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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Julie Caplin 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Julie Caplin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008259747

Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008259730

Version: 2018-10-26

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: London

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part Two: Copenhagen

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part Three: London

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

Coming Soon From Julie Caplin

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

For the Copenhagen Crew, Alison Cyster-White & Jan Lee-Kelly, my dearest friends, partners in crime and thoroughly wonderful travel elves. #highlyreco‌mmendedtra‌vellingcompanions

PART ONE

Chapter 1

‘See you later.’ I dropped a quick kiss on Josh’s lips and we exchanged a knowing smile. He pulled me towards him and went back for a second lingering kiss, his hands finding their way inside my coat to slide down my bottom and then start inching up my dress.

‘Sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?’ His voice held a note of husky suggestion.

‘No. I can’t. You’re going to be late, and,’ I glanced over my shoulder, ‘Dan might walk in at any second.’ His flatmate had the unerring ability of a Labrador sniffing a crotch to interrupt at precisely the wrong moment. My flatmate, Connie, had much greater diplomacy; in fact she had social skills.

He let go of me and picked up his cereal bowl, leaning against the kitchen counter, lazily eating as if he had all the time in the world.

‘See you later.’ He winked.

I picked up my laptop case and closed the front door of his, far nicer than mine, flat, and hurried down the road to the tube station mentally reviewing all that I needed to get done that day.

After two years of seamless travel to work, albeit sweaty, stuffy and crowded with the regular frustration of delays and hold ups, I missed my stop. The first time ever. This travel hiccough should have registered. In London, you have to be on the ball all the time. Checking your emails, phone messages, social media threads, it was endless. I missed my stop, simply because I was too absorbed in thinking what a load of bollocks as I read an article on some latest lifestyle fad over someone’s shoulder. Hygge. My flat mate Connie had been muttering about it the other night, waving some book about and lighting candles left right and centre in a woeful attempt to make our dismal flat homelier. As far I was concerned a couple of candles were never going to compensate for our landlord’s hideous taste and before I knew it the doors had closed on Oxford Circus.

Having to get off at the next stop and go back down the line didn’t make me late, only later than usual. I’m always at work super-early. Showing my commitment. How serious I am about my job. Not that I mind or I’m trying to score brownie-points, well maybe just a few. I just can’t wait to get there. Oh, God that sounds real eager, arse-licker, beaver. It’s not like that at all. I love my job, as a public relations Account Director. I work for one of the top PR agencies in London. I say I love my job, I do most of the time. The office politics and promotion manoeuvring I could do without and the pay could be an awful lot better. But hopefully that was about to change, I was overdue a long-promised promotion. Then I’d be earning a bit more and I could afford to move to somewhere where there isn’t a ten-inch Mohican fringe of blue mould growing down the living room wall.

Tube stop fiasco aside, there was time to treat myself to a Butterscotch Brulée Latte and it was only when I was in the queue that I saw a text from my boss, Megan, asking if I could pop in and see her first thing.

With a quick smile, I shoved my mobile back in my bag. There wasn’t going to be time to see her before heading up to the boardroom where every other Friday all fifty-five people in the agency met for our bi-monthly staff internal comms briefing, where new business wins and general big news – like promotions – were announced. I had a pretty good idea why she wanted to speak to me. I’d been waiting long enough for this day. Two weeks ago, following my shining, yes you are the dog’s bollocks appraisal, I’d made my case for the vacant position of Senior Account Director, which I was reasonably, no very, confident had been well-received. Megan had been hinting there might be some good news soon.

Despite wanting to bounce with anticipation as I took the stairs up to the third floor, I tapped up on my heels, decorous and professional, taking small neat steps as dictated by the tailored, fitted black dress which Connie insisted on describing as my Hillary Clinton funeral look.

I took a seat in one of the ergonomic chairs which my posture flatly refused to co-operate with. The lime green, moulded plastic wave shapes were supposed to make you sit properly but my back had made it quite clear that it was more than happy to sit improperly.

Trying to sit comfortably, I checked out the room as people slowly filed in. Recently re-decorated, the boardroom now sported a Mother Earth look, complete with one green wall of plants about three metres square. I wasn’t convinced that it didn’t harbour a huge variety of bugs and beasties. Supposedly it was inspiring as well as practical; apparently it produced fresh oxygen (was there such a thing as stale oxygen?) to help stimulate creativity. At the same time a little Zen indoor waterfall had also been installed to promote calm, mindful thoughts, although I found if I needed to go to the loo, it stopped me thinking about anything else.

Despite the pretentiousness of the boardroom, every time I looked around, I relished the sight of it. I’d made it. I worked for The Machin Agency – one of the top London public relations companies. Well on the way to the next step of my five-year plan. Not bad for a girl from Hemel Hempstead, allegedly the UK’s ugliest town. And today, I’d take another step.

The Managing Director took the floor and two seconds later Josh sidled through the door. Just in the nick of time he slipped into a seat on the front row, catching my eye very briefly as he passed me. I hadn’t saved him a seat and he wouldn’t have expected me to. We’d agreed that no one at work needed to know that Josh Delaney and Kate Sinclair were seeing each other, especially when we worked in the same team in the consumer department of the agency.

Ed, the MD, had a string of announcements to make and I sat waiting in anticipation.

‘And I’d like to make an announcement regarding our most recent promotion.’

I sat up a little straighter and uncrossed my legs, trying to muster up a humble but deserving expression. This was it.

‘I’d like you all to join me in congratulating Josh Delaney on his promotion to Senior Account Director.’

‘Kate.’ I looked up at the brusque tone of my boss. As usual she looked perfect, her thick auburn hair slightly waved, feminine but not too girly, wearing a tailored dress, figure hugging but not too revealing and standing tall and lean in heels, kick-ass and mean. ‘Can I have a word?’

I nodded, suddenly not trusting my voice. I’d seen the hint of sympathy in her eyes.

I followed her into her office and closed the door at her nod, sitting down gingerly on the retro dark grey sofa which always looked more inviting than it was.

‘I wanted to speak to you before the meeting this morning. You’re usually here by then.’

I shrugged. ‘Tube malfunction.’ There was no way I was admitting to her that I’d missed my stop. That wasn’t the sort of thing I did.

She folded her arms and paced. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear like that. I know you were keen to get that promotion but … on balance the board felt you needed a little bit more experience. A little more gravitas.’

I nodded. Agreeing. Miss keen-to-please, my boss is always right, crap. Gravitas? What the … was that?

‘And,’ her painted mouth turned down in a moue of disgust, ‘you’re still young.’

I was exactly the same age as Josh. I knew what she was getting at.

‘They wanted a man.’

She didn’t respond immediately. I took her silence as acknowledgement.

‘They were very impressed with Josh’s ideas for the skincare brand. I think that was what swung it in his favour. He’s got creativity and that … gravitas.’

I nodded again, feeling like a bloody woodpecker. Creativity my arse. Just bloody good at palming off my ideas as his.

Inside I was still steaming. Lead balloon gutted. During the meeting I’d managed to sip unconcernedly at my ridiculously poncy, expensive drink while regretting buying the bloody thing. Most of all I regretted not practising the Oscar nominated, gracious loser and I’m only the teeniest tiny bit disappointed look. Two things really stuck in my craw, one he’d never so much as mentioned he was going for promotion and two ‘the ingenious ideas for a mobile app for a new skincare campaign,’ which just so happened to be mine.

‘Kate, we do value you very highly and I’m sure in another couple of months we can review things.’

I lifted my chin and nodded but even she could see the slight wobble of my lip. Although she probably had no idea that as I looked back down at the spiky heels of the killer black I’m-about-to-be-promoted court shoes, I was busy imagining them making contact with a certain person’s soft and tender bits.

She sighed and shuffled some papers on her desk. ‘There is something … it’s just come in. I suppose you could have a look at it. We weren’t going to bother but … well you’ve got nothing to lose if you fancied having a go.’

It wasn’t exactly the most encouraging crumb but it was something.

I tilted my head, pretending to look interested while trying to hide the seething disappointment.

‘Lars Wilder’s been in touch.’

‘Really?’ I frowned. Three months ago Danish entrepreneur Lars Wilder had the London agency scene twittering like love-struck groupies desperate to secure his business.

‘Having appointed,’ she named our biggest rivals, ‘he’s fallen out with them and he’s still looking for the right publicity campaign to open his new Danish department store. He didn’t like any of their ideas. He’s looking for a fresh approach. This could be a great opportunity for you to prove yourself.’

‘But?’ I asked sensing her diffidence.

‘He wants a presentation the day after tomorrow.’

‘Two days?’ She was having a laugh. Except she wasn’t, she was deadly serious. Normally we spent weeks preparing for these presentations, which involved all singing and dancing PowerPoint slides, glossy artwork and lots of research about the market.

‘He’s flying to Denmark at lunchtime and wants to come in before his flight. I was about to call him and say we couldn’t do anything but …’

‘I’ll do it.’ I’d bloody show Josh Delaney and the agency bosses.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ I said. OK I was stark staring mad but no one was going to say I didn’t try.

‘No one will expect you to win the business, of course, but it will look good that we didn’t say no to him. You’ll earn major brownie points by having a go. It’s a long shot but we have to be seen to try.’

‘What’s the brief?’ I said putting my shoulders back. Nothing to lose and everything to gain.

She held out a single white sheet of paper. I did a double take. Where was the document we usually received with pages and pages of stats and fancy fonts, headings and sub headings about ethos, values, market background and the MD’s inside leg measurement?

Hjem

Bringing the heart of Hygge

to the UK on Marylebone High Street

‘That’s it?’ I stared disbelieving at the simple typeface tracking across the pure white paper like footprints in snow. This was my great opportunity. She had to be kidding. It was like being given a pair of nail scissors and asked to make the pitch at Wembley match ready for the FA Cup final. My career and the chance to show Josh Delaney that I was back in business came down to this?

Chapter 2

‘Connie,’ I called racing into the flat, shedding my bag and shoes as I darted into the kitchen. ‘I need your help. And we might as well have this.’

She jumped up from the table and her spot behind the ever-present pile of exercise books, eyeing up the bottle of Prosecco I had in my hand.

Our flat had been a lucky find, purely on the basis that it was affordable. The open plan lounge had one of those thin industrial textured carpets that you can feel every nail in the floorboards through and a few sparsely dotted items of furniture which stopped the place looking completely barren but it was a close-run thing. The key feature of the room was the flat screen TV hooked up to a DVD player which provided our main source of entertainment as we were permanently broke and spent plenty of nights in with a bottle of wine in front of a rom-com, wrapped up in a duvet to keep warm because it was always freezing.

The heating was dependent on a boiler with a decidedly work-shy temperament. Our landlord didn’t seem terribly worried about getting it fixed, and we’d hit complaint fatigue.

‘Oooh Prosecco. Good vintage too. Co-op six ninety-five I believe.’ Connie’s eyes lit up as they did whenever alcohol was involved.

‘No, Marks and Sparks, Victoria Station. Nine ninety-nine. I bought it yesterday when I thought I was going to get promoted.’

‘Oh shit. You didn’t then? What happened?’

‘Bastard Josh Delaney happened.’

‘What did he do?’ Connie hadn’t actually met Josh, as he preferred me to go to his place.

‘What didn’t he do? Stole my promotion. And do you know what else he did?’ my voice reached a pitch boy choristers would envy, ‘stole my idea and made out it was his.’

‘Couldn’t you tell anyone?’

‘Not really. Bit hard to explain to the MD about that post-coital chat in which I shared a brand strategy and an idea for a new app.’

Connie held up her hand. ‘Babe you’re blinding me with science and seriously, if that’s your pillow talk, you do need to get out more.’

‘You had to be there.’

‘I’m glad I wasn’t.’ She put her glass to her cheek. ‘What did he say?’

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

His persistent texts had only ended when I’d agreed to meet him in the stairwell. No one in our company ever took the stairs.

He did at least have the grace to apologise.

‘Look, Kate. I get that you’re disappointed. But I have to put it into context. I mentioned the app idea in passing. I didn’t lay claim to it at all and never at any time said it was mine. I was going to say it was yours but they’d already picked the idea up and run with it.’

‘But you could have said you were going for the promotion. Why keep it quiet?’

‘I wasn’t that fussed at first. But then … well you turn thirty and you start thinking about the future. It’s alright for you. I’m going to be a breadwinner one day. I need the promotions.’

‘Pardon.’ I repeated his words in as scathing a tone as I could muster against utter incredulity. ‘You’re going to be a breadwinner one day?’

I put both hands up to my cheeks in disbelief. He couldn’t be for real.

‘Kate, one day you’re going to get married, have kids. You don’t need the income.’

‘I-I …’ Spluttering was about the only activity I could manage.

‘Come on, Daddy’s going to bail you out when you’ve finished playing career girl.’

‘Seriously!’ I stared at his handsome face, suddenly seeing the weak chin, with the faint beginnings of a jowl, floppy public schoolboy hair that hid a receding hairline and the well-cut suit concealing a slightly soft belly. ‘Whoever said Neanderthal man died out forty-thousand years ago, lucked out big time.’

Finishing my story, I bitterly took a slug of Prosecco and raised my glass towards Connie in a toast.

She snorted Prosecco out of both nostrils, sniggering and sniffing which set me off.

‘You are kidding me.’

Connie was virtually family having lived two doors down from me all my life. Our mums met in ante-natal and when we both moved to London, there was no one else either of us even considered living with. We’d been through a lot together. Her mum ran off with the milkman, no lie, and mine had a run in with an aneurysm that wiped her life out in an instant. One minute she was there, the next gone, leaving a huge hole in our family, that to be honest had never really been patched.

I shook my head, biting my lips and sniggering along.

‘You’d better tell your dad to start polishing his Rolls.’

I shook my head and our laughter quieted.

‘Sorry Kate, what an arse.’ Connie knew that I helped Dad out with the mortgage payments.

‘Top me up,’ she held out her glass. ‘So, did you dump his sorry ass?’

‘Too right I did.’

‘Excellent girl. And then did you chop off his gonads?’

‘Damn, I knew there was something I’d forgotten.’

We chinked our glasses together again. Connie propped her chin on her hand and we lapsed into thoughtful silence. I’d made light of Josh’s betrayal but it hurt. We’d not been going out that long but I’d enjoyed being one of two for a change. London could be a lonely place for one. It was nice having someone to do things with. We both worked hard, which is why it had worked well. We had so much in common.

‘Katie, is it worth it?’ Her voice had softened.

I swallowed. Connie and I didn’t do serious.

‘Is what worth it?’ I asked chucking back the last of my Prosecco, feeling the tension take hold of my shoulders.

‘You know. Your job. That’s all you seem to do these days. Work. Even Josh, he was to do with work. You need to have some fun?’

‘I have loads of fun.’ I winced. ‘In fact, I’ve got a do coming up. Although I was supposed to be going with Josh. Any chance I can borrow the blue dress?’

‘Of course, you can. Where are you going?’

‘Erm … it’s um … black tie thing.’

Connie groaned. ‘It’s work, isn’t it?’

‘It’s an industry awards thing. Newspaper Circulation Awards. But it will be fun and I love my job.’

‘Riveting. Not.’ She put her glass down and pushed the exercise books to one side. ‘Seriously Katie, I worry. You’re like a little hamster on its wheel. Running, running, running and occasionally you dive off for a sunflower, but you ram it in your cheeks for later. I know I work hard but at least I have the school holidays to unwind. When do you take time for you? When I go home for the weekend, Dad makes an effort. When you go home, you clean your dad’s house, tidy up after him and your brothers. And restock their kitchen cupboards. You can’t fill in for your mum for ever, you know. They have to do it for themselves eventually.’

‘I worry about them. I worry about Dad not eating properly.’

‘And you think that’s going to help?’

It certainly helped assuage the guilt that I’d abandoned the three of them.

‘They’re family, I have to help them. I earn a lot more than them.’

‘I know, but let’s face it. John could bloody pull his weight. How many jobs has he had? He always has to leave before he’s sacked because he’s a lazy git. Brandon, well,’ her mouth lifted in the slightest of smiles when she mentioned my younger brother, ‘he’s something else. But he’s not stupid. That replica Tardis was incredible. Daft sod.’

My brother was a sci-fi fan and in his spare time liked to knock up life size replica models of things from his favourite films and TV series.

Connie tapped her glass against her fingernails and straightened up. ‘If he stopped bloody playing effing Fifa, he could get a much better job. He ought to be doing more than having a pissing part-time job in that car breakers yard. And your dad is not as useless as he likes to make out.’ Her mouth firmed in a zipped shut line as if she’d said as much as she was going to on the matter.

An uncomfortable silence threatened to descend. I loved her dearly and she certainly understood me better than the menfolk in my family but they were mine to criticise, not hers.

‘You said you needed my help, so if it isn’t setting out to track down bastard Delaney with a very sharp knife, which probably wouldn’t go down with my Head if we got caught, what did you want?’

‘That book of yours. The one about candles.’

‘The Art of Hygge.’

‘Pardon?’ I laughed. ‘You’re not going to be sick, are you?’

‘No, you numpty.’ She grinned at me and just like that, we were back to normal. ‘It’s a Danish word,’ she said the word again, which sounded like Who-ga and still sounded like she was praying to the big white toilet god. ‘Spelt h-y-g-g-e.’

‘That’s how you say it, is it? I did wonder. So what’s it all about? Danish interior design?’

She turned horrified eyes my way. ‘Nooo, it’s much more than that. It’s an attitude. An approach to life.’ She rummaged in the big shopping trolley that always seemed to be at her feet. Being a teacher seemed to involve carting around an awful lot of stuff. ‘It’s by some hot Danish guy, second cousin to Viggo Mortensen, who runs the Institute of Happiness or something.’

I perked up at the mention of Viggo. Both of us had had a serious crush on him ever since we’d seen Lord of the Rings.

‘I’ve been reading all about it. Did you know Denmark is the happiest country in the world?’

‘I was reading an article about it on the tube this morning, but I’m not convinced. They seem to have a very high death count, obsessive female detectives and never-ending rain according to all those Scandi thrillers I’ve seen. Not looking that happy to me.’

‘No, seriously. It’s all about making your life better through the little things.’ Her earnest expression stopped me from taking the piss. ‘Hence the candles.’ She pointed to three candles on the mantelpiece and pulled a face. ‘They’re supposed to help make it cosy.’

‘They’re not working.’

‘I know. The mould on the wall doesn’t help.’

‘We should get onto the landlord again. Although after Dad’s house, my expectations are pretty low these days.’ I rubbed at the shadows under my eyes. She was right about the hamster wheel. There just weren’t enough hours in the day. ‘I need a crash course in hy … however you say it. I’ve got a pitch the day after tomorrow. Can I borrow your book?’

Chapter 3

I was having second thoughts. It was the day of the pitch. The biggest pitch of my career and my one chance to show Josh and the board exactly what I was capable of. So why was I placing a hell of a lot of faith in a few candles, some birch twigs, an expensive lamp and the combined efforts of the studio team’s furniture removal talents? When Megan promised to sign off my expenses, I’m not sure a two-hundred-pound lamp was quite what she had in mind, but the effect of its gentle pool of golden light was exactly like the picture in Connie’s book.

I couldn’t afford to think about how tired I was. Last night I hadn’t got home until gone ten, after trawling Oxford Street, then staying up until the small hours perfecting my traditional Danish oat biscuits that Connie had sworn were so hygge.

Yesterday’s preparation for my big pitch involved reading Connie’s book from cover to cover, studying images on the internet of socks, candles, cashmere blankets draped around loved up couples and mitten covered hands clutching steaming cups of chocolate, followed by a shopping marathon.

Apparently, the Danish love affair with candles extended to the work place which was the principal starting point for my campaign to win Lars’ business. I’d arrived at the office at seven this morning with the sole goal of hyggifying, a new verb in my vocabulary, the smallest meeting room in the building. Making it cosy was going to be a tall order, but I had every faith in candles and expensive lamps.

There was also tea, two brightly coloured mugs bought from Anthropologie, with an L and K on them, and the plate of my home-made cookies. Even though they looked very wonky and that was the third attempt, I’d had quite a job keeping the rest of the office in check around them.

The scene was set or as much as I could hope for. I’d arranged two chairs, which didn’t match but they were the most comfortable I could find, after a Goldilocks’ style tour of every room in the building, around a rather lovely birch table, a forgotten sample from Ercol which had been used for a photo shoot. On a bookshelf that I’d commandeered from another floor, I’d removed all the books and then scouted round to find ones with colourful spines that looked pretty together.

I’d not gone overboard with the candles, sticking to five; a tasteful group of three on the table and two on top of the bookshelf where I’d also put the kettle, a coffee pot, tea pot and milk and sugar etc. Apparently, it’s a Danish thing. Making a thing of making the tea and the coffee.

I fiddled with the birch twigs which I’d arranged in a cheerful sunshine yellow pot until the call came from reception that he’d arrived. They didn’t look the least bit homey, no matter what I did they looked like some twigs with a ribbon tied round them shoved in a pot.

Blonde, of course, and charming, Lars Wilder, CEO of Danish department store Hjem, was tall and exuded that outdoor healthy look that you associate with northern Europeans. Or at least I did after all the reading and researching I’d done yesterday. At over six foot, he had a definite Viking look about him.

‘Good morning, I’m Kate Sinclair.’ I held out my hand, reading his body language which oozed relaxed and at ease, unlike me who had a box of frogs leaping about in my stomach.

‘Good morning, Kate. I’m Lars. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me this morning.’ I examined his face for any irony. Clients who paid our kind of fees usually expected you to jump through hoops for them.

The subtle lighting contrasted with the bright lights of the corridors outside and I noticed Lars shoot an approving glance around the room.

‘Please take a seat.’ I ushered him towards a cracked leather tub chair, with a throw tucked over one arm, opposite a trendy 80s leather slung on metal contraption which was far more comfortable than it looked.

I busied myself making tea. Strangely the task of making the tea made the small talk somewhat easier as I asked him how he’d found the journey.

Eventually we sat down, although it felt as if I’d wasted a good ten minutes of the meeting waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘Great biscuits,’ said Lars reaching for a second one from the plate, his head still nodding approval.

‘Thank you.’

‘You made them?’

I lifted my hands palm upwards as if to say it was no big deal, while thinking of the state of the kitchen this morning and the plastic Tupperware of reject cookies stacked up on the side. Connie and I would be eating them for weeks.

He took a bite. ‘Very good.’

‘Family recipe,’ I lied. My mother made a mean Victoria Sponge but she’d never made an oat cookie in her life.

‘Ah, family,’ he gave me a broad smile, stretching his hands expansively out to the side to emphasize his words. ‘It is so important … and family recipes. My mother is famous for her kanelsnegle.’

I tilted my head and smiled back as if I had the first clue what a kanelsnegle was when it was at home.

‘She thinks every problem can be solved with a pastry.’

She sounded a bit odd to me but I held his gaze as if it were quite normal, he was clearly very fond of her. ‘She runs a café, Varme, it means warmth in Danish. It’s a very special place. My mother loves to look after people.’

I almost sighed out loud. But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to look after you? For the last few years I felt like I’d been completely on my own, swimming hard against the tide.

‘It’s that warmth and homeliness I want to bring to the UK.’

Lars cleared his throat and I realised with a start, I’d drifted away. ‘My mother would approve of this, it’s,’ he looked around the room, ‘very hygglich. You’ve done well. Very imaginative and perceptive. It’s very Danish. I can see you have an understanding of hygge already. I like the mugs.’

‘Thank you. And thank you for coming today and for giving me the chance to talk to you.’ My formal words dried on my tongue when Lars let out a bark of laughter.

‘No, you’re not. You’re cursing me for the short notice and the sparsity of information.’ The clipped Danish accent sounded charming and robbed the words of their bluntness.

Diplomacy warred with honesty for a moment.

I smiled at him. ‘Well, it isn’t the most orthodox approach but we were intrigued.’

‘So intrigued that your company wheeled out the big guns.’

Maybe that accent didn’t quite disguise the bluntness. I might not be a big gun but I was an up and coming sharp shooting pistol. Then he added with a charming smile, ‘And the home-baking.’

‘I was intrigued and I’m not afraid of a challenge. As you said this meeting was arranged at very short notice, however I work in the lifestyle department, my clients include a soft furnishing company, a coffee company, a chain of cheese shops and a boutique hotel group. I’m more than qualified to manage your account. My boss, who is out at meetings all day today (I mentally crossed my fingers) felt I would be the best person to talk to you.’ And not the most promotion hungry.

‘I didn’t give you much time to prepare, but you seem to have coped well. And you didn’t bombard me with emails with lots of questions.’ He looked around the room. I knew he was looking for the projector and laptop.

I put my hand up as if to halt his flow. ‘I’ll be honest. I haven’t prepared anything. Not because there wasn’t time but because I felt you’re the expert and you would know what you want. I know you’ve seen several different agencies, all top ones in their field. And all will have come up with brilliant ideas, but you clearly didn’t like any of them.

‘I figured it was easier to talk to you to find out what you’re looking for. The orthodox response didn’t sound as if it was going to help.’

Lars grinned and stood up to pace the room, his hands behind his back. ‘I like you, Kate Sinclair and I like the way you think. We Danes prefer a gentle approach. And already I can see you have a grasp of the mindset of hygge.’ When he said it, hygge sounded much less threatening New Zealand Hakka and a lot more appealing.

‘That’s kind of you to say, but I think I’ve got a long way to go. You should see where I live.’

‘Exactly,’ interjected Lars. ‘Every agency wanted to tell us what it was. It’s indefinable and means different things to different people. When it’s right it’s right. I’ve sat through so many presentations. If I hear about one more give-away promotion of instant hygge, hygge make-overs and hygge holiday breaks, I’m going to melt down every last candle in the UK.

‘The agencies we’ve seen have been too … It’s difficult to put into words. They were too,’ he shrugged again. He looked around at the room, smiling with a nod towards the candles. ‘Clinical and business-like. This. This, you’ve got it exactly right.’

I nodded and let him carry on.

‘Our store, Hjem, will be about much, much more than candles and blankets and products to buy, which is what everyone seems to think hygge is about. I want people to feel it throughout every department of the store, to spend time in the store, in the book department, in the cookery department. There’ll be displays, corners to sit in, demonstrations in flower arranging, cookery, card making, knitting classes, making Christmas decorations. It’s going to be a vibrant community as well as a department store.’

‘It sounds interesting,’ I said, wondering how the hell that was going to translate into a public relations campaign.

‘But it is important that people understand about hygge.’

I nodded. It sounded a tad ephemeral to me.

‘So I would like to take some people to Copenhagen and show them a flavour of how the Danes live and how our society works, so that they can really appreciate hygge.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ I said, blithely thinking that a trip to Denmark would be rather nice and how charming and warm Lars was.

‘You see Kate, that’s why I knew you were the right person for the job. Every other agency has said it would be too difficult, that people wouldn’t want to go to Denmark for more than a night. I think we’re going to work well together.’

‘We are?’ Was he offering me his business?

‘Yes, I’ve looked at all these agencies and what I was searching for was the right fit. You are the right fit. I like the way you think.’

‘So, I’d like to get started straight away. Do you think you could draw up a list of six journalists?’

‘Six journalists?’ I asked.

‘Yes, for taking the trip to Denmark. I think five days would be just the right length.’

When he said people, he hadn’t mentioned that those people had to be journalists. ‘Six journalists. Five days,’ I echoed.

He nodded approvingly. ‘Perfect. In five days we can show them the finest things Copenhagen has to offer and teach them all about hygge and I know just the person to help.’

Oh hell. No wonder the other agencies had fallen out with him. I knew from past experience that it was hard enough persuading journalists to turn up to things in London for one evening, let alone commit to a five-day trip abroad. If I managed this, it’d be a miracle. What had I done?

Chapter 4

You lucky cow. Connie’s message popped up as I was putting the finishing touches to a press list, a week later. I scribbled a few more notes before picking up my phone to text back.

I’ll bring you back some Lego.

Or you could take me too. I could pretend to be the Gazette’s travel correspondent. Who’d know?

If I get really desperate I’ll let you know.

I was still buzzing from exceeding everyone’s expectations and winning the pitch. Now all I had to do was find six journalists to go on the trip. Easier said than done. I got full honours mentions in the despatches at the Friday meeting and this time I did practise my modest, shucks-it-was-no-big-thing, Oscar winner’s acceptance look - with an additional helping of take that Josh Delaney.

The bastard gave me a mocking salute of well done. It might even have been touched with reluctant admiration. Although he got his own back in our very first meeting with Lars after I’d won the business. When I’d run through the proposed list of journalists for the trip, he just had to say something. He couldn’t resist showing off his knowledge. ‘Have you thought about approaching the Sunday Inquirer, Kate? They have double circulation of the Courier. Benedict Johnson is the new lifestyle editor there.’

Normally correspondents move from paper to paper, magazine to magazine and I would have come across them before. This guy’s name didn’t ring any bells. Trust bloody Josh to be one step ahead.

‘I’ll speak to him and see what he says,’ I said with a gracious smile at Josh. Still up to his rat-weasel tricks then.

‘Can I speak to Benedict Johnson, please?’ I’d put on my best friendly, perky voice.

‘Speaking.’ He sounded a little terse but it was difficult to tell in one word.

‘Hi, I’m Kate Sinclair from The Machin Agency. I’m–’

‘You’ve got five seconds.’ No mistaking the cynical hostility in those words.

‘Pardon.’ Shocked, I couldn’t quite believe that he’d said that.

‘Four.’

What I should have done was tell him to go do something anatomically impossible, but I was so taken aback and flustered, I went for the four second pitch.

‘I’m calling to find out if you’d be interested in coming on a press trip to Copenhagen to find out why the Danish have been cited as the happiest nation in the world. It would be a week-long trip that would take in a variety of destinations as well as a visit to the Danish Institute of Happiness.’

‘No.’ And then he put the phone down on me. I took the hand-piece away from my ear and looked at it disbelievingly. Rude sod.

I slammed the phone down. What an arrogant prick. Who the hell did he think he was? Where did he get off being so rude to people?

I redialled his number.

‘Are you always this rude?’ I asked.

‘No only to PR people, people offering to reclaim my PPI and timewasters. You’re all inter-changeable.’

‘And you’re not even prepared to think about it. You don’t know who I’m working for.’

‘No. And I couldn’t give a toss, even if it’s the Crown Prince of Denmark himself.’

When someone is so rude to you, it’s actually wonderfully liberating because you can be rude back to them.

‘Are you always this narrow-minded?’

‘How can I be narrow-minded? I’m a journalist.’

‘You seem it to me.’

‘What – because I don’t write PR puff articles or promotional pieces?’

‘I’m not asking you to write a puff or a promotional piece. I’m offering you an opportunity to find out more about the Danish way of life and what we could learn from it.’

‘Which would of course just so happen to include writing about your client’s product.’

‘Yes, a lot of the time, but this is different.’

‘If I had a pound for every PR that told me that.’

‘Excuse me, I’m not a PR. It’s not even a thing. A public relation. My name is Kate and I’m doing a job the same as you are. If you’d give me the chance to explain instead of barking at me like a mad fox, you’d see my clients want to promote a concept rather than their specific store.’

‘Mad fox?’

I heard a strangled laugh.

‘I’ve not been called that before. Plenty of other things but definitely not mad fox.’

‘If you’re this direct I’m not surprised. Perhaps I should offer you a week at charm school,’ I said, starting to enjoy myself.

‘Do such things still exist? Now that might be an idea for a feature.’

‘Are you typing that into Google?’ I asked hearing the tell-tale click of keys.

‘Might be. Or I might be doing some work, which is what I’d planned to do until you interrupted me.’

‘Look, I’ve phoned you because I thought you’d be interested.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

‘I know the paper, the kind of features the lifestyle section has run before. This isn’t a product placement sell.’

‘Ah, so there is a product.’

I paused.

‘Ha! I knew it.’

‘It’s a new department store but it’s a concept.’

‘A concept, that sounds a bit wanky to me.’

I winced. When you put it into words, it did. When Lars spoke about it, it all made perfect sense.

‘It’s called Hjem. It will be opening later in the year, but the owners want to take a small select group to Copenhagen to explore the idea of hygge in more depth.’

‘Candles and blankets. Been done to death.’

‘That’s exactly it. You see you’ve dismissed it without understanding what it entails.’

‘I don’t need to understand anything. I’m not interested. Not now. Not ever.’

‘And you don’t think that attitude isn’t perhaps a tad narrow-minded.’

‘No, it’s called knowing your own mind and not being influenced.’

‘Could I at least email you some more information and a copy of the itinerary?’

‘Nope.’

‘You won’t even look at one little email?’

‘Do you know how many emails I get every day from PR people?’ He spat the P out and groaned the R.

‘You’re really grumpy aren’t you?’

‘Yes, because I get bloody people like you pestering me constantly.’

‘I think you could do with a trip to Denmark; you might learn a thing or two.’

There was a pause and I waited, bracing myself for him to slam the phone down on me again. Instead I heard grudging amusement in his voice as he said, ‘Do you ever give up?’

‘Not if it’s something I believe in,’ I said playing semantics with the truth. I believed in Lars’ vision and what he wanted to achieve. But if I were being totally honest I’d probably side with him in the ‘when did a blanket and candle combo solve a problem’ camp.

‘Sorry, I’m still not biting, but nice to talk to you, Kate, whatever your name is. You’ve enlivened an otherwise dull afternoon.’

‘Glad to be of service,’ I said crisply, looking down at the stop watch app on my phone. ‘And this time you gave me two minutes and four seconds of your time. You might want to rethink the five second strategy.’

He began to laugh. ‘For a PR, Kate Sinclair, you’ve grown on me.’

‘Shame it’s not mutual,’ I said sweetly, putting down the phone.

I crossed him off the list and decided to try the other journalists on our list, hoping they’d be more receptive to a trip to Copenhagen than Benedict ‘Mad Fox’ Johnson. ‘Sounds lovely darling,’ said the lifestyle editor on the Courier, ‘but I’ve been offered a press trip to Doncaster. Who’d have thought Doncaster or Denmark?’

‘Surely I can persuade you to come to Copenhagen.’

‘Sadly sweetie, you could persuade me all too easily. Problem is the person you have to persuade is She Who Must Be Obeyed, the old harridan in charge of advertising revenue. A man with lots of cash and a whopping advertising budget is paying for the press trip up north. Unless you can promise her that your client has an ad spend, I’m destined for the frozen north.’

Luckily after many, many emails, back and forth, Fiona Hanning a lifestyle blogger, Avril Baines-Hamilton from This Morning and David Ruddings of the Evening Standard all said yes, much to my relief. Conrad Fletcher somewhat to my surprise, being a cynical old devil, and a very old school glossy interiors magazine journalist said, ‘Why not? Haven’t been to Copenhagen in an age and the old expense budget could do with an outing. Christ, you wouldn’t believe how tight they are these days.’

‘That’s probably because you keep ordering three hundred pound bottles of wine at lunch on expenses,’ I teased. He referred to the rather fabulously over the top restaurant very near to the magazine offices where he worked, as his HQ. I’d enjoyed several lunches there with him. He wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea but I found him good company and his knowledge of the interiors industry was encyclopaedic as was his endless fund of gossipy stories about many of the people in the field.

‘You know me so well, Kate dear.’

I saved Sophie from CityZen for last, confident she’d be an easy nut to crack. She was a friend of Connie’s from university and I’d met her a couple of times and liked her a lot. I gave my watch a quick glance as I picked up the phone. Just enough time before I had to dash home and get ready for the awards do this evening. Now I was going on my own it was imperative Josh knew what he was missing.

‘Hi Sophie, its Kate Sinclair, I’m looking for a journalist who might be interested in coming along on a press trip to Copenhagen.’

‘Ooooh, pick me, pick me.’

‘Oh, alright then.’

There was a stunned silence.

‘Really? You’re inviting me?’

‘Yup. A week in wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen.’

Sophie made a funny sort of noise, an office friendly suppressed squeal before saying, ‘Hmm, I’ll have to think about that … for about a nano second.’ There was another funny squeak. ‘Eek. Yes. Yes. I’m in! How lovely. It will be so great.’ Her words bubbled out.

‘I haven’t even sent you an itinerary yet.’ I laughed. ‘What if it’s a tour of the local coal mine, steel works and plastics factory?’

‘Who cares? There’ll be food. That’s all I need. Oh, how exciting.’

‘I’ll email you some more details.’

‘I can’t wait. I’ve never been to Scandinavia. I’m going to have to buy one of those duvet padded coats, like they all wear. With white fur round the hood. And some thermal gloves.’

‘Er Sophie, the trip’s at the end of April, it’s going to be a bit warmer then. I think you can put Barbie’s arctic exploration outfit back in the wardrobe.

‘Talking of which, I need to go and nick a dress out of Connie’s wardrobe.’

‘How is she and where are you off to?’

‘She’s fine. Still knee deep in children at work. And I’m off to the National Newspaper Circulation Awards.’

‘That sounds deadly, apart from free booze.’

‘It’s at Grosvenor House and dinner is included.’

‘Get you.’

‘Only because the company has sponsored an award. We’ve got a table. Unfortunately my ex will be there.’

‘Oh, bad luck.’

‘Yes, although Connie did offer to fix me up with one of her teacher colleagues.’

‘That was nice of her.’

‘His name was Crispin,’ I said indignantly.

‘Oh, is that a problem?’

‘I’m not sure I could take anyone called Crispin that seriously. It sounds like a small horse to me.’

Sophie giggled. ‘You can’t dislike someone just because of their name.’

‘True, although I spoke to a Benedict today and I’d have thought a Benedict would be a hottie.’

‘Not Cumberbatch?’

‘No, this one wasn’t nice at all. But thankfully he doesn’t want to come on the trip, so I won’t ever have to find out.’

Chapter 5

Pulling up outside the hotel where the awards were taking place, and having the top-hatted concierge open the door I felt a bit of a fraud in my borrowed dress. One of the poshest hotels in London, it was a long way from the budget hotel in Hemel where I’d been a chambermaid in the student holidays. Men in smart dinner suits with elegantly attired women were milling around the entrance to the ballroom.

Thanks to Connie’s make-up, my eyes were now a smoky grey, with a lot more eyeliner and shading than I’d have dared and her dress was fabulous.

Only she could pick up a Vera Wang bridesmaid’s dress in a charity shop when she was looking for costumes for the school. The simple stylish unembellished design was one of those that looked nothing on the hanger, sleeveless with a stark boat neck but when you put it on the heavy satin slithered into place wrapping itself around your upper body down over your hips while the skirt swished sinuously like waves frothing around your feet. Dead simple except for one killer feature, the low back which dropped in sinuous folds to just below the waist. It required a very careful choice of underwear.

I smoothed my fingers down the silky fabric with a smile as I stepped out of the cab, marvelling at how close it had come to being cut up for the three kings’ cloaks for the Ashton Lynne Primary School nativity last year.

As I tripped down the steps holding Connie’s silver beaded clutch, a couple of heads turned which was rather nice.

Thankfully our party was already gathered in one corner of the bar around a table with a champagne bucket and several glasses, one of which had my name on it. As I approached, the first person I saw was Josh, handsome in his dinner suit, reminding me very briefly of what I’d seen in him.

He gave me a slow smile and I saw the spark of interest in his eye. ‘Wow, you look–’

‘Thank you,’ I said primly cutting him off quickly. ‘Have you seen Megan? Is she here yet?’

‘Yes,’ he gave a rueful smile. ‘You’re not going to forgive me, are you?’

‘Nothing to forgive.’ I smiled and turned to walk away to check the table plan to his right.

He caught my arm. ‘Kate, you’re being pig-headed about this. We can still be friends.’

I shook him off. ‘I don’t think so. Work is the most important thing in my life right now. I’m not letting you or anything else get in the way again.’ I spotted Megan with a couple of other people from work and edged my way through the crowd towards her.

‘Kate, hello. Would you like a glass of fizz? And this is Andrew.’ She introduced the short bald man at her side.

Before I could say hello, she’d thrust a full glass into my hand. ‘He’s on our table.’

Which was short-hand for play nice, he’s one of the agency guests on the table the company had paid a lot of money to sponsor.

‘He works for the Inquirer,’ she said a tad too enthusiastically. ‘Sorry I forgot, what is it you do?’

Andrew turned and thrust a small sweaty paw my way. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he brayed, his tone so rich and plummy he was almost a caricature. ‘Andrew Dawkins. Sales Manager. The Sunday Inquirer. And you are?’

‘Kate. I work with Megan at the Machin Agency.’

‘Another PR?’ He literally shouted the words, his mouth wrinkling in a subtle, ‘well you’re no bloody use to me’ expression, but he bore his disappointment well, with consummate good manners. ‘And how long have you worked there?’

‘Five years.’

‘Time to move on then,’ advised Andrew, waving his glass at me. ‘Keep moving. That’s my motto. Never stay anywhere for longer than two years.’ With a burst of laughter, he added, ‘Otherwise you get found out. That’s how I got to be Sales Manager.

‘All about networking, y’know. Getting to know the right people. I could introduce you to a few people. Agency bosses.’ He slipped his arm through mine, terribly chummy and enthusiastic, so that it was hard to decide whether the graze of his hand on the far edge of my breast was inadvertent or not.

I took a good slug of champagne and moved out of range so there’d been no room for doubt again.

‘You work at the Inquirer, do you know Benedict Johnson?’

Disgust wreathed his shiny forehead. ‘I meant proper contacts, not hacks. I could give your career a serious boost,’ he boasted and gestured with his glass towards a series of men picking them off like target practice. ‘CEO, Magna Group, Finance Officer, Workwell Industries. Name someone you want to meet.’

‘I’m fine thanks.’

‘So why do you want to meet Johnson?’

‘I don’t want to meet him, I’m curious about him.’

‘Fancy him, do you?’

‘No,’ I gave him a disdainful look his comment deserved. ‘I’ve never met him.’ I frowned remembering our conversation. ‘I had words with him earlier today. He’s quite hostile to PR people.’

‘That’s because he thinks himself a serious journalist. Or at least he was.’ Andrew’s smile was malicious. ‘Got booted off the business desk. Too good for lifestyle or so he thinks.’ His eyes sparkled with malevolent glee.

‘I er …’ I felt almost sorry for Benedict Johnson.

Andrew smiled. ‘How the mighty are fallen. He’s one of them. Your typical serious journalist. They all think they’re God’s gift and about to uncover the next Watergate. What they don’t realise is without,’ he rubbed his fingers and thumbs together, ‘advertising revenue they wouldn’t have a job. So what do you want with him?’

‘I invited him on a press trip. He didn’t fancy it.’

‘I’d go on a press trip with you.’

‘That’s kind but I’m not sure the client would buy it.’

‘Who’s the client?’

‘A new Danish department store opening in London. We’re taking a small group of press to Copenhagen.’

‘Nice work if you can get it. And he turned it down?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons.’

I might not like Benedict Johnson, but I didn’t like Andrew Dawkins any better.

Andrew lapsed into thought, his small grey eyes screwed up in concentration. ‘Lot of potential advertisers might be interested in that. I’ll see what I can do.’

I wrestled with my conscience for less than a nano-second and refrained from saying, that would be great but neither did I say, don’t worry I’ve invited someone else now. This was my career we were talking about.

A very formal toast master, in full red-trimmed regalia, called the event to order but there was no reprieve for me. I found myself sitting next to Andrew and his wandering hands. There was nothing for it but to get stuck into the champagne and arm myself with a fork.

The awards, it sounds ungrateful to say, were no different from the other awards I’d worked on. The same anthemic music. The same slick script from a well-known stand-up comedian, on his very best behaviour, and lots of excessively dull and grateful middle-aged men, coming up to collect their glass engraved trophies.

The wine was plentiful and the food not bad considering how many people they had to serve and please. Chicken is always the common denominator on any corporate menu.

An army of well-drilled waiting staff edged the wall nearby and then began to serve the first course during which I noticed Andrew’s foot brushing my calf a few times too many.

By the time the main course plates were being cleared, my patience had run out. When his hand brushed my thigh again, I struck, ramming my fork into it.

‘I’m so sorry I didn’t realise that was you. I thought a tarantula was crawling over my leg. I have a phobia.’

Andrew gave me a tight smile, while wringing his hand to his chest.

A waitress appeared sidling between us with a pretty pink and white dessert.

‘Not for me, thank you,’ I said shaking my head. ‘I must go to the loo,’ I excused myself to Andrew, who rose at the same time like a perfect gentleman, except he put a steadying hand on my hip that was a tad too familiar.

I gave him a cool smile and fled, taking my glass of champagne with me, skirting the white linen covered tables, my skin crawling as I knew he watched me go. I regretted that his last view of me was the dramatic drop of my dress curved in smooth folds to below my waist. The dress might have been very demure at the front but it wasn’t at all at the back.

Climbing the stairs, I moved along the balcony to a quiet spot where I stopped to look out over the impressive sight of the Great Room, with its ranked rows of white clothed tables, in uniform lines, perfectly laid with linen and floral arrangements. I couldn’t look directly downwards as it would have made me dizzy and I stayed an arm’s-length from the brass rail but it was quite safe looking across the room. I crept a little closer to the barrier and took a sip of my champagne, sorry to realise the glass was almost empty and raised it in a small silent toast to the huge chandeliers glittering like extravagant clusters of diamonds. My mum would have been so proud of this. Of me being here. I could hear her voice in my head.

You make something of yourself love. Work hard. Do well. That’s all she wanted for us, to do better than the previous generation. She’d had three jobs, working at a nursery in the mornings, then going on to be a dinner lady at a local school where she was also a cleaner in the evenings. None of them had been particularly well paid and money had been tight.

With one hand safely clinging to the brass rail aware of the hum of voices rising up, I gazed at the tide of well-dressed people and swallowed a lump as I smiled mistily. This was a world away from where I’d grown up. She’d definitely think this was doing well.

‘I’d like to say penny for them, but I think they’re worth a lot more.’ The husky deep timbre of the voice, with a decidedly seductive undertone, held a definite edge of flirtation.

I stiffened for a second wanting to preserve the moment. Of not being disappointed when I turned and not disappointing. My common sense, blurred around the edges by champagne, went AWOL and instead of turning, I answered.

‘I think they probably are.’

There was a brief silence as I carried on looking across the huge room, over the sea of people at the tulip shaped chandeliers.

‘Did you know there are over five hundred thousand crystals in each of the chandeliers?’ I rather liked his opening gambit and the slight lilt in the chatty tone of his voice as if he’d taken up the challenge of trying to impress me enough to get me to turn around.

‘No.’ I smiled to myself and took a tiny sip of champagne, lifting my head so that my hair fell lower down my back, feeling aloof, regal and mysterious, wanting to spin the game out.

‘Or that they weigh a ton each and were designed in the 1960s.’ He stepped closer so that I was aware of him lowering his voice so that only I could hear him.

‘Impressive,’ I purred because the moment seemed to demand it. I was so not a purrer in real life but this was a Cinderella moment with its fabulous setting, complete anonymity and the false confidence of an expensive dress.

‘Did you know … this used to be an ice rink. Queen Elizabeth learned to skate here.’ My skin tingled in silent invitation and almost unaware of it I subtly arched my back.

‘Really,’ I said, smiling even more.

‘Three times Olympic champion, Sonja Henje skated here in the 1930s.’ The cadence of his voice whispered past my ear.

‘Never.’ Silent laughter bubbled in my voice.

‘And they used to play international ice hockey matches here.’

‘Who knew?’

‘A lot of the machinery is still there, under the floor.’

‘Useful to know.’

‘And final fact, The Beatles played here once.’

I leaned away over the balcony imagining the scene.

‘And that is my last fact.’ He said the words rather like a magician with a flourish at the end of his act.

I hesitated, loath to break the interlude. Instead of turning to face him, I twisted slightly, my chin not quite touching my shoulder so that he could just see my profile but I still couldn’t see him.

‘And very interesting facts they were too. Are you a tour guide? A historian?’

‘No, I spoke to a chatty barman. Talking of which, can I get you another glass of champagne? That one appears to have run out.’

‘Observant too. I’d love another one, thank you.’

‘And will you still be here when I come back? Or will I find a solitary shoe?’

I looked at the slim gold watch on my wrist, an inexpensive Lorus that had once belonged to my mother. With a sudden laugh, I said, ‘It’s a while until midnight. I’ll still be here.’

With careful grace, he plucked the glass from my hand without touching any other part of me. The gesture made my insides quiver.

I smiled. I had no idea what he looked like but he smelled delicious, a combination of subtle expensive aftershave and good clean washing powder.

Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t resist taking a quick peek over my shoulder after a good few seconds. He ploughed confidently through the small crowd around the bar, a man who knew what he wanted and where he was going. I think that purposeful movement won me over as well as perhaps the reassurance of a tall, slim build, a full head of hair and an extremely well cut suit.

I turned back to the view of the room and waited for his return, smiling to myself, trying to imagine what he looked like.

‘Still here then?’

I nodded, a sudden leap in my chest, as I realised I was going to have to turn to face him.

I felt the cold touch of the tip of the glass at my back. The unexpected intimacy thrilling and challenging. Did I turn around and face him? Or did I keep making him work for it?

The cool glass traced its way down my spine. Suggestive and subtle at once, it set every nerve ending alight.

Neither of us said a word.

The glass continued its way down my spine, and was then replaced by the teasing touch of a finger, delicately tracing the same path. I arched into the touch, heat flushing along my cheekbones. The glass came to rest just above the folds of the dress. Tiny flares of electricity raced across my skin.

He took the glass away, a cold imprint tingling on my back, cold and then almost hot.

I took in a breath, holding it for a good few seconds before slowly, slowly turning to take the champagne glass from his outstretched hand.

Our fingers brushed and he held the glass until I lifted my head to smile shyly at him, feeling feminine and womanly for once.

A smile curved his lips, a faint, barely-there dimple appearing in his stubbled left cheek which glinted in the light with a touch of dark golden and amber bristle that matched the dark auburn of his hair. This was the point where reality was supposed to kick in. He wasn’t supposed to be drop dead gorgeous, with amazing planed cheeks or those full lips, that I should stop looking at right now! I waited for the fuzzy champagne buzz to vanish and for him to wink at me and say goodbye. He certainly wasn’t supposed to have the sort of shoulders that had been honed either on a rugby field or in a swimming pool or be so tall that he topped me by a good few inches in my heels. Despite the good looks, it was the quiet calm self-confidence that he exuded that sent my stomach into a tail spin, along with the sharp intelligence shining in the grey blue eyes.

‘Hi.’ His low tone imbued with much more than a simple hi, sent a dart of awareness straight between my legs.

‘Hi,’ I said a tad breathlessly. This was so not me, all girly and awash with sexual attraction to a complete stranger. I didn’t do things like this but I couldn’t seem to help myself. It was so hard meeting people in London, let alone gorgeous, drop-dead handsome men who seemed as interested as you were.

‘I’m Ben.’

‘Kat … tie,’ I said not wanting to have the brusque business-like syllables of my name at work. Katie was my name at home. When mum was alive. I wanted to be that Katie, the one who was in touch with her feminine side. The one who didn’t have to battle all the time to be someone.

‘Cheers,’ he lifted his glass and tapped mine. ‘To chance meetings.’

‘Cheers.’

We smiled at each other again and sipped at our drinks. He moved next to me to lean over the rail clutching the glass in one hand.

‘I wonder how many people know it used to be an ice rink,’ I said peering down. ‘It must have been huge.’ It was hard to imagine the swish of skates on ice or the cold air hanging in the art deco room.

‘There’s a picture somewhere in the hotel.’

‘We’ll have to look for it sometime.’ The words slipped out far too easily but something about him and the out of time situation made me fearless.

‘Are you asking me on a date?’ His words held a teasing lilt.

I raised a haughty eyebrow. ‘No.’

‘Shame, I might have said yes.’

‘How do you know I haven’t got a boyfriend tucked away?’

His eyes narrowed with possessive perusal. ‘Because no man in his right mind would let you out in that dress on your own.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ I asked, suddenly worried he thought it was slutty and too inviting.

The quick smile held reassurance along with amusement and a hint of something else that had my heart picking up an extra beat. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. I’d say it’s perfect. It hints at far more than it reveals. Tasteful, stylish and sophisticated.’ His mouth dipped on one side, in cynical self-deprecation. ‘All of which is in short supply this evening … and that’s just the men.’

‘I can concur with that,’ I said thinking of Andrew’s sweaty paws.

‘Want me to protect your honour and call the cad out?’

‘No, I can wield a fork with the best of them.’

‘You didn’t stab someone?’ His eyes widened with mock horror and a touch of admiration.

I shrugged, let a smile play around my lips. ‘I didn’t draw blood, or at least not the first time.’

‘Ouch. Remind me not to mess with you.’

‘I thought we’d agreed that we weren’t going to go out on a date, so that would seem unlikely.’

‘In the spirit of not going on a date, I am wondering what sort of date we wouldn’t go on.’

I leaned on the balustrade. ‘We wouldn’t go wandering through the hotel, looking for historic pictures. Or leave this glittering occasion in full swing and go wandering down to the Serpentine.’

He considered for a moment and turned to reveal a bottle sticking out of his pocket. ‘And we wouldn’t take a bottle of champagne with us.’

The unspoken invitation sizzled between us. I smiled and stood up from the balustrade.

‘Why don’t you show me this picture?’

Just as he took my hand, lacing his fingers between mine, the familiar sound of a mobile phone jangled, bringing us both to an abrupt halt. Like cowboys reaching for their guns, we both went for our phones, him shoving a hand in his inside pocket and me taking my clutch bag from under my arm.

He frowned as he looked at his screen and then back at me with apology as he answered the call.

Saved by the bell. The familiar sound and both of us going for it, reminded me of real life. What on earth was I doing? Lulled by the moment and being a big girl in a posh frock. I wasn’t the sort that picked up complete strangers, particularly not handsome Prince Charming types who were way out of my league. Moreover, there was no time in my life for a relationship; I had goals, things to do. Gut instinct told me that this mysterious stranger posed far too big a risk. I’d been hurt by Josh and I hadn’t felt one tenth of the spark elicited by this man. He was a man you could really lose your heart to.

I mouthed that I was off to the ladies and slipped away, doubling back down the stairs to my table, confident that among 2,000 people I’d lose myself easily.

Chapter 6

‘Hello, Kate Sinclair.’ I absently picked up the phone as I stared at my computer screen, trying to be sensible and write a press release instead of replaying my Cinderella scene over and over in my head. Unfortunately I’d dashed off without leaving a glass slipper or a mobile phone number, so it would never come to anything and I couldn’t decide if that were a good or a bad thing.

‘Pleased with yourself, are you?’ snarled a voice down the phone.

Sitting up smartly I turned my chair away from the screen.

‘Sorry?’ I frowned immediately, thinking he must have the wrong person.

‘You are Kate Sinclair, aren’t you?’

OK, so not the wrong person.

‘Yes,’ I said slowly trying to place the angry voice. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Unfortunately, you’re about to. Benedict Johnson, lap dog,’ he spat.

Ah, the angry journalist. Why the hell was he ringing me? I had no idea but given his initial rudeness yesterday the opportunity to mess with him was too good to miss.

‘How the mighty are fallen, the other day you were Mad Fox,’ I observed, picking up a pen and doodling on my lined pad.

‘Then, I wasn’t dancing to your tune.’

‘Clues would be good at this point.’

‘Playing innocent, are we?’

‘It would be difficult to play otherwise because I have absolutely no idea why you’re calling me.’

‘Didn’t you hear the good news?’ Sarcasm curdled the words.

‘Hans Solo didn’t die in The Force Awakens? Douglas Adams got it wrong and the meaning of life is forty-three? Take That are back up to five members?’

‘I’m too bloody furious with you to even find you funny.’

‘Sharing’s good. Psychologists recommend it.’

‘Copenhagen. Press trip.’ He bit the words out with enunciated precision.

‘Journalist. Said no.’

‘Journalist forced to say yes.’

‘I’m all out of arm twists, so I’m not sure how you figure that. I’ve not forced anyone.’

‘Not directly. I don’t like sneaky, underhand people. You should watch out who you make deals with in future.’

‘I’ve got five perfectly reasonable people who have agreed to come to Copenhagen and are delighted. I’m not sure I want you along anyway.’

‘Too bad. Because now thanks to your conniving you’re stuck with me.’

‘Do you always talk in riddles?’ We were getting nowhere with this conversation and while I was enjoying it on one level, I had other things to do. ‘Seriously. You carry on but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve asked another journalist to go on the trip.’ They’d turned it down too but he didn’t need to know that.

‘The Advertising Manager said that you’d suggested it would make a great feature and that he could sell a lot of advertising off the back of it. He went to his boss, who went to my boss and suddenly … it’s a very good idea if I go on a junket to Copenhagen.’

‘Sorry still no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t suggested any such thing. You’ve got the wrong person,’ I said confidently.

‘Not according to Andrew Dawkins.’

‘Andr…’ my voice trailed away guiltily.

‘All coming back to you, now is it?’

‘I … er I, didn’t say that to him. I don’t …’ I sputtered as I desperately racked my brains as to what I’d said to him two nights previously.

‘No, of course not. Because he couldn’t possibly know that I’d been invited on a trip unless he’d spoken to you.’

‘Look, I’m sorry–’

‘Too bloody late now. You’d better send the itinerary over. I’ll see you in Copenhagen.’ With that he slammed the phone down before I’d had a chance to tell him that I certainly hadn’t put Andrew up to it, or that we were meeting at Heathrow.

Chapter 7

Through bleary eyes, I clocked that Heathrow, even at the insane time of five o’clock in the morning, was surprisingly busy. Cleaners trailing huge carts with mops sticking out at odd angles roved the open expanse of the terminal, while half-asleep shop assistants battled with metal grilles opening up with weary determination, oblivious to travellers around them pulling the ubiquitous black luggage along.

As I waited by the check-in desk, I looked at all the paperwork for the fifth time. Passport. Contact numbers. Laptop. Luggage. My hands were shaking. Ridiculous. Yesterday’s last minute pep talk from Megan had put the fear of God into me.

‘Are you sure you’ll be able to cope with six of them?’ she’d asked me. ‘Press trips are hard work.’

‘I know,’ I’d replied, thinking how hard could it be? What could go wrong? We had an itinerary. A guide.

‘People think it’s a cushy little junket, but journalists have a habit of wandering off piste and doing their own bloody thing. You need to make sure they toe the line. No ducking out of this trip or that visit. You lose one, you lose them all.’

‘OK,’ I’d nodded again, trying to look serious and attentive.

‘There’s a lot resting on this.’

I’d got that with bells on.

‘And don’t let them take the piss with expenses. There’s a budget for this trip.’ She’d paused and given me a searching look.

‘I’m just wondering if you ought to have some back up.’

‘Back up?’ I’d echoed. It was a press trip not a flipping drugs raid.

‘I’m wondering if we ought to send Josh Delaney with you.’

Firmly I’d reiterated how confident and sure I felt about the trip. Megan had no idea that this was the big time compared to my previous travelling experiences; a couple of trips to Ayia Napa with Connie and school friends and a long weekend in Barcelona, which had been mainly about sun, sea, shopping and sangria.

It would all be fine though; there would be someone meeting us at the airport, although he had the less than confidence instilling name of Mads.

That was yesterday, now this morning the cold reality of being responsible for six adults, some of whom were older than me, more sophisticated and a lot more travel savvy, had sucked all the confidence out of me like a dementor. What if someone lost their passport? Got ill on the trip? Didn’t like the hotel? The more I worried, the more things I thought of to worry about.

Across the terminal building I watched a girl wearing a rather fascinating long hairy coat, which made me think of an orangutan. She shifted her huge duffel style bag from one shoulder to another before standing, rubbing the back of one very long leg with the foot of the other. The awkward gawky motion reminded me of a stork wondering whether to take flight or not.

Was she Fiona or a one man zoo? I squinted at her again. The copies of everyone’s passports made them look like a bunch of convicts and bandits. When I tried to catch her eye, she was busy with her phone, so I decided she wasn’t my blogger at all. I took another look at the photocopies and when I glanced up, a bit like the weeping angels in Doctor Who, the girl had moved closer.

I looked at my watch even though no more than three minutes could have possibly elapsed since the last time I checked it.

The girl had moved a touch nearer.

‘Kate, my darling. What on earth do you call this godawful time?’ I turned to see sixty year old Conrad Fletcher, from Interiors of the World magazine. What he didn’t know about interior design and who was who in the industry wasn’t worth knowing.

‘Morning Conrad, how are you?’

‘Knackered. It’s a good job I like you otherwise I’d have turned my alarm off and gone back to sleep. And then the taxi driver was a surly sod. Oh, here’s the receipt by the way. You can give me cash, saves on all the bother of both of us having to do paperwork.’ Conrad patted the cab receipt into my hand. ‘And a coffee wouldn’t go amiss, I’m parched.’

‘We’ll go for a coffee as soon as I’ve got everyone rounded up.’ The girl now lurking to our left just in front of the check-in desk bobbed up and down on her toes like a small girl trying to get attention from a teacher without being too obtrusive. I suspected she might be my lifestyle blogger, Fiona Hanning.

‘Hi, are you Fiona?’

She blushed scarlet and nodded with very quick short sharp jerks before making eye contact as warily as a deer stepping from the edge of a forest glade.

‘Hi, I’m Kate. Nice to meet you.’ I held out my hand. Her hand shot out from the sleeve of the hairy monkey coat, grabbed mine, squeezed and then retracted before I could even blink.

‘This is Conrad Fletcher, he’s an interiors writer. Conrad, Fiona Hanning, she writes the blog Hanning’s Half Hour.’

Mild panic stretched across Fiona’s face as I introduced them but thankfully Conrad didn’t have a shy bone in his body.

‘I love your blog darling. Such a clever idea.’ You never knew with Conrad whether he was bluffing, he liked to make out he knew everything and everyone, and although I’d never caught him out, I did occasionally wonder if it was all a front. To my surprise, he started talking about a recent article on the blog about upholstery of all things and then making suggestions for a follow up piece, with names and contacts she might try.

Fiona didn’t say much and seemed much better able to cope with this type of human interaction, being talked at rather than required to join in.

‘Conrad, well if you’re here, I must be in the right place.’ Avril Baines-Hamilton, a regular This Morning presenter, had arrived wearing a huge fur hat, outsize sunglasses and a full length down coat, belted in the middle. Making her grand entrance, she drew to a halt and dropped the handles of two pull along cases, a Gucci carry on case, which I recognised as the Bengal tiger edition, much featured in magazines, a snip at eighteen hundred pounds, and a second much larger bog standard Gucci case.

‘Hi Avril, we’ve met before. I’m Kate.’ She made no sign of recognition and she didn’t take her sunglasses off which I always think is rather impolite.

‘Have we?’ I couldn’t see the expression on her face for obvious reasons but her slightly indifferent bored tone bugged me. We were going to be spending the next five days together and a small fortune was about to be spent showing her the finest that Copenhagen had to offer. She could at least summon up a bit of enthusiasm.

Refusing to let my irritation show, I plastered a PR cum air hostess smile on my face. ‘Yes, several times but I suspect you meet lots of people. It’s hard to keep track. Now, I know it’s obvious but can I check you’ve all got your passports with you?’

Fiona immediately started patting her pocket and pulled out her passport straight away.

Conrad rolled his eyes good naturedly and dipped his hand inside his slightly shabby camel cashmere coat. He started to frown in consternation.

‘Don’t even think about it, Conrad,’ I said. ‘I know you and it would not be funny.’

‘You’re no fun.’ He grinned, devilment dancing in his eyes.

‘Not on this trip, no,’ I said in a suitably schoolmarm tone, hoping that he’d be sympathetic to me. When I’d invited Conrad, it had been a bit of a surprise that he’d not already been booked. Now when it was too late, I remembered that if he chose, he could be a liability. He was known for being a little bit rebellious and taking the mick with his expense account. I needed to be firm with him because if he decided to lead the other journalists astray, I’d be sunk. Avril would follow his lead without a doubt. Fiona, I couldn’t predict.

‘Morning,’ a quiet voice said in my ear. I whirled round to find David Ruddings who freelanced for the Evening Standard standing behind me, his usual gentle smile on his face.

‘Hello David, how are you?’

‘Excited.’ His face wreathed into a smile. Shame he was gay, he would have been perfect for Sophie, they both had that sunshine approach to life, although where she was bubbly and bright, he was quiet and beaming.

With an internal sigh, I calmed. Sophie and David would be a good influence and I could count on both to be on my side. Of course, the completely unknown quantity was Benedict Johnson, who probably would lead the charge if Conrad decided to be mischievous. And where the hell was he? I looked at my watch.

Five minutes to go before the official meeting time.

‘Good morning,’ Sophie’s voice trilled and there she was exuding brightness and cheer, like a blackbird fresh from the dawn chorus. I knew Sophie through Connie and as we’d met a few times it was rather nice to see a friendly face.

I introduced her to the rest of the group, letting them chat among themselves. There was plenty of time before the flight but I was conscious that everyone would probably expect a coffee. I for one could murder one.

‘Everything alright, Kate?’ Sophie’s low voice interrupted my thoughts.

‘Yes, fine. One more to come.’ I looked around the airport hoping that Benedict Johnson might materialise at any second. Surely he wouldn’t stand me up. That would just be rude, although I wouldn’t put it past him to deliberately miss the flight. Rude was his default.

‘Well he’d better get a move on, I’m dying for a coffee,’ muttered Avril.

‘Another five minutes. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’

‘I want to go to duty free. So we have to have coffee after security.’

Five minutes ticked by slowly and I forced myself to make light chit-chat and look completely unconcerned. Should I let them go through passport control and get settled or should I wait here for Benedict? The queue for check-in was starting to build up.

‘Kate, look I desperately need to get some essentials in duty free. I can’t hang around here any longer. It really isn’t on.’

‘And I’m in dire need of coffee, darling. Actually, breakfast wouldn’t come amiss.’

See – exactly as I predicted, Avril and Conrad had teamed up already, the high maintenance twins. They looked at me expectantly.

From behind them, Sophie flashed a sympathetic smile.

I was reluctant to let everyone out of my sight. This was worse than being a teacher on a school trip. Connie had told me enough horror stories. If I let them all disperse I might not round them up again.

Avril sighed heavily and pouted. Even behind the celebrity hat and sunglasses combo, I could tell she was sliding into petulance.

‘Tell you what,’ I said making a quick decision. ‘Let’s get our bags checked in and join the queue. Hopefully by the time we get to the front, he’ll have arrived.’

Everyone grabbed their bags and as we moved to join the queue, a helpful young man opened up a new check-in desk and summoned us over.

One by one everyone checked in their bags, as I scanned the area. Where the hell was he?

Now all the bags had gone and everyone looked at me waiting for me to decide what to do next. With a sigh, I knew I had to make a decision. Letting them go through passport control without me felt like an irresponsible mother hen waving goodbye to her babies, but there’d be severe dissension in the ranks if I didn’t.

‘You all go through passport control. And I’ll meet you …’ at the gate felt too late.

‘There’s a Café Nero there,’ offered Sophie.

‘I’ll meet you at Café Nero.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Avril. ‘And you’d better give us our boarding passes. We’ll need them for duty free and if you don’t turn up.’

‘I’m sure Benedict will be here very soon,’ I said, wishing I could be sure of that.

I sifted through the printed boarding passes and handed them out to everyone.

Avril grabbed the handles of her bags and wheeled around like a racehorse under starters orders. ‘If I don’t get my Clarins stuff, this trip will have been a complete waste of time.’

Conrad looked at me and made no move. I suddenly realised that I was expected to pay for breakfast. Of course, I was. I looked around at the party realising that was what everyone was waiting for and Sophie caught my eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. The perfect ally. I pulled out my purse which bulged with English cash and Danish Kroner.

‘Sophie, would you mind doing the honours for me?’ I pushed a couple of notes into her hands. ‘Can you pay for the coffees and give me the receipt?’

‘No problem.’ She winked and took the money. ‘Come on then troops.’ She turned and led the way falling into step with Fiona and David while Conrad and Avril followed up the rear. As they walked away down the airport concourse, I felt a sense of premonition; I had a horrible feeling that was how the group split was going to be for the whole trip.

I looked at my watch again. At least my case had gone on the plane, they wouldn’t leave without me. Not to start with anyway. There was another fifteen minutes before the check-in desk closed. Should I call Benedict?

As part of my preparation, I’d asked for everyone’s mobile number and being super-efficient, I’d pre-programmed everyone’s numbers into my contacts the other evening.

I paced up and down in a small circle around the check-in desk. When I called Benedict’s number, my heart sank as I listened to, ‘This mobile is currently switched off.’ Did that mean he was on the tube, on his way? Still asleep with his phone switched off for the night?

Impatiently I called again in case he’d been in a bad signal area, or he’d just got off the tube and was on his way up, as I kept an eye out for a vaguely quiff haired bandit, which was all I could glean from Benedict’s fuzzy photocopy of his passport picture. Every time I looked up at the overhead digital clock another two minutes had elapsed. It was like some horrible magical trick where time sped up in direct proportion to my increasing stress level.

I looked at the check-in desk. Still seven minutes to go. Only three people left in the queue. One desk had already closed up. I looked at my mobile. No messages. Fifty-three minutes until the flight left. I looked down the concourse. Was he coming? The familiar burning sensation low in my stomach made me stop pacing. I took a deep breath. I needed a coffee and something to eat.

At what point did I give up? Once the check-in desks closed? What would I do if he turned up after then? Book another flight? My stomach knotted itself tighter.

Two minutes and counting. I looked at my phone. Still no word. This was ridiculous. I should be with the rest of the group; they were my responsibility. Benedict Johnson was now over three quarters of an hour late. I’d more than given him the benefit of the doubt.

With one last look at the check-in desk, catching the eye of the supervisor there, who looked suitably pitying at my dejected appearance, I turned to walk down towards passport control.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something like a tornado in the distance, a man running pell mell down the concourse, dragging a case.

The man behind the desk had stood up.

‘Wait,’ I called rushing over to him. ‘I think my colleague’s here.’

The man pursed his lips.

‘Here you can start with this, can’t you?’ I pushed over the paperwork and the copy of Benedict’s passport.

The man in a leather jacket and jeans came flying to the front of the queue and slammed up against the desk, passport in hand.

‘Benedict Johnson, I presume,’ I snarled less than charitably given the poor chap was bent double trying to catch his breath, almost prostrate at my feet, and hiding the fact I was bloody relieved to see him.

His passport picture didn’t do him justice, not that I could see much but the back of his head. His dull fuzzy passport picture suggested stoned serial killer, not this man whirling in, leather jacket flying and zinging with energy.

‘I’ve just … made it … from … the tube in ninety … seven seconds,’ he puffed as the man on the desk tried to peer sideways to look at his face.

I had an impression of thick hair, well cut and an unusual shade … oh shit … of dark auburn hair.

I had a moment of flight or fight panic as he slowly straightened. At least I had the tiniest advantage of realising before he did as I schooled my face into polite indifference, while inside my heart banged with all the merry inappropriate joy of a big bass drum.

‘Cinders!’ he said, ‘What are you doing here?’ He hauled his case onto the conveyor belt as the man snapped on a label and handed back his passport. ‘Benedict Johnson. Ben.’

My eyes met his and for a second we stared at each other until his sharpened with sudden quizzical intelligence.

‘Oh shit, you’re her. PR woman.’ His groaned words were all I needed to calm the silliness inside.

‘Oh shit, yes I am.’ Suddenly it was much easier to remember Mad Fox and not the brief connection at the awards do. Clearly, I had drunk far too much champagne that night. ‘And you’re late. We need to go now.’ I turned, hauling my laptop bag onto my shoulder.

His face tightened. ‘Bossy much? You should be grateful I’m here at all because quite frankly there are other places I’d rather be right now.’

‘You’re doing that barking mad fox thing again.’ Now I’d seen the colour of his hair, I was delighted with the original quip.

‘I reserve it especially for bossy manipulative PRs.’

I pushed my tongue against my cheek and sighed. ‘The flight’s in fifty minutes. We need to get through security and meet up with the other five people who got here on time.’

This was his moment for effusive apology and excuses. Instead he shrugged and picked up his canvas satchel and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Come on then.’ We marched along keeping a good couple of metres between us like an invisible wall of enmity, although I had a hard time keeping up with his long-legged lope which I was fairly sure was deliberate on his part. Inside I was absolutely gutted. My fairytale moment with the most delicious Prince Charming had been well and truly stomped on. How could he and Benedict Johnson possibly be the same person?

Chapter 8

By the time we fought our way through passport control and made our way to Café Nero, our flight had been called and it was time to go straight to the gate. At our arrival everyone started gathering their bags. I quickly introduced Benedict. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Ben.

‘Hi everyone, sorry I’m late. Slight domestic emergency.’

Funny he could manage an apology to them.

‘Where’s Avril?’ I asked, noticing a lone coffee cup on the table and realising I was missing one. God it was like trying to herd cats. Was it going to be like this all week? No sooner had I got one journalist I lost another.

Sophie frowned and looked at her watch. ‘She must be still in duty free. Do you want me to go and look for her? Oh, here’s your receipt, by the way.’

‘Thanks.’ I took it from her with a distracted smile. I’d have to go and look for Avril myself. I was supposedly in charge; I couldn’t keep asking Sophie to help. ‘Why don’t you all go down to the gate and I’ll go and find Avril.’ I wanted to add, and please for the love of God can you stay together?

Thankfully Avril was in the queue at duty free. I looked at my watch. We had ten minutes before they officially started boarding, although she had more in her basket than my entire make-up stock. I hoped the check-out girl was on it today.

‘Just letting you know the others have gone down to the gate.’

‘Oh, really.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘I don’t suppose anyone got me a coffee.’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘I’ll have to grab one on the way to the gate.’

‘I’m not sure there’s going to be time.’ I did wonder whether I ought to offer. I wasn’t quite sure how far the duties of a host extended.

Her lips pursed in a tight smile of self-satisfaction. ‘Of course there is. Our bags are on board, they can’t go without us.’

I stared at her unable to find anything to say in response to her outrageous self-absorption.

I finally steered her to the gate having given in and bought her coffee while she was paying for nearly two hundred pounds worth of face creams and perfume. As we arrived a voice over the tannoy announced that seat numbers one to thirty could board.

‘That’s us,’ I said brightly to the other … What! There were only four journalists waiting.

Having to go and find Fiona in the loos made the two of us the last to board.

‘Let me take care of that for you, madam. You need to take your seat. Now.’

The stewardess’s voice had a veiled hiss to it, as she added, ‘We need to leave. We’re already late.’ The unsaid, thanks to you hung in the air.

‘Can I just …’ I quickly pulled out my purse and a guide book, scattering tissues and receipts on the floor.

Like a chastened schoolgirl, I finally slid into my seat which of course was next to Benedict. He and Conrad must have swapped seats, as I’d put him in the window seat, away from me.

‘I’m so glad I didn’t rush,’ he observed, not even looking up from his newspaper. I glared at the top of his head as I settled into my seat sorting out the seat-belt. In the seat behind I could hear Avril complaining about the amount of legroom and wondering rather loudly why we weren’t flying business class. Thankfully across the aisle I could see Sophie smiling and talking to Fiona in a reassuring way.

Last-minute checks were done and then the air crew disappeared to their seats as the plane taxied down to the runway. All the usual excitement of going somewhere on a plane had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Suddenly I felt very small and inadequate, so I closed my eyes and pretended to go to sleep. How on earth was I going to manage the six journalists? Just getting them all on the plane had proved a Herculean task and I felt stressed out already. What was it going to be like when I had a whole city to lose them in? It didn’t bear thinking about.

That stress must have taken more out of me than I’d realised because I fell into a doze and woke with a start, which made Benedict turn and give me an unfriendly stare. I hoped I hadn’t been drooling or anything. My scarf was draped across his knees and surreptitiously I pulled it back conscious of him ignoring me.

All his attention was focused on the crossword he held up, although a small part of me was pleased to see that he didn’t seem to be making much headway.

‘Sorry chaps, I need to pop to the loo,’ announced Conrad, bobbing up from his seat. I moved out into the aisle and Benedict followed me. As I stood behind him, I could smell the same clean smell combo that I’d smelled before and it brought a vivid reminder of the details of that night and the shimmering tentative flirtation between us.

Unable to help myself I studied the short hair at the back of his neck, trimmed neatly to the nape, fighting the sudden crazy urge to stroke down the golden hairs tracing down the column of his neck. Thank goodness I hadn’t given in to crazy compulsion and done anything stupid that night. At least I had the sense to run out before things had gone any further. And the jury was most definitely out on what might have happened if his mobile hadn’t rung.

It had been a silly transient moment that meant nothing. Too much champagne, two strangers and a touch of bravado. Totally meaningless. A possible hook-up that thankfully we hadn’t pursued.

And now I was going to pretend that that evening had faded so far into insignificance that it hadn’t even registered.

Unfortunately, certain parts of my brain hadn’t got that memo and when he turned around to face me, something inside me went a little haywire. I think my mouth dropped open a little bit, and I might have let out a stuttery breath as his cool blue-grey eyes met mine. I didn’t even like the guy for crying out loud, so why was my heart tripping the light fandango, like it had never laid eyes on a handsome man before. Seriously, he was rude, arrogant, horrible. He wasn’t even that good looking. Not really. Passable. Nice shoulders. Nice eyes. Nice face. Interesting face, one of those all put together nicely sort of faces. Just nice, mind you, not drop-dead gorgeous or anything. OK, he was drop-dead gorgeous but that didn’t mean anything.

He blinked and for a second we were back on the balcony of the Great Room, awareness buzzed through me and I was horribly conscious of him. A flash of sensation as my memory unhelpfully reminded me of the charged moment when he’d touched my back.

I stiffened and took in a sharp breath.

‘Everything alright?’ I asked, being ultra-professional.

He pursed his lips. ‘No.’ With a flick of his wrist, he looked at his watch. ‘I should be sitting at my desk, typing up the notes from an interview I did last night. Instead I’m here, at twenty thousand feet, stuck with a group of people I have nothing in common with,’ at this point he glared pointedly at me, ‘away from home, for a whole week.’

Any lingering butterflies upped and died right there. I studied him for a second seeing the tension sitting in the taut lines around his mouth.

‘Look Benedict—’

‘Ben,’ he corrected.

No, Ben was the tempting, teasing guy in the tuxedo. Benedict was Captain Grumpy, and him I could handle.

‘We can go over and over this. How much you don’t want to be here. Blah, blah, blah. The fact of the matter is, you are. You can choose to be miserable and resentful and not get anything out of it or you can suck it up and enjoy yourself.’

The woman to my right raised her head listening eagerly, enjoying the show.

‘Or,’ he smiled grimly, ‘I can enjoy myself at your expense and find my own stories.’

‘There is that,’ I said, ‘but it would be a little unethical, don’t you think?’

‘Unethical. Me? After you set Dawkins on me. I think your own ethics need a little polishing.’

I ducked my head; he might have a very slight point.

‘I’m off to the loo, while I can,’ he said indicating over his shoulder with a nod before he turned his back and stalked off down the aisle.

Two air hostesses, a good ten seats away working their way down the aisle, doing battle with a trolley both gave him appreciative second glances.

With him gone I sat back down out of the way and pulled out a guide book to Copenhagen that I’d ordered and not got around to reading, but it didn’t hold my interest. The huge range of choices belied the slim volume, and although I tried to dip in, the more I read the more daunting it felt or maybe there was something else on my mind. Idly I picked up Ben, no Benedict’s, crossword, with a quick look over my shoulder.

He’d got a couple of clues. As I read some more, one caught my eye Foxy lady’s top, after sound measurement before long (7).

Some of the letters had been filled in, including a V which gave me the biggest hint. I smiled, no I smirked. Vulpine. Another word for foxy. The l from the top of lady, vu was volume unit and another word for long was pine.

Six across was definitely vulpine. Grabbing the pen tucked into the seat pocket, I filled in the answer in small neat capitals, grinning from ear to ear as I did it and then casually replaced the pen and crossword as if I’d never touched them.

‘Alright Kate, dear,’ asked Conrad suddenly appearing at my shoulder. I jumped and moved to let him back into his seat.

‘Yes fine.’

‘Intense young fellow, our Ben,’ he observed with a knowing glint as he settled back into his seat. ‘Not sure he’s over fond of you.’

‘He doesn’t like PR people. His editor insisted he came on the trip.’ I shrugged.

‘Ah. So, nothing personal then,’ he winked, ‘I’m sure you’ll win him over.’

‘Hmm,’ I said with a forced smile. It was personal with a capital P and there was sod all chance of winning him over.

I glanced at the crossword with the ghost of a smile. It wasn’t as if I was planning on trying that hard.

It was a relief when the air hostess appeared to take tea and coffee orders, although ordering for the whole party across several seats took a while and it was only when the hot cups were safely installed on the seat back trays, that Benedict picked up his newspaper again.

Holding my coffee cup with great care, I pulled the itinerary out of my bag. It would be just my luck to spill boiling hot coffee over Ben’s leg. I scanned the list of activities of the latest version, which now had much more detail added to it, when he took in a short sharp breath.

I reread the same sentence again, keeping my eyes peeled to the words on the page and didn’t say a word.

‘You filled my crossword in!’ He sounded horrified and disconcerted.

I didn’t say a word, simply looked at him, dispassionate and cool.

He rustled the paper and slapped it down onto his lap, glaring at me.

With a gentle smile I looked down at the crossword. ‘And I think nine down is environment.’

With a casual shrug I turned back to my book which was pretty difficult because I wanted to laugh at how mad he was. You could almost feel the kettle about to blow. Understated fury steamed from him, almost evaporating from his skin. Copenhagen was going to be hard work, but perhaps I could have a little fun too at his expense …

PART TWO

Chapter 9

Slick and modern, Copenhagen Airport looked very much like every other airport I’d been to, except that the signs were indisputably Danish with their funny slashed Os and As with tiny round circles and there was a replica statue of the Little Mermaid.

With all bags reclaimed, I led my unruly group out through nothing to declare. I could have quite happily kissed the man holding up a white board which read Hjem Party/Kate Sinclair. He stood directly opposite our exit and there was no missing him.

Suddenly feeling much more confident and sure of myself, I strode over to him. Once he’d introduced himself as Mads, thankfully appearing quite sane, he quickly led us out of the terminal to a waiting mini bus.

‘So, this is the beautiful city of Copenhagen, capital of Denmark, the happiest country in the world.’ He grinned. ‘You’re going to hear that a lot over the next few days, but it really is true. We have our own institute of happiness. And you’ll hear a lot about our social care, our taxes and our liberal approach. My job is going to be to show you a little taste of the real Denmark, but there’s gonna be lots of downtime for you to go out and do a bit of exploring for yourself.

‘Tomorrow, we will see the city from the water, which gives you the best views.’ He pulled out a rolled scroll of tatty paper, unfurled it with a flourish and waved it like a flag. ‘And you’ll also get your first taste of proper Danish pastries. You have to try one of our famous kanelsnegle. But for today we will stop for lunch, followed by a tour of the royal palace at Amalieburg followed by dinner in the hotel this evening.’

He finished every sentence with a triumphant uplift in his tone that was charming and endearing at once.

Benedict was absorbed in his phone, looking utterly disinterested. I wanted to kick him in the shin and tell him to stop being so rude, but Mads, who shared a few genes with the Duracell bunny, seemed totally oblivious and continued pointing things out from the windows.

‘What’s kanelsnegle when it’s at home?’ asked Avril, wrinkling her nose.

‘Cinnamon Snail,’ piped up Sophie, gesturing the shape with her hands. ‘A cinnamon flavoured roll. Proper Danish pastry. I can’t wait for that. I’ve been trying to get the recipe right for the magazine.’

So that’s what they were, I’d never got around to looking them up … or Eva Wilder’s café Varme. Lars had included his mother’s café on the extensive itinerary as a regular pit stop. For a big successful business man he’d been surprisingly soft and rather sweet about his family.

Fiona had perked up since we’d got off the plane and was busy taking photos of absolutely everything. I could sense suppressed excitement as she sat on the edge of the seat gripping the door, although she didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Next to her Sophie and David seemed amused by her snap happy attack on the view through the glass and chatted between themselves including her in their comments, although she didn’t respond. Conrad and Avril were laughing together at the very back and already getting on like the proverbial house on fire, I just didn’t want to get burned.

Although I did note that Avril had posted on Twitter, Arrived in Denmark, home to popular royal family, cinnamon snails and happiness #WonderfulCopenhagen #presstripantics

If this was work I could take it. My chin almost hit the floor when we pulled up outside the hotel. It was abs-o-lutely bloody gorgeous, none of your three-star rubbish I was used to. This was five-star all the way, from the top hatted and grey wool coated doormen with their brass railed luggage trolleys to the quiet stately elegance of the vast reception area.

‘Now this is more like it,’ said Conrad, a broad grin wrinkling his face, making his moustache twitch with pleasure as he looked around. I tried to look as if it were all part and parcel of another day at the office but failed miserably when Sophie sidled up to me and whispered, ‘Wow. Seriously.’

‘I know,’ I whispered back, almost giggling with a mixture of giddiness and terror. ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’

Shit. I wasn’t expecting this. Putting six people up in a hotel like this was going to cost a fortune. My stomach turned over. This was serious business. And I was in charge.

There was a slight rushing in my ears as I stood there. How quickly were they all going to realise that I was a complete fraud. I knew about as much about hygge as could be written on the back of a fag packet and believed in it about it as much as I believed in fairies.

Avril, the first to hand her cases over to the doormen, didn’t bat an eyelid as she sauntered over to one of the sumptuous grey velvet sofas and sank down gracefully crossing her slender legs, the epitome of elegance. David was a lot less sangfroid, if the little jerky movements and grins at the sight of everything was anything to go by and lord love him, he didn’t mind who knew it. He followed Avril and sat down in a pale lemon upholstered chair with the same furniture arrangement but not too close. The scene reminded me of our old dog, Toaster, whose distance from the gas fire was measured by the mood of Maud the cat who ruled the house with an iron whisker.

Fiona slowed right down, and turned on the spot, head tilted upwards as if trying to take in every last detail of the décor. The walls held the sheen of expensive wallpaper, a subtle stylish grey against the white wooden trim around the floors and ceilings. Exquisite flowers, their colours harmonising perfectly, decorated the room; purple cala lilies arranged in a tall simple glass vase on a mantelpiece reflected two-fold in a gilt-edged mirror, large tied posies of blousy ranunculas in a gorgeous warm pink filled the centre of occasional tables and tiny pots of white cyclamen tastefully dotted the dark mahogany reception desk.

I sent a dozen pictures of my swanky hotel room via WhatsApp to Connie, a tad mean, perhaps, as no doubt she’d be knee deep in reception children at this time of day. It was a delaying tactic as I almost didn’t dare touch anything. The bed with its crisp pure white sheets and designer accessories was so huge you could get lost in there. Like a thief in the night, I opened drawers and cupboards, checking out the sewing kit and shoe cleaning cloth before moving into the bathroom and hesitantly picking up the posh smellies, Sage and Seaspray. I took a quick sniff of the opulent scent which made me feel even more like a fish out of water.

I perched on the very edge of the bed, bouncing slightly on the soft mattress, wondering what to do, unable to dispel the sense of being an intruder casing someone else’s life. Unpacking seemed presumptuous; it almost didn’t feel right to put my clothes in the wardrobe. Unsettled and lost, I took in a deep breath, wishing I wasn’t on my own.

My mother loves looking after people. Lars’ words floated in my head. Suddenly I longed for a touch of down to earth normality. A café with coffee and warm pastry sounded perfect.

In my newly purchased feather down coat, which from looking at everyone at the airport was going to make me fit right in, I felt awfully brave stepping out from the hotel, even though according to my map, Varme was only a few streets away. It felt like an awfully big adventure. This was my first trip abroad on my own and the poshest hotel I’d ever stayed in. With a quick look heavenwards, I beamed to myself. Mum would definitely approve. With a brief pang, I imagined what it might have been like, if I could have told her all about it.

It took me less than five minutes to navigate the cobbled streets to find Varme and five seconds to fall head over heels in love with it. Cute, quaint, there was also something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, which made it so appealing. It certainly wasn’t fancy, not like the hotel. The name was written in copper metal letters about twenty centimetres high in a sensible reassuring courier font, Varme, like flames licking the bordering grey painted wood. Which made sense as the translation of Varme in English was warmth. The floor to ceiling windows painted in the same grey trim were sandwiched between huge thick sandy colour stone walls, more like the walls of a fortress. A tiny flight of steps led down into the café to glazed doors and when I pushed them open I was immediately assaulted by the smell of cinnamon and coffee and almost wilted with pleasure on the spot. One cup of rather dire coffee on the plane did not cut it as far as my body was concerned.

A small, slight woman with a perky blonde ponytail was clearing tables with quick neat economy. Dressed in black jeans and a black jumper, she looked up and said, ‘God morgen,’ with an easy smile, giving the table a last wipe and turning to face me.

‘Hello, I’m looking for Eva Wilder.’ My sensible ballet pumps squeaked slightly on the herringbone pattern arrangement of the tiles on the floor as I took a step towards her, trying not to look around the room in wonderment. There was so much to see, drawing your eye here, there and everywhere. Long and narrow, either end of the room had white walls painted with flowers, blurry, watercolour style that looked contemporary and smart rather than twee and cottagey.

‘And then you’ve found her.’ Her eyes sparkled with genuine delight. ‘You must be Kate. Lars has told me all about you.’ She threw down her cloth and came over putting both hands on my arms and studying me with smiley assessment which slightly unnerved me as if somehow, I’d unknowingly graduated to long lost member of the family. ‘How lovely to meet you. I just know we’re going to get along. Welcome to Varme.’ Without pausing to draw breath she pulled me over to a chalky white painted table and pushed me into a seat.

‘Let’s have a coffee and you can tell me all about yourself.’

‘Coffee would be lovely,’ I said with prim English politeness, hoping she’d forget about the latter.

‘And weinerbrod?’

I was about to decline but my stomach let a howl of resistance, so audible Eva didn’t wait for an answer. I knew from some pre-trip research that bizarrely what the rest of the world called Danish pastries were, in fact, called Viennese bread in Denmark. Go figure.

‘Yes please, I’ve only had one coffee today and that was on the plane.’ I pulled a face, to illustrate its woeful quality.

‘Then, we must fix that.’ Like her son, she had a slight American intonation to her accent. Unlike his bright blue eyes, hers were a merry brown that danced in a small petite face like a mischievous sprite. It was difficult to imagine that she was mother to the strapping Lars, he must be nearly twice her height and she certainly didn’t look old enough.

I sat down and took advantage of her busy industry to take a good look around. There was a central counter in the middle of the long back wall, with rows and rows of copper coloured coffee canisters on the back wall along with grey painted racks of plates, cups and mugs. From here I could pick out the famous Royal Copenhagen Blue floral pattern on the white china. On the front of the counter were glass domes, under which a wonderful selection of cakes, pastries and desserts sheltered. In between them were glass cabinets filled with colourful open sandwiches which looked too well-decorated and ornate to eat.

Behind was a serving hatch through which you could see a small, very compact kitchen, which was clearly where the delicious smells were coming from.

‘Columbian coffee today, I think,’ she said giving me another one of her appraising looks.

I nodded. ‘Sounds lovely.’ Something about her impish smile made me add, ‘Although to be honest, I worked as a barista when I was a student and I’m not sure I’d know Columbian coffee if it bit me.’

‘A useful talent. If you can make coffee you’ll never be out of a job. I’ll have to set you to work if we get busy.’ Despite her wink, I was pretty sure she meant it.

‘Do you run this by yourself?’

‘Most of the time although I have some part time help from friends and students.’

‘It’s a lovely place.’

On the walls around the café, pale mint green glass shelves housed little vignettes, perfectly formed displays. Five delicate wine goblets made from deep purple glass. Seven silver eggs in different sizes. A single antique cup and saucer with a whole shelf to itself. The eclectic mix worked well and fascinated me. I’d never seen anything quite like it but it didn’t feel designery or that someone was trying too hard.

‘I love the glasses,’ I said pointing to them. ‘You have some beautiful things.’

‘It’s the Danish way. It’s been psychologically proven that looking at something beautiful makes people happier. That’s why as a nation we are so keen on our design. I picked the glasses up in a flea market years ago, but I’ve got so many now and I couldn’t bear to part with them. They look rather nice there, don’t they?’

Which matched my impression that each item had been put out simply because they were liked.

‘Gosh your English is amazing.’

She laughed. ‘I lived in London for many years. Here.’ She came to the table and unloaded a tray passing a tall china cup and saucer my way with a little jug of milk. ‘Nice and strong. And spandauer.’

Spandauer turned out to be a square pastry with turned up corners and a jammy red middle, the glistening buttery edges as delicious as they looked when I took the first crumbly mouthful and the strawberry jam bursting with sweetness.

‘Mmm,’ I groaned unable to help myself. ‘That is delicious. Everything’s been a bit of a rush this morning.’

‘Well now you can relax.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ I gave my watch a quick check. ‘I need to be back at the hotel to round everyone up in half an hour.’

‘Plenty of time.’

‘Don’t forget I’m the one working. The others are the guests. I’m on duty.’

‘Does that worry you?’ she asked rather too astutely to my mind.

I nodded.

‘Here put my number into your phone. You can always call me if you need anything, but I know you will be fine. And while you’re here, you’re not on duty. My son wanted you to experience the real Denmark, to relax and enjoy our Danish hospitality. For you and your journalists to see for yourselves why we keep being voted the happiest country in the world. I need to finish a few things but we can chat.’

She wandered over to check on the only other customers in the café, a middle-aged couple in one corner and a teenage boy plugged into his iPhone at the bar by the window.

I sipped at my coffee as she delivered pewter mini buckets of flowers to each table along with handwritten menus displayed in little A5 photo frames.

‘Those are cute,’ I touched the delicate glass photo frame on my table.

‘Flea markets again in England. People there throw so many things away.’ She held out another pretty etched silver photo frame. ‘In Denmark, we don’t buy as many things but we keep them for a very long time. And we like to buy very good design and high quality.’ She pointed upwards.

‘Lights are a big thing in Denmark.’ Above us were three large waterfalls of glass but around the edges of the room were lamps of varying height. ‘You will find that a student might buy a very expensive Paul Henningsen lamp for thousands of Kroner because it is important to have nice things in our homes but not lots of nice things.’

The couple beckoned her over, asking to pay their bill and I took advantage of Eva’s absence to pull out my phone to check my emails which were still flooding in as usual. Despite being out of the office for a full week, there was no chance of putting an out of office message on my email. I was still expected to be on call for my other clients and any press enquiries as usual. So much for relaxing.

I answered a few before Eva came back. ‘Tell me a little about yourself.’

My mind went blank. What did you tell a complete stranger? I had no idea where to start.

‘Well, I live in London. I work for a PR agency and Lars has asked us to help launch his department store.’ I ground to a halt and shrugged as she waited expectantly, gentle eyes watching me.

‘Not married. No children?’

‘No.’

‘A boyfriend, perhaps.’

I shuddered, thinking of Josh. ‘No. Not at the moment.’

‘Ah, there was one.’

‘Yes but … well I don’t really have time for one.’ And the most recent had been a gobshite. I didn’t think that would translate. ‘Work is … well my main focus at the moment.’

She stroked the petals on the flowers on the table. ‘Yes, but there is more to life than work. For a pretty young woman like you. Friends, family.’ Her eyes twinkled as she pulled at a few dead leaves, her head cocked like a cheeky robin.

‘My family live just outside London. I see them, of course. I have two brothers.’ And what would they make of Copenhagen? John went on lads’ holidays, the gruesome details of which seemed to involve copious quantities of cheap lager, clubbing until dawn and sleeping indiscriminately with available women. Brandon had been saving forever to go to a Star Wars convention in California, although him ever getting there was about as likely as a trip to the moon and Dad, well, he hadn’t been on holiday since Mum had died.

‘My mum died when I was fourteen,’ I blurted out. I rarely told people that and surprised myself by telling Eva. There was just something about her though. She was so warm and friendly.

‘That’s very sad.’

‘Yes, well it was a long time ago,’ I said reaching for my phone but when I picked it up I was reluctant to look at the screen under Eva’s careful scrutiny.

‘That’s hard for a young girl.’

I chased down a few flakes of pastry with the tip of my finger and nibbled at them to avoid looking at her.

‘The café is lovely. How long have you been running it?’

Eva smiled. ‘For six years. I started it not long after I split up from Lars’ father.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t know.’

‘Like you say it was a long time ago and I’m much happier.’ Her mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Anders is not Danish, well, he is but he spent too long in the US and London. He’s a workaholic.’

I frowned not quite understanding.

‘That’s not the Danish way. We do not live to work. I hoped when the children left that he would want to stop working so hard. We lived in London for many years and then when we came back to Copenhagen, I thought that he would slow down. That we would do more things together but he couldn’t let go. We had everything. A lovely house. Our children had grown up. It was time for us to be a couple but he is still in his office working and working and working. Life is short. Now I spend time with my friends.’ She rested her chin in her hands, exuding serenity and a confident sense of calm. She didn’t sound unhappy or regretful. ‘I have made a life here. Many of my customers have become friends. I have made something of my own but that I can share.’ Her face brightened. ‘I love to cook. Feed people. Look after them. I am very privileged to do this for the people of Copenhagen.’

I nodded. Each to their own. As far as I was concerned cooking was one massive chore, a necessary evil that entailed washing up and cleaning up and far too much of a waste of time. Thank God for the express supermarkets which made it much easier to do smash and grab style grocery shopping and buy ready-meals.

‘What sort of things do you like to cook?’ she asked.

Oops she’d taken the nodding as agreement. I froze and picked up my coffee gazing into it for inspiration.

‘Erm, well you know …’

She pinned me with a ‘gotcha’ grin which left me nowhere to go but fess up.

‘There’s never enough time. I work late and me and my flatmate are in at different times. There’s not much point in cooking for one.’

It was difficult to take offence at the amused disapproval in the quick shake of her head.

‘I think this trip to Copenhagen is just what you need, Katie.’

‘It’s Ka …’ I paused and changed my mind. The warmth in her voice softened my name reminding me of my mum. Suddenly there seemed a world of difference between a Kate and Katie.

Chapter 10

Being on a guided tour with everything organised for you was, I decided, a rare luxury. Our first walk took us to the Little Mermaid, considerably smaller than I was expecting – despite the clue in the name! Then on to the royal palace at Amalieburg, actually four palaces arranged around a square, with soldiers who looked remarkably like our own Queen’s guard in their traditional bearskins with dark navy tunics instead of our red ones. Mads got very excited when he spotted the Danish flag flying over one of the palaces, a sign that Margrethe, as if she were a neighbour rather than the Queen, was in residence.

He grinned. ‘Our royal family is very popular and Margrethe is famous for being an unrepentant die-hard smoker, even in public.’

Clearly with no sign of the queen popping out for a quick fag round the back of the recycling shed (the Danes are big on recycling), we gave up queen spotting and headed for lunch at Ida Davidsen, a family run restaurant concern ‘crazy for’ the typical Danish open sandwiches, smorrobrod.

Sophie made Mads say the word five times before she was happy with her own attempt. He explained that Danish pronunciation was very difficult for foreigners as the Danish alphabet has 29 letters, the ø, å, æ all being separate letters with a distinct and very subtle vowel sound that was very difficult for people to reproduce.

I fell into step next to her as we headed for lunch.

‘I’m so looking forward to this. Open sandwiches here are amazing. I can’t wait to try them.’ She paused and gave my arm squeeze. ‘Thank you so much Kate for inviting me. This is going to be such an amazing trip.’ She beamed at me so warmly I smiled back.

‘My pleasure. I’m so glad you could come. And you genuinely wanted to come.’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘I had a devil of a job persuading some people.’

Everyone but Ben had been asking lots of questions. He’d spent more time on his phone and several times I’d caught him yawning as if bored. He could at least make some effort.

‘Really? I can’t believe that,’ said Sophie looking round at the others. ‘Who wouldn’t want to spend five days in Copenhagen instead of being at work? Although, it is a pretty mixed bunch you’ve ended up with. David’s lovely. I’ve been on a trip with him before. Easy going. You’ll have no trouble with him. Avril and Conrad, I’m not so sure. And Ben, I don’t know at all, but he’s a bit of a hottie, isn’t he?’ She waggled her fair eyebrows in a woeful attempt at lechery.

I shrugged as if far too professional to comment. If only she knew. I was ready to strangle him. He’d made sod all effort to join in, constantly tapping away on his phone like a recalcitrant teenager and yawning when he thought no one was looking. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help watching him, constantly trying to gauge his reactions, which so far hadn’t seemed that positive.

‘Good job I’m all loved up with James.’

‘Your boyfriend?’ I seized on the change of subject. I didn’t want to think about or discuss Ben, especially not regarding the subject of hotness.

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘He’s pretty lovely.’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Nearly two years.’ She hugged herself and glanced at me. ‘I’m hoping he might pop the question soon.’

‘Are you living together?’ I asked.

‘Sort of, that’s the only difficulty. His mother is quite ill, so he works in London four days a week and then goes back to Cornwall on a Thursday to look after her. Honestly the care system is crap. You can’t get carers over the weekend. It makes things a bit trickier but I keep thinking that if I can freelance one day we could both move down there. I don’t want to live in London for ever. What about you? You with anyone?’

I was about to tell her about Josh but caught Ben giving me one of his usual glacial glares, in sharp contrast to the warm looks the first time I met him.

My lip curled. ‘No, I was. But I’m off men for the foreseeable future.’

The restaurant looked unassuming from the outside, almost like the front of someone’s home but inside had that stylish Danish design look that was quickly becoming apparent was part of the Danish psyche. Dark wood tables and chairs were arranged in neat order while the white painted walls were full of photos of famous patrons, cartoons and several of a very smiley Ida Davidsen, who was very much a real person.

Who knew that the humble sandwich could be such a work of art? The menu featured over 250 and we were urged to go and check out the rainbow display in the cabinet. It was so utterly mouth-watering, I wanted one of everything.

Piled on the dark rye bread were rows of thick juicy pink prawns, the deep amber of smoked salmon in rolls with black fish roe and wedges of sunshine yellow lemon sprinkled with dill, ripples of rare roast beef decorated with delicate shavings of pale cucumber and rolled herring encircled by quartered eggs, chopped chives and long slivers of spring onion.

Sophie was in seventh, eighth and ninth heaven. ‘I think I might have to stay here forever. How on earth do you choose?’

‘My stomach thinks it’s died and gone to heaven,’ said Conrad, pulling out a pair of glasses and studying the display.

‘I’m not even sure what half of this is?’ said Ben.

‘That’s slices of pork,’ said Sophie pointing. ‘That’s …’

She was very knowledgeable as you would expect from a food writer.

‘Gosh, they look pretty calorie heavy,’ said Avril, rubbing at her none-existent stomach. ‘I don’t want to go home the size of a house.’

Looking at her skeletal tiny frame, going home the size of a normal person would be quite a feat.

‘Can we order some extra?’ asked Sophie as everyone mused out loud about what they might choose when we sat down at our table, which had been reserved. The place was almost full, it was very popular. ‘Everyone needs to try something new.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure that I fancy pickled herring, thank you very much,’ said Avril turning up her patrician nose as she read the menu.

‘Ah, but you must for your food education. What if you discovered you loved it?’ said Sophie waving her hands towards the displays.

Avril winced and went back to her menu.

‘There are some amazing ideas here. I think I can do a whole recipe feature on open sandwiches for the magazine.’

‘That would be good,’ I said, my brain clicking into action. ‘Maybe you could do a cookery demonstration, a reader event for the magazine at the store.’

‘Won’t it have a café or restaurant?’

‘No, apparently that’s a very English thing.’

‘Shame, but I’m sure we could definitely do a cookery demo,’ said Sophie, bubbling with immediate enthusiasm. ‘My editor would love that. We’re always looking for subscriber events. I could talk about the types of bread. Rye bread. The toppings, traditional and modern twists. Pickled herring and somersalat, smoked cheese and radish, corned beef and Danish pickles.’

‘Sounds great. And we could tweet about it. Take lots of pictures and run them on Instagram.’

‘And Facebook,’ Sophie chipped in.

I whipped out my notebook.

‘God, do you ever switch off?’ asked Ben from across the table. For most of the morning he’d had little to say and seemed far more interested in his phone. As soon as we’d sat down he’d asked the waitress for the WiFi code.

‘It’s my job,’ I said pointedly. Since we’d arrived he’d barely joined in, focussing on his own emails.

‘Some job,’ he muttered, going back to his phone again.

The group dynamic splintered into two main conversations, Sophie, David and I chatting with Mads, while Conrad and Avril had discovered a rich vein of gossip about an editor they both knew on a celebrity gossip magazine. Fiona scuttled around the table when we’d arrived, selecting the furthermost chair, tucked back in the shadows as if hoping to fade into them. She sat fiddling with her camera and I wasn’t sure how to involve her without blatantly pointing out her isolation.

Ben seemed equally reticent but at that moment, looked up and caught me surreptitiously studying him.

He straightened and leaned across the table and spoke to Fiona.

‘Any good shots?’

Her head lifted with her usual startled fawn look of alarm and she froze for a second.

But the others were busy talking, so she handed her camera over to Ben. Head bent he pored over the images, holding the camera between careful fingers, nodding every now and then.

‘These are great, Fiona,’ he said quietly about to hand the camera back but unfortunately Avril heard him.

‘Oooh let’s have a look.’

I saw the pained expression on Fiona’s face and the apologetic one on Ben’s as everyone crowded around behind his chair for a closer look.

‘Wow, these are really quite good,’ said Avril. ‘Great shot of the Little Mermaid. I love that picture of the palace in the foreground and the sea in the background. I took one and posted it on Twitter but it’s nowhere near as good as that one.’

Ben scrolled through them. ‘I’m not sure about that one,’ he teased pausing at a blurry shot of David and Conrad in front of one of the soldiers outside the palace.

‘For the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, please delete that shocker. I look like a geriatric drag queen after a nine-day bender,’ drawled Conrad with dramatic weariness. Instead of ducking her head and blushing, Fiona let out a small giggle.

‘I’ll delete that one for you.’

‘I should bloody well hope so,’ said Conrad. ‘Any chance of a glass of wine with lunch? I’ve built up a rare thirst.’

Ben passed the camera down to Sophie and I who were on the opposite side of the table and we flipped through the digital shots. Fiona was a very talented photographer. She’d captured a few of the group and I was struck by the pictures of Avril. No wonder she thought they were so good; she looked like some Hollywood starlet, although clearly conscious of the camera as there was a posed quality to a lot of the shots. There was one exception. It had been taken while we were at the Little Mermaid statue and Avril was gazing out beyond the statue to sea, lost in thought. Fiona had captured Avril bathed in a sunbeam, totally unaware of being photographed, her beautiful face filled with haunting sadness and her hunched shoulders bowed as if they carried the weight of the world. It was so different to the face she normally let the world see, it made me wonder what was on her mind.

When I handed back the camera to Fiona, she tucked it away, her face pink with pleasure.

‘I think you might just have got yourself a job as official photographer,’ I said. ‘I wonder if we might buy some of them for the campaign.’

‘No, I’ll send them to you.’

‘No,’ interjected Ben, shooting me an unfriendly scowl, ‘You charge for them. They’re bloody good and it’s business. You own the copyright. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you.’

Everyone was diverted by the arrival of the coffee and I gave into temptation and kicked him under the table, not quite as hard as I would have liked to.

I glared at him and said in a low voice ‘I offered to buy them.’

‘Touchy, aren’t we?’ His superior smile wound me up even more.

‘I didn’t like the insinuation that I might take advantage.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’

I rolled my eyes at him. ‘God, you’re like a dog with a bone. Bear a grudge much? When are you going to let it go?’

He grinned like a small boy in the playground, which is exactly how he was bloody behaving.

‘Never?’

‘Guys, what’s everyone having?’ asked Sophie in an overloud voice as the very pretty Danish waitress finally came to take our order.

Sophie waved her fork at me. ‘Kate, this herring is delicious. Do you want to try some? Come on everyone, you’ve got to try something. It’s good for your food education.’

I had a feeling we were going to become well acquainted with that phrase over the next few days.

In the end, spoilt for choice, we’d ordered a selection to share, although Sophie insisted that everyone try the four types of herring despite their reservations.

Like everyone else, I didn’t fancy herring, not being a big fish lover but the expression of eager expectation on Sophie’s face, made me lead the charge and grab a fork to poke at the nearest thing on the plate, a piece of rye and caraway bread with a herring, carrot and ginger mix on top.

‘Wow,’ I said as the flavours hit my tastebuds with a satisfying zing, ‘That’s gorgeous.’ I went back for a second bite, eyeing the concoction with far more enthusiasm. ‘Really,’ I looked around at the others, ‘you should try it.’

Sophie beamed like a proud mama as everyone else, even Avril, took forkfuls from the dishes she’d pushed into the middle of the table.

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