I creep down the hall, my heart thumping, hoping I’ve got the right room.
‘I need to speak to you! Now!’ I say in a forced whisper.
He comes out, hair standing on end, and we creep downstairs, where he guides me to the fire. He opens up the door of the woodburner and throws on another log, using a poker to shake the embers into life.
‘I know who you are!’ I hiss. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been this stupid!’
‘Who am I? You tell me!’ He turns to me still holding the poker.
‘You’re Daniel Nuhtte! The chef.’
‘I tried to tell you I’m a chef. You’ve seen me cooking.’
‘But you’re the Daniel Nuhtte! I’ve had your bag all this time, and that means you’ve got mine.’ I hold up the little case to him.
‘Ah, well yes and no.’
‘Where is it? Just give me my bag and I’ll go.’
‘You can’t leave now. It’s dark. The weather’s getting worse. They say there’s a storm on its way. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.’
‘I am not going anywhere with you. You lied to me!’
‘I didn’t lie, I just . . . didn’t tell you the whole truth.’
I drop his bag and pull out the notebook. The letter I tucked inside it flutters to the floor, but he doesn’t notice. ‘This is the handwritten recipe book of a Michelin-starred chef,’ I say, holding it out to him. ‘I guess you’d better have it back. Oh, and sorry, there’s a few pages missing from the back. You should have said something earlier, then I wouldn’t have torn them out.’ My words are laced with sarcasm and I know this isn’t my finest hour, but I’m furious. Boiling with rage. I have told him everything about myself, and all this time he has kept this from me. I have been open with him because something about being here, with him, has made me think more clearly, open up. And all the time he was keeping his real identity from me. ‘Here! Take it! And then you can tell me exactly where my bag is.’
‘I told you, it’s at the farm, Daniel Nuhtte’s farm. My family farm. Yes, I’m Daniel Nuhtte. Actually, my name is Dánel, but Daniel was easier when I was travelling, but I am also Björn. That’s what everyone here calls me. They have done since I was a child. It’s my second name; like a nickname that my mother used. It means Bear, because I was bigger, taller than the other kids, with this wild hair. When I went travelling, I decided to use Daniel. It’s like I’m two different people. In Stockholm and to everyone in the culinary world, I’m Daniel, but here, I’m just Björn. And this is where I am now. I’ve closed the restaurant, put it up for sale. I have a buyer. That’s why I was in Stockholm, seeing my solicitor. Sorting out the final paperwork. I’d left the book behind, and he found it and gave it back to me. But I’d left it behind for a reason.’
I’m still holding it out to him; the letter is still ignored on the floor. I can hear what he’s saying, but my breathing is short and I don’t know what’s real any more.
‘Would you have come with me if I’d told you who I was?’ he says. ‘Look, I needed the help. You were there. You needed to go to the same place I was going to. It made sense. But I am sorry I didn’t tell you the whole truth. Your bag is at the farm. I haven’t touched it or opened it. I was in a rush when I left and I didn’t check it. I didn’t know I had the wrong one until I saw you with mine. I must have picked yours up from the overhead locker on the plane.’
That big mop of curly hair a few rows ahead of me on the flight; I remember it now.
‘I said I’ll take you to your bag, and I will. It’s at the farm where we’re taking the reindeer, just the other side of the hotel.’
‘I’ll meet you there first thing in the morning. I’m out of here. And you can take your book!’ I thrust it at him.
He looks at it, then takes it. I drop my hand.
‘I told you,’ he says quietly, ‘that part of my life is over,’ and he tosses it on the fire then turns and walks away, back upstairs.
The flames lick up and around the book. I stare at it in horror. I can’t bear to see all those memories, a whole life, destroyed in a spur-of-the-moment action. Without thinking, I grab the poker Björn used for the fire and flick the book out of the flames onto the stone hearth. It is smouldering and glowing. I pick it up with two fingers by a corner that hasn’t been touched by the flames and carry it outside and drop it in the snow, where it sizzles and fizzes. Then I pick it up and look at the damage. The back cover is burnt through and the edges of the pages are scorched, but other than that, it’s still intact.
I go back into the house and pick up the letter, tucking it inside the front cover. It’s over. My Arctic journey is done. I leave first thing in the morning.