The Little Café in Copenhagen. Julie Caplin
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 …
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 calla 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