by Julie Caplin
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 Stree
t, 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.’
