite being by the fire earlier. The floral socks and the I ♥ Sweden knickers! What was it about her? he thought, one hand behind his head. She’d been amazing out there on the river today. Really. He couldn’t have hoped for a better helper. How had it come to this? Just like back in Stockholm, he had shown someone some kindness and they had misread the signals and got it all wrong. It was why he and Camilla had split up; why he’d left. It was why everything had fallen apart.
Life had been good. He had won awards for best international cuisine. He’d had a Michelin star, for God’s sake. He and Camilla had had a solid relationship; they’d worked well together as well as being bedfellows. They’d been a team. He’d been at the top of his game, an internationally renowned chef, everything his mother would have been proud of. And he had been proud of it too. But then it had started going wrong. People began to copy his dishes, pulling them apart, deconstructing them, second-guessing what he was going to do next. He had to keep upping his game. Everyone was a critic, judging his food, judging him, to the point where, in the end, he doubted his own instincts, he didn’t know what he was making, who he was any more, what was in his heart. And then, that night, his house of cards had come tumbling down, and now he had absolutely no idea what he was doing or where he was going once the reindeer were delivered home.
Seeing Halley looking through his book, hearing about the recipes in there, had just transported him back. Back to the confusion and doubt he had begun to feel about his signature dishes and to the night when he’d lost everything he’d worked for. He never wanted to see that book again. He couldn’t bear to think about the restaurant and what people must be saying about him now, how he had let down everyone who had believed in him.
And now, even out here, he had hurt someone he was coming to really admire and respect, and, if he was honest, find very attractive.
He looked at the Mickey Mouse socks hanging overhead, and found a little smile waiting there as he listened to the sound of gentle snoring. At least she was asleep. He didn’t think she’d slept since she got here. Her face looked haunted. He had known early on that there was something she was running from. It was in her eyes. He could tell there was hurt in there that went deep. He’d known that hurt when his mother had died, and he had run too. Her guard was permanently up, making sure no one knew the hurt that she was really feeling. He’d felt the same. Abandoned. Deserted. But in turn he had deserted the people who needed him, his dad and his sister. He hadn’t been there when they’d needed him. He should have visited more often, helped more.
He’d all but turned his back on his home and his family over the years. He couldn’t believe how much his father had aged when he’d finally visited him in the retirement flat, just before his trip back to Stockholm to see the solicitor and agree the sale of the restaurant only a few days ago. He’d hated seeing his father in the flat, cooped up like that. His dad had lived out here all his life, outdoors with his reindeer. At least now that he was on the mend, he should be able to move back into the farmhouse and look out on the herd every day.
Björn berated himself again. He should have come sooner, but he’d been too busy thinking up fancy recipes for fancy critics to pass judgement on. His sister had kept him up to date after the stroke, but he’d had no idea how quickly his dad had aged. He hadn’t been there and he should have been. He’d been busy launching a new menu, to the great excitement of the press, trying to win back that Michelin star, thinking he was making his family proud when he should have just been with them instead. He realised that now. The awards and reviews didn’t mean anything, not even the bloody star. He’d realised that the night after the launch of the new menu, and the staff party to thank them all for their support and loyalty and reassure them that they were hopefully over the bumpy patch and would be claiming that star back with this new, highly intricate menu, to which they’d all raised their glasses and applauded.
But what a difference a few days could make. He might have had it all in Stockholm, but what he recognised most clearly when he met Halley was the loneliness in her. Appearing to have it all, and actually having nothing on the inside. Being back here had filled that vacuum. He could be out here in the wilderness on his own and never feel as lonely as he felt back in the city surrounded by the wolves, people waiting to bring him down, tip him off his throne. Well, they’d nearly managed it, but he’d walked first, just like when he’d left here after his mother had died. Could you really keep walking, though, or running for that matter?
He let his eyes drift across to the sleeping mound beside him, huddled and hunched up. One thing he knew for sure: he mustn’t do anything to make her think he liked her – not that he did, of course: she was infuriating. Infuriating, but fascinating, and very attractive. But she mustn’t know he felt that way, or she’d take the first chance to run again.
He sat up and placed another log on the fire as quietly as he could. She murmured in her sleep and suddenly turned over towards him, her face screwed up into a frown. He knew where her dreams were. He hoped that one day she’d be able to dream carefree dreams again. Wasn’t that what had happened to him when he had arrived back here? Maybe if she let herself fall in love again . . . But he couldn’t be that person. Maybe this Lars would be. He himself didn’t need to be with anyone right now. He couldn’t make someone else happy until he could work out what he was doing, what he needed to do. A new adventure, a new challenge? He felt like he was standing at a crossroads, not knowing which road to take, but once he got the reindeer to the farm, he was going to have to make a decision. He had to go somewhere. London? Paris? Not back to Stockholm. He thought about his notebook, containing recipes from all over the world. He could go anywhere he liked. Why, then, didn’t that make him feel good?
He shut his eyes and finally drifted into sleep, and dreamt of being out on the tundra, him, his dogs and the reindeer, the ice cracking beneath them like his roots were falling away from under his feet, but every time, she had saved him. No matter how much he tried to shake her from his dreams, she kept creeping in and rescuing the herd, his livelihood, his roots . . . him.