A Swedish Christmas Fairy Tale Read online

  “That’s right, we manage all the Nordic languages from this office. You’re looking to reacquire the English rights, yes?”

  “We are. I think I need to speak to Emilia Lund, Charlotte’s granddaughter, for that, is that right? I tried her agent, but—”

  Stine’s laughter cut her off. “Magnus is in his nineties. He was Charlotte’s agent, and Emilia never replaced him.”

  “Wow, so… there’s no point in talking to him then?” Amber picked up her pen and swiped through Magnus’ name and contact details that she’d written on her notepad.

  “None,” Stine agreed. “You’ll need to speak directly with Emilia. But that is not easy, she doesn’t really speak to anyone. Not even to us.”

  Amber had found some articles in Swedish newspapers regarding the elusive Emilia Lund. Google Translate had thrown up words like hermit, not a good sign.

  “Yes, I’d heard that she is hard to get hold of,” Amber admitted.

  “Very. She lives just outside of Malmö, in the south of Sweden. She doesn’t have a telephone, landline or mobile. And no access to the Internet either. We send her royalty cheques by post and also communicate by post if we need to. I can provide you with that address if you like?”

  “That would be great.” Amber jumped on the offer. She’d read some of Peter’s notes and quickly realised that getting hold of Emilia Lund was going to be very hard work. While unusual, a home address to send a letter was a great start.

  Stine gave her the address, helping with the spelling and telling her which letters had dots and circles above them. Amber didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by writing an o when an ö was required. She knew from experience that the smallest variation could change a word’s meaning, and she had no desire to insert an unsavoury word into the middle of Emilia Lund’s home address.

  “Good luck, she’s not… easy to deal with,” Stine said.

  “It sounds it,” Amber confessed. “Thank you so much for all of your help.”

  She ended the call and looked at the address she had jotted down on her notepad. She’d been to Malmö once before, on a weekend trip with an ex-girlfriend who wanted to see a concert being held there.

  It was a modern city, a little industrial, but still firmly rooted in present. It had trams and excellent mobile service. Every bus stop she saw had real-time electronic arrival boards.

  So, she knew for a fact that the lack of technology adoption wasn’t Malmö or Sweden, it was Emilia Lund herself. The woman had chosen to live her life with no telephone or Internet.

  Just the thought of such a thing caused Amber to shudder slightly. She couldn’t imagine being without her phone. She was on it all the time, checking the weather, adding plans to her calendar, checking social media, taking photos. The idea of being off the grid was so extremely foreign to her. Certainly never something she’d choose.

  “Do you want me to throttle a pigeon?” Tom asked.

  She looked up at him, frowning.

  “To get you a feather, so you can handwrite a note to Lund… you know, old school.”

  She glared at him. “Shut up, Tom.”

  She opened Microsoft Word and started to type in the address from her notepad. Emilia Lund might be stuck in the dark ages, but Amber hadn’t written a letter by hand since she was five and asked Santa for a horse. She wasn’t about to start again now. Besides, if she did handwrite the letter it would probably be unreadable. Best to leave it to the professionals, in this case to a word processor and a printer.

  Her eyes drifted to the date on her computer. With two weeks to go until Bronwyn’s deadline, and Amber having to resort to sending a letter through the post, it was looking increasingly unlikely that she was going to complete this task.

  What kind of lunatic doesn’t have a phone? she wondered and then got to typing.

  3

  Making a Deal

  Emilia Lund plunged her hands into the warm, soapy liquid and felt around the depths of the kitchen sink for the missing teaspoon she knew lurked there.

  “Found you,” she said as her fingers touched the rounded metal. She picked up the spoon and methodically scrubbed at it with the scouring pad.

  Movement outside caught her attention, and she saw Hugo’s car pull up. She couldn’t help but smile at seeing his filthy, old car. How it managed to make the journey from Malmö to Copenhagen each and every day, she didn’t know.

  She pulled the plug out of the sink and wiped her hands dry. She watched as Hugo got out of the car and strolled over to the mailbox at the end of her driveway. He opened up the box and pulled out a handful of letters. She’d meant to go outside and get the mail that morning, but it had completely escaped her mind as it so often did. Sometimes mail could sit in the box for days at a time before she went to check.

  She started to measure out the ground coffee in her old but faithful coffee machine, remembering to add a little extra as Hugo liked his coffee to be richer in flavour. The sound of his heavy winter boots walking up the wooden steps told her that it was the perfect time to hit the start button on the microwave.

  “Hello!” Hugo called out as he opened the unlocked front door.

  “Oh, we’re English today?” Emilia asked, chuckling at his thick accent. Hugo had never been very good at English or any other languages. His Danish was terrible, though improving slightly with his new job.

  “I need to practice.” He poked his head around the corner of the hallway, hopping on one leg as he untied his laces to remove his boots. “Or I will be fired,” he added with a grimace.

  “Your English is fine,” she told him.

  “Not according to my boss.” He shrugged out of his thick winter coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. “He is very… hard?”

  “Strict?” she guessed.

  “Yes. See? I need to improve.”

  “You are fine. You shouldn’t be calling your boss strict to his face anyway,” she told him.

  He walked into the kitchen and held out his arms. She quickly fell into the big bear hug, squeezing him tightly. He started to sniff the air. “Kanelbullar?”

  “In English?” she asked. If he was serious about improving his English, then she needed to push him to always speak the language.

  “Cinnamon buns?” he asked after a moment, presumably while looking for the correct words.

  “Absolut!” She patted his back and stepped away to finish making the coffee. “If you don’t like your boss, maybe you should look for a new job?”

  Hugo sat at the kitchen table, placing the mail he had picked up on the surface.

  “I like my job, and the economy is good.”

  “Salary.”

  “The salary is good. It’s just that many of the meetings are in English, and I’m not as good at speaking English as some of the others. I can improve. I’ve been watching more movies without subtitles to force myself to listen more. And I have a best friend who is amazing at English.”

  Emilia scrunched up her nose. “Not amazing.” She glanced over to the kitchen table, a memory of her father helping with her English homework flashing through her mind. She swept it away as quickly as it arrived.

  “Better than me.”

  “That’s because you never listened in school,” she reminded him. “You spent more time playing in the woods than you did doing your homework.”

  “And I still managed to get a good job.” He smiled cheekily.

  She shook her head, got two cups and saucers from the cupboard, and started to arrange them on a tray.

  “All the way in Denmark,” she complained.

  She had preferred it when Hugo was working in Malmö. He had been underpaid and didn’t enjoy the role very much, but he was nearby. They had spent many evenings and weekends together during that time.

  Since his move to a new company in Copenhagen, his commute had tripled in time and she rarely saw him. He was tired in the evenings or too busy hanging out with his new friends from work in the city across the sea.

 
; Of course, he’d invited her to join them, but she’d never go all the way to Copenhagen, even if it was less than forty minutes by train. The very thought of going out for an evening, in another country, was enough to send her into a minor panic.

  She preferred to be home. Her converted farmhouse on the edge of Malmö was all she needed.

  “This is from England.” Hugo held up a letter.

  “You should open it and read it, it will be good practice.” She placed some napkins on the tray and opened the microwave to check on the cinnamon buns.

  She heard the envelope being torn open and the sound of paper unfolding. She plated up the cinnamon buns, one for her, two for Hugo, and one extra to ensure an even number.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I’m reading.”

  She chuckled, pouring coffee into the two cups and then carrying the tray over to the table.

  Hugo’s brow was furrowed as he focused on the letter, his eyes slowly tracking every line of text. She sat down and patiently waited for him to finish reading and digesting.

  Reading the individual words in another language was one thing, understanding the sentences was another. She was blessed in that language and words came naturally to her. Unfortunately, Hugo struggled.

  “It’s a publisher, in London. Something about rights.” He handed the letter to her, obviously embarrassed that he hadn’t been able to understand all of the details.

  She scanned the letter quickly before pushing it to one side. She didn’t get involved in such matters. That’s what Magnus was for. She hardly ever heard from him, and, therefore, she knew nothing too terrible had happened.

  He reached for a napkin and a cinnamon bun. He leaned in and inhaled the aroma of the sweet treats.

  “I’ve missed these,” he admitted.

  “Then you’ll have to come over more often,” she teased.

  He pouted. “You know I would if I could. I’m just so tired after work. The drive is long.”

  “I know, I just miss you.” She didn’t want him to feel bad, but she did wish she could see him more. He was one of the few people she saw on any regular basis. One of the very few she actually spoke to.

  “You need to get out more, see other people,” he suggested. “Maybe get a part-time job yourself? I know you don’t need the money, but you could meet some really interesting people.”

  Emilia quickly shook her head. Employment wasn’t something she’d ever consider. She didn’t even know if she could do it. Besides, she knew that no one would employ her. She had no experience, and she was terrible with people.

  “You might find you enjoy it,” Hugo added.

  “No, I’m happy with the way things are.” She picked up a napkin and laid it out in front of her, placing a bun on top.

  “You’re lonely,” he said.

  She laughed. “I’m not lonely, I’m fine. Really.”

  “I worry about you spending so much time on your own.” His eyes flicked up to look at her hesitantly.

  It was a discussion they had had once or twice before.

  Most of the time they were satisfied to ignore the obvious fact that Hugo worried about how much time Emilia spent in her own company. The rare times they had discussed it had led to disagreements and awkward silences. They never argued, it wasn’t in either of their natures.

  But Hugo had pushed the issue more and more lately, presumably as his concern for her increased. She wished she could explain to him how she felt, that she didn’t want to see other people and that she enjoyed her own company.

  “I enjoy spending time on my own,” she pointed out.

  “I know. But sometimes it is good to see other people. People would love you as much as I do if they had the chance to meet you.”

  He was clearly trying to flatter her. She laughed and took a bite of the bun, choosing to ignore his attempts.

  He sipped at his coffee, clearly looking for another avenue of attack. He reached across the table and picked up the letter from England.

  “Write back to this woman… Amber. Arrange to talk to her about business,” he suggested. “Then you will have spoken to someone new, and I will not say another word about it.”

  Emilia slowly chewed the bun, considering his suggestion. She didn’t want to cave in to his demand, nor did she wish to quarrel with him. She had no desire to talk to someone else, even if Hugo felt it was in her best interests to do so.

  The thought of him not bringing up the topic again was appealing, but not appealing enough for her to reach out of her comfort zone.

  She realised there was a solution. She could write back to the woman and suggest a meeting in the local village. Surely no one would travel all the way from London to meet her in a local coffee shop. They would probably insist on talking via the telephone rather than flying eight hundred miles.

  But she would be able to tell Hugo that she had upheld her end of the deal, she would have reached out to someone. It wasn’t her fault that the person had refused to turn up. Especially if she arranged for the meeting to happen very soon, a time that would hopefully be most inconvenient for this woman.

  “Fine. I will contact this Amber and try to arrange a meeting,” she agreed.

  A smile spread across Hugo’s face.

  “But if she doesn’t reply, or she can’t make the meeting, then that is that. I will have done my bit,” she told him seriously.

  He nodded eagerly. “That sounds fair.”

  She almost felt guilty. The obstacles she planned to put in place meant that she’d likely never hear from Amber again. But Hugo didn’t need to know that. He couldn’t understand that she was happy in her own little bubble and didn’t need social interaction like he did. It was easier to pretend to go along with his negotiation.

  She sipped at her coffee, thinking about when to arrange her meeting.

  4

  An Invitation

  Tom threw a stack of letters onto Amber’s desk as he walked past. He was often away from his desk, probably on the phone to recruitment agencies looking for a new job, if he had any sense. On his way back to his desk he would get her water from the cooler, or pick up the post from the in-tray, anything to look like he had a genuine reason for not being at his desk.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  She unwrapped the bundle of envelopes from the countless elastic bands that the post room seemed to think was necessary. If Bronwyn saw the blatant waste of supplies, she’d no doubt confiscate all elastic bands in the building.

  She flipped through the pile, stopping at a handwritten envelope. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen one. The office address was written in navy-blue ink, the font a gorgeous script unlike any she had seen before. She glanced at the postmark and saw the letter was from Sweden. A look at the back of the envelope revealed a return name and address. It was from Emilia Lund.

  She quickly tore open the envelope and pulled out a handwritten letter, gently unfolding the thin paper. She squinted to read the text, so used to reading print that she was out of practice at reading another’s handwriting. She could hear her mother’s nagging voice in her ear complaining about how people were losing touch with the past and technology was ruining everything.

  She read the quick note. Frowned. And then read it again. Her eyes flicked up to the corner of her computer to double-check the date. She looked at the letter again and then let out a deep sigh.

  “Problem?” Tom asked.

  “Emilia Lund wants me to travel to Sweden to meet her. In two days’ time. She’s given me the address of a coffee shop, and a date and a time.” She looked up at Tom. “Who does that?”

  “Emilia Lund, apparently.” Tom woke his computer by shaking the mouse. “Better speak to Bronwyn.”

  Amber turned around and peered into the woman’s office. She was in, and not on the phone. It was a good time to go and talk to her, not that Amber wanted to. But surely she couldn’t be blamed for Emilia Lund’s weird demands.

  She dragged h
erself to her feet and snatched the letter from the desk. She walked over to Bronwyn’s office and knocked on the open door.

  “May I speak to you for a minute?”

  Bronwyn nodded without looking up from her work.

  Amber stepped inside and stood in front of the desk. There was no use taking a chair and making herself comfortable. She had no desire to be in there a moment longer than she needed to be.

  “I’ve heard from Emilia Lund, she says—”

  “Who?”

  “Emilia Lund. Charlotte Lund’s granddaughter, the one with the rights to the—”

  “Oh, her.”

  “Yes, um, she says that she wants me to go to Sweden to meet her.”

  Bronwyn lowered her pen and slowly looked up at Amber. Amber held out the letter for Bronwyn to read for herself. Easier to show her the insanity than to try to put it into words.

  “I spoke with her Swedish publisher. Her agent refuses to make any decisions or have any conversations, and Emilia Lund doesn’t even own a phone,” Amber explained.

  “Hence the letter from the sixties,” Bronwyn said as she read the note.

  “I can’t phone to cancel, or rearrange… well, I can’t phone at all,” Amber continued.

  “Go.” Bronwyn handed the letter back.

  Amber took it and looked at her in confusion. Was Bronwyn telling her to get out of the office or…?

  “To Sweden,” she clarified. “Get the cheapest flight you can, do it in one day. Go and have the meeting. You’re closer than Paul got, and he worked on this for much longer. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

  It was a backhanded compliment, but it was as close as she’d get to a positive comment from her boss.

  “Just make sure you come back with a deal in place,” Bronwyn said. “I don’t want to waste money sending you on a day trip for you to come back empty-handed.”

  “Of course.” Amber backed out of the office quickly before anything else could be said.

  Suddenly, she was going to Sweden. She wondered if Bronwyn was desperate for the rights or just desperate to see her spectacularly fail. She supposed that no matter the outcome, Bronwyn would be satisfied.