The Little Café in Copenhagen. Julie Caplin
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.’
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