The wind is biting cold. I can feel it in my bones and on my cheeks. My eyebrows are frozen like ice pops and my eyelashes are clumped together and heavy. My nose is so cold it hurts, throbbing with pain. I keep rubbing it but it doesn’t seem to help.
The reindeer are travelling steadily through the building snow. We all have our heads down and are pushing forward slowly against the wind. The dogs are finding the snow harder and harder to run through, slowing them down too. The first hour passes in silence, the clicking of the reindeer’s ankles the only sound apart from the constant forceful wind. There’s an uneasy tension in the air, and it’s not just the fact that we’re not speaking. The weather seems to be worsening, the snow getting heavier, and I can hardly see Björn – or Daniel, or whatever I’m supposed to call him, not that that matters right now – just the fuzzy light from his head torch. The whiteness all around is starting to make me feel dizzy and disorientated. I don’t know which direction we’re travelling in or what might be in front of us. What if we hit a river again? I’m scared now – really scared. I don’t want to die, I realise. I want to keep living. I want to do more things that make me feel alive, like riding downhill on a sled being pulled by a reindeer, eating freshly caught fish and making snow angels.
Suddenly the walkie-talkie crackles into life.
‘Okay, we’ll have to stop. We can’t go on. It’s going to be a white-out,’ he says.
‘What? Go back?’ I turn to look in the direction we’ve come from but can’t make out our tracks at all. Everything has been totally covered over.
‘No, we can’t go back. We’ll have to sit it out.’
‘What?’ Crackle, hiss.
‘We’ll put the tent up. We have poles, thank God. The reindeer won’t go far. They’ll just wait it out.’ Crackle hiss. ‘We’ll head into those trees.’
I can just make out where he is pointing. With effort, and me pushing it through the deep snow, Rocky gets the sled into the trees, where it lists and comes to a standstill. I unharness him and let him join the herd. Then, with the wind battering us, we try and erect the tent. It seems an impossible task, but Björn ties guy ropes to the trees, and eventually it’s up. He goes back to the sled, grabs his axe and finds the makings of a fire.
‘Get that going,’ he instructs, handing me his flint. ‘I’ll see to the dogs.’
I quickly clear away the snow and lay up a fire, pulling out my knife and scoring the bark to light it.
‘Come on, come on,’ I’m saying out loud, my hands shaking with cold and fear as I try and create a spark from the flint. It’s no good. In desperation, I pull out my little notebook and tear a corner off it, and another and another. I put the flint to them, and this time it lights the edges of the dry, crisp pages, my words going up in flames. I add moss on top, and curls of bark, and by the time the initial flames weaken and die, the fire is glowing. When Björn sticks his snow-covered head into the tent, there’s a pot of pine tea on the go.
‘We need to dig the dogs in deeper to keep them out of the snow.’ He’s out of breath.
I don’t need asking twice. I pull on my hat and coat and gloves and, securing the tent door behind me, take the shovel he hands me.
Finally, with the dogs well protected, we practically fall back into the lavvu, the Lapp dogs coming with us to keep us warm. Inside, the fire has warmed it up and there’s an orange glow welcoming us back in. Outside, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
‘How long will we be here?’ I ask.
‘As long as it takes. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.’
He unfolds a sleeping bag and wraps it around me.
‘We have to keep warm, whatever happens.’
I feel more scared but strangely more alive than I have ever felt, but this time, I’m not reaching for my notebook. I can’t. I’ve burnt most of it. This is about living, not documenting the events in my life to give them meaning.
‘We’ll be fine,’ he reassures me, seeing the fear in my face. ‘We just have to ride out the storm.’
I nod, my teeth chattering, but I am glad to be in the tent instead of outside in the white-out. The reindeer have moved in amongst the trees. I can hear them outside and find it strangely comforting. Then something hits the top of the tent with a thud.
‘What’s that?’ The sound makes me jump.
‘Just the snow falling from the trees where it’s got too heavy. It’s probably best we talk . . . to pass the time.’
I stare at him. A few hours ago, he was the last person on earth I wanted to talk to. I felt I’d bared my soul to this man and I didn’t even know who he was. But now, well, there’s no one I’d rather be stuck in a snowstorm with, I realise.
Another clump of snow lands on the tent, making me jump again.
‘Tell me about your husband – Griff, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ I button up all over again. We fall into silence. Finally I ask the question that’s been on my mind since last night. ‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were, who you really were?’
He sighs, a big long sigh. He seems to be gathering his thoughts and I don’t say anything, just sit in the orange glow trying to gather mine too.
‘I didn’t want to be found. It seemed easier to pretend to be someone else,’ he tosses some stray bark into the fire. ‘I guess I was running away myself, again.’
‘Again?’
‘As I told you, after my mother died, I left here. I couldn’t stand the looks, people talking about me . . . just as you must have felt after your husband died.’ He looks at me with his pale blue eyes. He understands exactly how I’ve been feeling. And there was me thinking, what did he know? But maybe it was because he understood I found myself telling him about Griff.
‘And it seemed easier to keep travelling. Did you travel when you were with Griff?’
‘No. When we met, I helped him pick out a holiday for him and his mates from his barracks, an all-inclusive couple of weeks in the sun, the best I could find.’
The older of the two dogs lies across Björn’s lap and he strokes it. The other is lying along my thigh.
‘But you hadn’t been there yourself?’
‘No, I’d done a few trips, and Griff and I always wanted to do more. We had a bucket list we started together. He gave me the travel log for my birthday, just after our wedding and before he went on his last tour of duty. After that, he planned to leave the army and settle down. We’d enjoy our new house and all the wedding presents when he came home for good.’
Outside, the wind is whipping around the tent, billowing the sides of it, and the snow banks up the sides some more. One of the lanterns flickers. We both turn to look at it, but to our relief it comes back to life.
‘When he was away, the travel brochures became my place of comfort. I’d imagine all the places we’d go together, reread the blurbs until I knew them inside out: the sights, the food we’d eat, the places we’d swim. I read them over and over again, keeping the dream alive.’
I look down and see that fat tears are dropping into my empty mug. Björn removes it from my hands and replaces it with more hot tea.
‘We promised ourselves the trip of a lifetime when he got out and got home.’
The lights flicker again, as does the fire. I look into the flames.
‘But we never made it.’
‘And so you travel and write the descriptions and read them back to yourself, just like when he was in Afghanistan, keeping the dream alive.’
I nod. ‘Or I did. Then I lost my book and . . . well, even though I have written a bit out here, it’s been more about actually doing something rather than just being a bystander reporting everything. I’ve finally felt I’m living again. But I still can’t help feeling guilty.’
He nods.
‘The thing is,’ I say in a strained voice, and I realise I’ve never really admitted this to myself, ‘he asked me if he should go. He said if I didn’t want him to, he wouldn’t. One last tour . . .’ I try and sip the tea but can’t. ‘And I let him go . . .’ I stare into the fire, lost for words.
Finally, Björn speaks. ‘I went travelling. France, Italy, Switzerland . . . started working in kitchens, moving on from job to job, not staying in one place too long. Like you, I wrote my experiences down, in my recipes, the smells and tastes of places. My mum gave me that book when I was younger and I took it with me.’
‘So what does the inscription say?’
He swallows. ‘It means, always remember what’s in your heart, love and hugs, Mum.’ He swallows again. ‘Like I said, I filled it with dishes that I discovered, hoping I’d discover myself, I suppose.’
‘And did you?’
‘Eventually, after ten years, I returned to Sweden. But not here; to Stockholm. I’d worked in Michelin-starred restaurants and I had a backer who set me up in my first restaurant here. Then I set up on my own, with a team around me I trusted. I had a girlfriend at the time. She was my sous chef. We were a great team in the kitchen. Not always so great outside it! Luckily for us, we didn’t spend much time out of the kitchen.’ He tries to laugh.
Suddenly I remember the letter the woman at the restaurant gave me. It must be her. But I don’t stop him in mid flow.
‘Critics came to the restaurant, raved about the food, all inspired by my time in Europe. But the more the critics came, the more they wanted to criticise. I began to realise that the dishes weren’t about me, they were about what I’d learnt from other people. There was nothing of me on the plate. I was tired, burnt out, but I couldn’t stop working . . . like you couldn’t stop travelling, I suppose. Because once we have to stand still and think, well, that’s the hard part. Working out where we really are in life.’
Outside, the dogs bark and howl. I shiver.
‘I couldn’t stand the looks in the office after Griff died.’ Our memories are like runners in a relay, handing over the baton, gathering pace with every leg. ‘Everyone was really kind, but it was the “How are you today?” that I couldn’t cope with. If I was having a good day, it reminded me, and if I was having a bad day, it made me worse.’ I manage a little laugh, and so does he.
He reaches into his pocket. ‘Here, something to keep out the cold.’
As I take the flask, his fingers brush mine, and I feel that frisson, that thrill, travelling right up through the middle of my body again. I sip. Lingonberry vodka. Its familiar flavour brings comfort.
‘The night before I closed the restaurant, we’d had a good evening. We’d launched our new menu, to great feedback. We had a few drinks in the kitchen after service. I didn’t drink. I was driving. Our young kitchen hand, however, had had more than she should.’
‘More than lagom?’ I say.
‘More than lagom, more than enough.’ He nods and smiles. ‘She was young. Keen. Talented, even. I offered her a lift home. We were in good spirits. But when I arrived at her parents’ house and pulled up, she leant in and tried to kiss me. I was surprised. Taken aback. Told her that was never going to happen. That I knew she admired me but this was very inappropriate. I told her she was good at her job but she shouldn’t do anything like that again. The next morning, she was in the office with my sous chef, crying, saying I’d tried to kiss her the night before. It was horrific. Camilla said I should take some time off. So, you see, when you said I was hitting on you . . . well, I thought you knew. I thought it must have been in the press.’
I shake my head.
‘Suddenly, everything I had worked for was unravelling. The critics were over-analysing the menu, pulling it apart. There was nowhere to hide. People were trying to bring me down at every corner. But this, this was unthinkable. Once the press got hold of the story, it would have been everywhere. I’d seen it happen before. Like vultures picking over your life. I didn’t want that for my family. I couldn’t disappoint my father. Not after everything he and my mum had done for me. They made me who I am. They didn’t deserve that. So I came here. I came home. And it was then that I realised I’d spent far too long building my career and not enough time looking after my family. So . . . I put the restaurant on the market. It sold within days. But now . . .’ He breathes out heavily. ‘But now I realise I left it too late. Dad’s right. He can’t look after the herd. I have to tell him that I agree to sell.’
‘So that’s why you didn’t tell me who you really were when I met you on that first day,’ I say, finally understanding.
‘I didn’t know you. You could have told the press where I was. Look, I know I did a bad thing. I needed help with the reindeer. The weather was too good to miss and you needed to get where I was going. I thought it was a simple swap. And then . . . well, I tried to tell you, but I didn’t expect . . .’ He trails off, staring at me, his blue eyes sending shooting stars off all around my stomach.
‘What? Didn’t expect what?’ I’m hanging on his every word, wondering if he’s going to say what I think he’s going to say – that he didn’t expect to start to like me, to care. Is this what I want to hear, that he cares?
‘I didn’t expect to . . .’ He suddenly looks around and listens, his eyes narrowing. The herd are shifting outside. Then he relaxes and shakes his head. ‘I just meant I didn’t expect to meet someone like you.’
‘What? A city girl out of her depth?’
‘No,’ he says softly. ‘Someone with such determination and bravery. Someone who gets knocked down but gets right back up again. Someone as honest . . .’
He holds my gaze, and the orange glow from the fire lights up his face as a flame suddenly licks up the side of the logs. Inside I feel exactly the same, as if the flames in my stomach have suddenly burst into life.
At last he shrugs and looks down, picking at the reindeer rug beneath us, and just for a moment I wonder what it would be like to fall back into the soft skins here in front of the fire, in the lamplight. I’m suddenly feeling very attracted to this man I have come to know through his passion for his way of life here in the wilderness, but also through the pages of the book.
The wind outside suddenly whips at the sides of the tent, and a rush of panic surges through me. At least I think it’s panic.
‘It’s fine,’ he says, edging towards me. ‘We’re safe here. I promise. Nothing will happen.’
And I feel a strange mix of excitement and disappointment.
‘So where will you go now?’ I say to cover my burning cheeks. ‘When you’ve delivered the reindeer.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe France, or perhaps further afield. Australia maybe.’ He laughs. ‘Where do you think? Recommend anywhere?’
‘I’ll let you know if I get there.’ I look around. ‘If,’ I repeat. ‘The wedding is tomorrow. If I don’t get the rings there, my boss will never forgive me. I won’t have a job at all.’
‘We’ll get you there,’ he says. ‘Plenty of time. Like I told you, never . . .’
‘. . . travel faster than your soul,’ I finish, and we both smile and my insides dissolve.
I pass back the hip flask and our hands touch again. I wonder if he’s feeling the same way I did, and as he looks at me over the flask, something tells me he is.
‘So tell me, travel agent sales team manager . . . where should I go next? Tell me about the places you’ve been.’
I go through all the places I’ve visited and some of the ones I haven’t that are on my bucket list. The cities I’d like to see, the sights, the wonders of the world. Finally, when we have swapped travel stories, him telling me about the restaurants he’s worked in and the extreme menus he’s been part of creating, we both find ourselves smiling and laughing.
‘About your book . . .’ I say. ‘The recipe one.’
‘It’s in the past for me, that part of my life. I don’t need it any more.’
‘No, but when I was at the restaurant, looking for you – well, for my bag – I met—’
‘Shh . . .’ He holds his finger up, and I don’t need telling twice. The atmosphere inside the tent has changed. The warm glow and safe bubble we have been in seems to have evaporated. The animals outside are restless. The wind has died down and the snow seems to have eased up on the roof and sides of the tent too. He moves away from me. And suddenly I’m feeling out in the cold once more, and I realise quite how much I like being close to him.