by Hannah Doyle
Becky’s busy organising the shit out of everyone, not a whiff of hangover about her person, while I set up with the help of. . . A PHOTOGRAPHER’S ASSISTANT. That’s right! I actually have one of those! The guys at Jump thought I’d need some help being all brilliant and professional and I’ve got to say, I could get used to this. No scrambling around rigging up umbrellas and cabling for me. Though I can’t help but get involved with it all anyway. This already feels like my baby and I want to be involved with every single process.
Your average bang tidy Danish person walks past and I chuckle under my breath. ‘Let me guess, the caterer? Or maybe here to clean the windows? Do some street-cleaning?’
Hunky Danish Man turns to me and blinks.
‘Excuse me?’
Shitting shit, I forgot that these Scandinavians speak better English than we do. Thankfully a broad smile is spreading across his face as he adds, ‘The famous British sense of humour. Hello. My name is Harold but everyone calls me Harry. I work with Jump.’
‘Absolutely,’ I nod, hoping that my cheeks aren’t as bright red as they feel right now. ‘Ha ha, we Brits do love a joke!’
‘Jasmine,’ puffs Becky, who’s been running towards us in slow-mo since she saw Harry coming over. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve met Harry, Jump’s CEO.’
CEO?
C. E. Oh.
Did I just. . .? Yup, pretty sure I just suggested that the CEO of Jump was a street-cleaner.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry,’ I hold out my hand. ‘Your brand is just gorgeous. I’m excited to work with you this week.’
Becky looks as relived as I feel. No more Waffle Express for me! Just some stone- cold professionalism.
‘Great,’ he grins. ‘Let’s get started.’
Back at my hotel after a long day, I’m flicking through the shots on my laptop. The people modelling Jump’s new collection didn’t intimidate me nearly as much as models normally do, which I have Denmark and its abundance of beautiful people to thank for. I’m really pleased with the photos so far, they’re slightly soft with an almost seventies vibe which seems to make the knitwear pop. Not sharp and super crisp like the ones I take for Violet. Just glorious-looking people wearing the coolest outfits. I can already picture them cropped and ready for social media and I think / hope that they’re going to do well.
I curl my feet up under me and click into my emails. Photographer Dave has replied. I cast around for something else to do and then decide to stop being a knob a see what he has to say.
From: Photographer Dave
Subject: I’m so good looking
Jasmine
Thanks for sending over the shots from the night we watched the sun set. Here are my thoughts. . . Obviously my incredibly handsome face helps a lot. Being so beautiful is like a gift. However, I’m also truly impressed with how you managed to capture my profile. The setting sun, the fact that I didn’t know you were taking them, and also your natural talent have made something genuinely superb.
How would you feel about me using one as my profile photo for the new book? You’d get paid and a photographer credit in the book, of course. I’ll have my agent come to you with all the details if you’re happy with that.
Thanks,
Dave.
Well blow me down. This has got me like the dancing lady emoji and I’m just bursting with pride as I crack on with some more personal admin. Ben wants to talk when I get back from Denmark BARF BARF BARF. Violet’s sent me a string of messages. . .
‘Come back!’ ‘I need help!’ ‘Chip’s dead to me.’ ‘I think I’m going to give Chip a second chance.’ ‘Hashtag tighty whitie is trending.’ ‘Can you order me a town car for tonight?’ ‘Oops soz forgot you were away.’ ‘A magazine want to interview me about my romance with Chip! #Madeit #soblessed’ And so it goes on. Finally, at the end of a brilliant day, I slip into my PJs and close my tired eyes.
This shoot concept really is making my life easy. ‘Make the most of the brand!’ said Harry. ‘Make sure everyone looks super happy!’ said Mads. ‘It’s all about the lifestyle!’ added Tula. Well, the brand has created the most beautiful jumpers and all the models are super happy because they live in this ridiculous place of wonder. Still, I’m working my ass off to make the pictures as good as I can and as we wrap up day three, the final day of our shoot, I’m feeling quietly confident that we have loads of good material to work with. Becky’s so pleased that she’s ordered schnapps for everyone at a bar by the harbour where we’ve been shooting.
I feel sad that the shoot is over so soon but holy moly, what a ride it has been. I’m buzzing from the week and not yet ready to admit that I’m going home, and back to reality, tomorrow. For once an entire, plan-free evening stretches ahead of me. I could a) go back to my hotel and get an early night, b) drink all the drinks with Becky or c) get the chuff on with my love quest. It’s been a while since my last date and do you know what, I’ve missed it! Feeling surprisingly confident, I resolve to get proactive. Date number six needs to happen and this little pumpkin’s off to find it! No more waiting for things to happen by chance. No more reluctant dating outside the box. I’m going all in! And I know exactly who I’m going to ask out, too.
‘Hello,’ I smile, drawing up next to Harry. He is a classic Scandinavian dish. He’s so fair-haired I can barely see his eyebrows, he’s got blue eyes and sure, he’s also tall and blessed with a fancy job circa my original type on paper, but I’m pretty sure Mila would approve.
‘Jasmine, thank you. I think we’ve got some fantastic photos and you really captured the brand.’
‘It’s amazing to hear that,’ I beam, filled up with pride. Now, how do I steer us off topic? Could I maybe inject some sexy anger into proceedings? Or I could just be myself. ‘I was wondering. . . I’m here for one more night before my flight home. Do you fancy joining me for a date?’
Harry looks at me for what seems like an age. My resolve is fading fast. Maybe he’s still not over the fact that I called him a street-cleaner but a few days ago.
‘Sure. How about tonight? Some friends are having a BBQ and I’d love for you to come.’
Son of Zeus, I just bagged me a Danish date.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Date Six: Hot DAMN, Harry!
A bank holiday heatwave! Everyone bring a dish! Let’s have Pimm’s even though we all secretly hate it! Plans in place, you spend a good few days dreaming about sausages and grilled halloumi before the day arrives, the weather takes a turn and some poor fool bravely battles a gale-force wind to present soggy burgers while the rest of the gang get pissed on boxed wine inside. At least, that’s how most of the BBQs I’ve been to back home have turned out, wbu?
The Danish BBQ is a little different. I’m in the middle of a forest, the sun still high in the sky even though it’s getting late. A table laden with salads, rye breads and quite a lot of potato-based foods has pulled in a crowd of people, rather than a swarm of angry wasps. There’s not a disposable BBQ or an incinerated sausage in sight. Instead Harry stands by a brick-built firepit expertly turning a huge slab of meat. A guy with a guitar plays a tune while a woman in a loose-fitting dress sings beautifully to the beat. The low hum of chatter fills the air and positively no one is wearing a slogan apron with the words ‘burning bangers since 2009’ on it.
It is bliss.
I’m chatting to a bunch of obviously beautiful people and secretly wondering if I could just move here full stop. Everyone seems so happy, so at ease in their skin, it’s infectious. One girl is telling me all about her own love of photography and we’re flicking through her Instagram when Harry comes over, handing me a plate of ribs and whispering, ‘Let’s go somewhere more quiet.’
‘Okay!’ That was too keen but we’re all going to have to deal with it. Somewhere more quiet with broad, blond Harry sounds even more delicious than my plate of food looks. He leads me through the trees to a hidden lake and we walk to the end of a jetty, letting our feet hang off the side, toes dip
ped in the cool water.
I tackle my ribs while Harry tells me more about how he started up Jump. How he had no idea that the brand would be such a success across Scandinavia. How he didn’t expect to have done so well by his mid-twenties. How it’s meant that he can donate money to charity and set up his own foundation, promoting the use of recycled products in fashion. How he doesn’t believe in what-ifs, or regrets, because life should be about looking forward, not glancing back. Everything he says is with modesty and I listen in silence, completely impressed by his attitude, his ambition and also his abs. I can see them poking through his t-shirt and I’m trying not to stare, because had I realised quite how hot damn fine Harry is, I don’t think I’d have plucked up the courage to ask him out.
Worried that I’m already a plate of ribs down, I start chatting away about myself to give him the chance to tuck in, but after a couple of bites of rib and one solitary new potato, he puts his plate back down.
‘Are you not eating that?’
‘I’ve been working to a new food philosophy recently. Eat until you are 80 per cent full. There’s a place in Japan where people do just that and they all live until they’re over a hundred.’
‘Wow, that’s really playing the long game,’ I scooch towards Harry and his discarded plate. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course not! You know your own macros.’
I pause mid-bite. I’m not entirely sure what a macro is. Violet banged on about them for a while, something to do with finding the perfect carb to fat balance? Tbh I spent a lot of those conversations dreaming about glazed donuts. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to look after yourself, but there’s a spare rib winking at me right now and I’ll be damned if some macro maths is going to come between us.
‘Yeah. . . no. I’m just not that disciplined,’ I say to Harry.
He licks the last of his food from his fingers while he smiles at me and I realise that said spare rib is now almost falling from my grip. I’m mesmerised by Harry’s hotness. His butter blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, stubble frames his jawline. This is exactly the kind of description I’d have avoided in a date just a month or two ago. A ponytail!! Only, this Norse superhuman has got my heart pounding, loud. I let go of my (his) food and throw caution to the wind, burrowing into his broad body. He stretches his arm around me and we fall silent, watching the lake, listening to the hum of happy BBQ chatter wisping around our ears in the gentle breeze.
‘Do you fancy a swim?’ Harry asks after a while.
‘I didn’t bring any swimwear.’
‘You don’t need any swimwear.’ His eyes fire hot-ass lightning bolts in my direction.
‘You want to swim naked?’ My voice has gone terribly British.
‘Sure,’ he replies like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. I watch as Harry starts peeling off his top. The belt is being unbuckled. The shorts are coming off. I’m sitting on a jetty with the remnants of spare rib smeared around my chops staring at the most sculpted man-god I have ever seen strip off. He is naked. I can see everything, you guys. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. I pretend to stare wistfully off into the distance while, out of the corner of my eye, I watch Harry taking a Tom-Daley-grade dive off the jetty and into the lake. He’s under there for ages and I scramble to the edge, peering into the water and hoping that he hasn’t got tangled up in some weeds. Or eaten by eels. Or any other naked swimming perils.
Suddenly his head breaks through the glistening water and he uses his hands to push his hair back from his face.
‘Come and join me. It’s amazing in here.’
So, apparently some aliens kidnapped Jasmine and replaced her with a CRAZY LUNATIC. I know this because I’m currently peeling off my own clothes with a smile on my face. I’ve lost my mind in Denmark. I’m butt naked on a jetty with a whole load of people just moments away. Obviously I didn’t wear matching underwear. Obviously I never did find time to sort out that heart-shaped bikini wax. Obviously I. . . am not even worried?!
Harry’s watching me from the water and it feels incredibly sexy. I generally consider getting naked a task that should be done with speed and under soft lighting. Candles ideal. Here it’s almost 11pm and through some kind of Scandi witchcraft the sun is still blazing down on my bare body and I’m not even self-conscious. I step over my discarded clothes. I ease into the water because diving definitely isn’t my forte and I haven’t completely lost control of my senses.
‘IT’S SO FUCKING COLD!’ I gasp.
I think I lost the sexiness?
Harry laughs, thankfully not put off by my expletives.
‘It’s so fucking amazing,’ he replies.
Mils, I can’t even speak. I just got naked with a hot Dane for date number six. HOT DAMN, HARRY! It was AMAZING. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sexy. We went skinny dipping! In a lake! He had a ponytail and I liked it!
Did you see his Danish pastry? (Winky face) She taps back instantly.
SMUT. Yes, I saw the whole Danish bakery.
ERMERGERRRDD sounds delicious! Score?
Oh, 77 / 7? Now how are you please?
I’m honestly good and I am not fobbing you off I promise. Let’s meet for drinks when you’re back?
Yes please xxx
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TREAT YO’SELF. That’s my new motto. Hot Damn, Harry suggested I treat myself to his naked bod half way through our swim and after swallowing half a litre of water in shock, I politely declined. Not because I didn’t fancy the pants off him (I did) or because I was worried about the logistics of sex in a lake (I was). Nope, I just decided to pass. I know. It’s one of those situations that I will look back on fondly for the rest of my life. Skinny dipping with a sexy Dane in the middle of a beautiful forest is not a normal kind of date for me but ever since I started testing the waters with anything but my old type, I’ve been opened up to a whole new world of experiences. Boffing Harry the CEO would have been pretty sweet but right now I feel happy to go at my own pace.
Instead, I’m treating myself to something even better. A night out with Mila! I’m so excited to catch up and do some proper bonding with my best girl tonight. I push the door open to our favourite bar, a brand new, polka dot red skirt swooshing at my legs. I bought lots of new things on that tipsy smash and grab around the shops with Becky in Copenhagen, which turns out to be the best way to shop. I love everything I bought, even if it means another month of beans and freezer toast beckons. So, get this, I don’t always wear jeans and a t-shirt anymore! Becky cajoled me into trying on shorts in CPH and after laughing at her a lot, I told her that my thighs are better off covered up. She shouted some obscenities at me, pushed me in the changing room and when I pulled a pair of white (WHITE!) cut-offs over my tush I was pleasantly surprised. My legs are pale and not-so-smooth but they’re also my legs. They shone brightly up at me, grateful to be seeing the light of day, and I decided there and then that they should bloody well get an airing. Tonight’s skirt has a slit up the side and my pins are back on display as I walk through the bar to find. . .
Ben.
BEN?!
I cast around for Mila but I can’t see her.
He looks as surprised as I feel.
‘Hello kiddo,’ he says with a quizzical look, taking a slow sip of beer.
‘Ben!’ I sound too cheery. ‘I didn’t know you were coming too.’
‘Too? I didn’t know you were coming full stop. Thought you were still in Denmark.’
We size each other up while I chuck my bag on the spare seat at our table.
Mila.
‘I was meant to be meeting Mils for a drink.’
‘Same.’
Our phones buzz at the exact same time with a message from. . . you guessed it.
‘Hey boo, sorry I can’t make it tonight, gotta work late, have fun!’ I read aloud. I don’t mention the six winky faces she tagged on to the end of the message.
‘Mine says
basically the same.’ Ben’s staring into his pint like he’d like to dive in there and never be seen again.
‘She’s done this on purpose!’
Ben nods. CRINGE. I feel utterly swamped in awkwardness and I hate to be like this around my best friend. Mila’s obviously trying to get us to talk things through but I don’t know where to start.
There’s only one thing for it. ‘Another drink?’ I suggest.
Beer is not the drink for me. There’s so much of it, for a start, and I’ve developed the hiccups. Ben and I have managed an almost normal conversation for the past forty minutes but it’s patently obvious that we need to address the big fat elephant in the room. Our friendship is so important to me and I’m actually terrified that we might cock it up. I chance a glance at Ben and see that he’s looking right back at me, but he averts his gaze the minute our eyes meet.
Ben is so very handsome. Short blond hair, expressive blue eyes, just a hint of beard around his strong, square jaw. His skin always tans in the summer and he’s got this amazing, happy smile that is never far from his lips. I’ve always seen this, of course, but it’s never properly registered before because he was my friend, full stop. Only now that full stop feels more like a dot dot dot. I think back to my chat with Charlie and how he had ‘no regrets’ for getting together with a friend of his. I should definitely say something. But then Charlie also said how difficult it had been for their mutual friends when they split up. So, probably I should say nothing at all. But what about Harry saying he doesn’t believe in what-ifs. WHAT IF I regret this for the rest of my life? What if Ben is the one?