The Little Cafe in Copenhagen

by Julie Caplin

  ‘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 desert.

  ‘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.’
r />   ‘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.