Читать книгу Destination Chile - Katy Colins, Katy Colins - Страница 8

CHAPTER 1

Glean (v.) – To find out

‘Do you really need another candle?’ Ben asked, pushing our overflowing trolley through the winding aisles of Ikea.

I’d stopped to sniff the warming scent of a pale green, stumpy candle and stared at him as if he’d just asked me if I ever got tired of eating chocolate. ‘You can never have too many candles; everyone knows that.’

‘Well if it makes you happy, I guess. I just don’t see the point in buying things to then set fire to; it’s like you are literally burning money.’ He laughed, shaking his head. ‘Although the question is, are they called Grönkulla or Färdfull or even Knutstorp? I mean that could change everything.’ He put on a terrible Scandinavian accent, like he had for most of the last hour, making me giggle.

‘Actually, they’re called Fyrkantig, but, oh my God, you’re like fluent!’ I teased.

He pushed out his chest proudly. ‘Yup. Oh wait should that be “ja”? Come on, though, I’m starving and you promised me meatballs.’

I dropped a couple more gorgeously smelly candles in amongst the fluffy white cushions, photo frames and other practical and pretty household goods and linked my arm around his waist. ‘Okay, one plate of meatballs coming right up.’ I then bit my lip and looked at our stash. ‘Do you reckon we’ve got everything we need?’

‘We literally have got everything.’ He let out a long groan, which I knew was hiding how much he’d actually enjoyed our jaunt through the huge warehouse that was so enormous it could be its own nation state.

I, on the other hand, had been stupidly nervous about our first couple’s trip here. After all, shopping for joint furniture in Ikea was a rite of passage in any relationship, especially as the last time I’d been here with my ex, Alex, in this ‘Swedish hellhole’, as he’d called it, and we’d left with a Billy bookcase and a blazing row. We didn’t speak for two hours after the shopping trip that I’d previously imagined to be full of excitement at building our home together and not the fraught nightmare of bickering arguments – and that was before we’d even got to the tricky part of assembling the damn things.

This time, everything was different. Ben and I had meandered through the vast shop on our first official visit; we weren’t squabbling over who did the most cooking as we walked through the kitchen showroom, or awkwardly quickening our pace through the kids’ section. It was, well, actually fun. It was everything I’d imagined it would be before that disastrous trip with Alex.

But now, two hours after first stepping foot in here, I realised that Ben’s enjoyment levels were waning. The only time that we could both make it to come here was a Saturday and it felt like the rest of Manchester had had the exact same idea. We shuffled along, behind harassed DIY-ers, screaming children and couples having heated rows under their breath over who had the better taste in curtain patterns, all diligently following the maze of yellow arrows to the exit.

‘I reckon they need to move away from each other before these tiny weeny pencils find themselves wedged some place they shouldn’t be,’ Ben had said, nodding at one older married couple who were glaring at each other with looks so vicious it seemed they might start divorce proceedings amongst the Jeff chairs and Ektorp sofas. For many people, stepping foot in here makes you suddenly realise that your partner’s awful taste in soft furnishings represents all the things you despise about them and that, really, you can’t actually stand each other.

I’d let out a little laugh and pulled him through one of the mystery Scooby Doo doors, a hidden passageway to skip over the bathroom showroom completely, a trick I’d remembered the last time I’d been here when I’d marched off in a huff after Alex had called my choice in bath mats ‘too common’. The rat maze they force you to follow is why coming here is so full of potential pitfalls for any relationship whether new or well established: you can’t easily leave. They lie to you about the exits – well they don’t lie, but in my pissed off state I’d felt like I was stomping around in circles, passing the same bunch of equally harassed people clutching their bright yellow carrier bags like comfort blankets. But this time I was prepared. This time I knew the shortcuts.

‘Let’s never become like them. Promise me,’ I’d whispered clutching Ben’s hand.

We’d found ourselves, quite aptly, in the bedroom section. Ben playfully pulled me onto the nearest perfectly made up king-sized bed, with a duvet cover that would actually quite suit our bedroom, and lay me down on the soft surface.

‘I promise.’ He leant over and kissed me hard.

The tutting of an Indian man examining the nearby hypoallergenic pillows made me blush so I pulled us back to our feet to finish the shopping and get back home, to our own bed. Ikea is not a place for idle browsing and I may have strayed somewhat from the list I’d scrawled out as we’d had breakfast earlier. It was time to call it a day.

‘Oooh, wait. I forgot we need cereal bowls!’ I exclaimed as we moved onto the next section, remembering that the ones we currently had were chipped and, well, just not deep enough for my liking.

‘Okay. Cereal bowls and then let’s get out of here.’

‘Deal.’

Ben’s eyes had narrowed as if he was a character in a video game, some sniper assassin that had been trained to keep their focus on the target, refusing to be drawn in by my ‘oh look, isn’t that gorgeous!’ or ‘we need one of these’ lines as I shuffled through the Market Hall getting carried away by the funky coloured spatulas.

I imagined that in a moment he would take my hand and break into a run just to tear me away from ALL OF THE PRETTY THINGS, called Rort or Skedstorn or even a word with no apparent vowels in, that I couldn’t help but chuck into the crispy, oversized blue bags. I could feel Ben’s amused eyes flick to me as I snuck in another couple of tea towels.

‘Really, babe?’ he asked with a wry smile, faking a yawn.

‘I know, but they are so cheap!’ I took a deep breath. ‘Okay, please get me out of here. I don’t know what’s happened to my self-control!’ I wailed as he laughed and took my hand.

We made it to the self-service checkout section of the shop pretty disgustingly smugly if you ask me, especially with relationship apocalypse exploding around us. We sauntered through to the right aisle (I’d been meticulous about scribbling down where the dining table was located that we’d both liked) holding hands and coming up with how many famous Swedish people we could think of. Ulrika Jonsson and ABBA topped the poll after some obscure football players Ben suggested. It was all going rather swimmingly, maybe too swimmingly, until we saw the oblong-shaped thick cardboard box on section A shelf 39.

‘Oh.’

‘Balls.’

‘It’s enormous!’ I gasped. Not only did I worry about us getting it into the car, I also didn’t know how it would fit in our already cosy flat. This was the main reason we’d come here as we were having a dinner party in a few days, a posh house-warming, and I’d panicked that our guests would have to eat from their laps.

‘I’m sure it’s all just packaging. I don’t remember it being that big in the showroom,’ he said, scratching his head.

I nodded even though I wasn’t convinced. ‘You did do the measurements before we came out, didn’t you?’

‘Yep, come on. It’ll be fine,’ he said, through a heavy wheeze as he awkwardly hoisted the giant box onto the flat trolley, ignoring my narrowed eyes.

We were both exhausted and as fun and relatively painless as this shopping trip had been I was ready to get home, put the kettle on and brew up in my new matching mugs. Of course he had the sizes worked out in his head – just trust him, Georgia. But the meatballs and lingonberry sauce were soon forgotten as we struggled to just get the damn thing into Ben’s car. We drove the whole way back to our flat with my seat pulled as far forward as it would go. I told Ben to be careful not to brake suddenly or else my neck would be sliced open by the sharp corner of the box that was precariously close to decapitating me.

We eventually both fell onto the sofa trying to catch our breath from lugging the enormous box through the front door. My smugness at surviving Ikea was starting to fade, but our spirits were still relatively high as we found a way to laugh at the experience, a pretty impressive feat considering how stilted the car journey had been – although I did smile to myself at Ben’s cautious grandma-style driving.

‘Well, it’s in!’ He smiled, wiping his damp forehead. ‘How about I crack on with putting it up and you clear some room in the bedroom for all these candles you’ve collected?’

‘You sure you don’t want a hand?’ I asked, looking at the mess he was making tearing his way into the giant box, pulling out the surprisingly thick instruction manual, bubble wrap and screws that were soon littering the floor.

‘Nope. If I can’t put up a simple table for my woman, then I basically fail at being a man.’ He grinned, looking unfazed by the debris around him and popping the lid off a cold bottle of lager, ready for the challenge.

‘Okay then, if you’re sure…’ I leant down and pecked him on his mop of dark brown curls. ‘Good luck.’

I made my way around the boxes that lined the hallway, the ones we still had to unpack, trying to ignore the possible fire risk they posed, and dragged the full, blue Ikea sack into the bedroom. This was already my favourite room in the flat. It was a larger than average size with wide sash windows that let in so much light it made the calming space seem even bigger. I was still amazed that after moving out of the house I’d shared with my ex, Alex, and then going backpacking, I’d amassed so much stuff. Since moving in a month ago, Ben and I had been dancing around each other, finding places for both of our life possessions and bringing a touch of homely charm to the previously blank canvas.

It had been only a matter of time before Ben had moved out of the flat he’d shared with his best mate Jimmy and we got a place of our own. The decision to live together had been such an obvious one, especially as we spent all of our time in each other’s company at work anyway and our relationship was going so well. The times I did find myself apart from him I’d hated.

I artistically arranged my new candle collection on top of the chest of drawers, next to the framed photo of us taken when we’d first met on a sun-drenched Thai beach. So much had changed since that moment I sometimes forgot where it had all started. Since then we’d launched our own joint business, The Lonely Hearts Travel Club, fallen in love and were now living together. I never could have predicted any of this back then when this hot stranger had placed his arm around my waist as I grinned at the camera lens.

I pulled myself back to the moment and smiled at hearing Ben whistling along to the radio from the lounge. I couldn’t remember feeling this happy and excited about the future before; it was such a special, precious feeling that I never wanted to end. It had made sense to move in together. Both of our diaries were always full of short breaks, taken separately, to promote The Lonely Hearts Travel Club – just in the last few months I’d been to Spain, Greece and Morocco. But sadly, the most I got to see of the fascinating destinations was the airport and a variety of nondescript hotel rooms. It also meant that when I wasn’t away from the office then Ben was, both of us taking it in turns to keep in personal contact with our travel guides and excursions, as well as trying to bring in new clients.

This was all so exciting, but it meant we had to manage our downtime carefully, with planned date nights and time together booked into our diaries weeks or months in advance. I wouldn’t say I ever really got homesick but I had found myself feeling sick of not having a home – with Ben. Somewhere we could both at least wake up and fall asleep together whenever we were in the same country.

Not wanting to get in the way of his furniture assembly techniques, I decided to make a start on unpacking those boxes littering the hallway. They were labelled Ben’s Clothes so I ungracefully dragged them into the bedroom and pulled open the floor-to-ceiling, built-in wardrobes, wincing at how cluttered it was already looking in here.

I closed my eyes and inhaled the comforting and familiar scent of my boyfriend as I pulled out soft T-shirts and piled them in the drawers on his side of the wardrobe. Lost in heady memories that his smell caused my brain and my lady parts, I almost missed it. In amongst neatly folded winter jumpers, my hand touched upon a solid object. Digging further into the cardboard box I felt my stomach clench and my heart skipped a beat as everything around me froze.

Tucked – almost hidden – in the pocket of a thick woollen jacket was a small, maroon-coloured, velvet box.