Page 30 of All I Want for Christmas

‘Why should you get in my way? Is this place not big enough for the two of us?’

The two of us.Was it just her, or did the words seem charged? ‘You know what I mean. Just because I’ve got to work overtime, doesn’t mean you have to.’

‘Idon’t intend to work.’

‘But—’

‘Darcy, we’re all invested in wanting to get this over the line as quickly as possible. If this will help, then I’m happy to oblige.’

She watched as he pressed some buttons and the coffee machine began to loudly grind the beans.

He stared over at her. ‘How do you like it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your coffee.’

‘Oh...Strong and black.’

She began to pace slowly, her eyes grazing over the finer details of the room, noticing the Tiffany espresso cups, an Hermes ashtray, a cashmere fringed throw...It was a very grown-up space, completely opposite in style and spirit to hers and Freja’s, which was filled with Ikea sofas, takeaway boxes, mismatched underwear drying on the radiators and glittereyeshadow perpetually on the bathroom counter. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘...Ten years, thereabouts.’

‘You bought this when you were twenty-two?’ The question burst from her before she could stop herself and he looked surprised in turn. But who could afford a four-storey townhouse on one of the best roads in Copenhagen at the age of twenty-two?

She remembered the driver outside the museum earlier in the week. Max’s supreme ease with the older, sophisticated crowd. As if it had been just another Tuesday night for him. Something of a drag.

Born to it, then.

She turned away, collecting herself. Had it really only been Tuesday that they had met? His presence somehow loomed large in her consciousness now, a second pulse ticking away deep inside her.

‘Don’t look so impressed. Copenhagen prices don’t compare to London,’ he murmured, pushing buttons and pulling on a lever. She gave him a surprised look of her own. Was that modesty she was witnessing?

‘Have you done much work to it?’ she asked, looking up at the plaster cornicing.

‘Not really. Mainly just a paint job. And the bathrooms.’

Bathrooms, plural. She wondered how many he had. She wanted to ask if he lived all alone here, but that felt too intrusive – personal – and he had made it clear they were to stay away from that. Although she didn’t think standing in his kitchen on a Saturday morning came under the standard definition of ‘professional’.

He came over with the coffee and held it out for her. ‘Strong and black.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, distracted by his bare feet in her peripheral vision.

A sound above them, like the creak of a floorboard, made her look up. Was someone else here? She looked back at Max but he had already turned away, heading towards the archive boxes.

‘So, how long do you think it’ll take you to get through these?’

She bit her lip. Three a day was her average – but it was almost lunchtime now. ‘Uh, well, it depends on what’s in there. If it’s some auction catalogues, I can speed up. If it’s slides...’ she shrugged. ‘But I’ll go as fast as I can, I promise.’

‘No, I...’ He turned back to her. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you need to rush. I just meant, will these be enough for you today or will you need more?’

‘Oh. No. This will be...great.’

‘I can arrange for more to be sent over if you need them.’

‘Thanks, but this will do.’ She watched as he took a sip of his coffee, lifting the lid on the nearest box and peering in at the papers. Idly he leafed through the topmost ones. ‘I don’t envy you,’ he said, half over his shoulder.

‘Max, are you really sure I can’t take them back to mine? I’d besocareful, I swear.’

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