The Little Café in Copenhagen

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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: 2020-01-23

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?’