And how have I got into this mess? Oh, where to start? Being in Denmark for one. I mean, who knows where Denmark even is? Not me. I had to Google it. But only after I'd accepted the job. Not smart, right? Just desperate. Desperate to get away. My mum is telling everyone that I am here furthering my career, reshaping the design team in the Scandinavian office. My friends are telling everyone I'm having an adventure. The truth of the matter is that I'm hiding. Hiding from my humiliation, from seeing him, bumping into him, hearing about him, having to speak to him, all of that. And the humiliation bit again.
I thought the year’s secondment to the Copenhagen office was a godsend, grabbing it immediately. My bosses admired my decisiveness and commitment to the company. Bless them. Clueless. We shook on it and everything. And then I sprinted back to my desk to work out what I had just agreed to. An eye for layout design? Yes. A brain for clear thinking? Not so much. All I heard was a chance to disappear, to be invisible… Unlike my boobs at this precise moment in time here in Skagen.
After two months’ hard slog, I’d needed a weekend away.
‘Skagen!’ raved my colleagues, Helle and Søren, or ‘Skay-en!’ rather, as they pronounce it.
‘It’s the place to go in the summer, Affie,’ said Søren. ‘Anyone who’s anyone goes and the yachties sail in from Norway and Sweden every weekend, so the place is bouncing.’
I wasn’t looking for a wild weekend – I'm definitely not on the pull or anything. No chance – but a bit of life sounded good.
My days of holiday romances are over. FACT. After two failed holiday-born relationships, I’ve learnt that they aren’t lucky for me. The first guy, during my gap year, serenaded me right the way around the world. I thought I’d be arriving home engaged, until he ditched me at the last minute – in Paris no less – for an Aussie with a huge mouth and a fresh round-the-world ticket. The second? We met four years later at the Palio in Sienna, and it wasn’t just the horses that were racing into things at breakneck speed. I guess I was distracted by the romance and the excitement. I didn’t see that he had his eye on other prizes. In future I’ll be going the online route. I’ll want full CVs, future projections and personal statements before I venture out again. Or I'll date someone from work so I've seen their scruples in action. I'm not gambling my heart on a holiday fling again. No way, no day.
So having arrived in Skagen last night, the receptionist at Brøndums Hotel suggested I head out to Grenen this afternoon, to where the two seas do their colliding thing. She also mentioned the ‘foot in each sea’ scenario, which all the tourists were busy doing, shoes in their hands, taking pictures of their families and partners. Only I went a bit further out to hide the fact that no one was taking my picture, and then got ambushed by two huge waves. Hence the wet cotton and the hasty retreat to the sand dunes, red faced and over-exposed. So much for being invisible.
I'm not sure whose jaw drops furthest– his or mine. I am puffing like an unfit knacker having stormed over the top of the dune, and I just hadn’t expected to see anyone there, least of all this guy, open-shirted, with his sketch pad and bottle of beer. I'm guessing that he wasn’t expecting to be virtually flashed by a random stranger.
I've been pumping my arms back and forth up the incline, but now I slap them across my chest.
‘Um… Sorry… Undskyld…’ I start, because I am a Brit after all, and obliged to apologise for everything.
‘No… No…’ he blusters and gets up. He politely keeps his eyes on my face, but I think he’s struggling, which makes me clamp one arm closer to my chest as I use the other hand to pull the clinging fabric away from my lower half. ‘Please. You need to get dry?’ I nod. ‘It is warm here in the… We call this a gryde… a hollow. Sit in the sun, you will be quickly dry.’
I'm still gobsmacked. I think he misinterprets this as reticence, rather than the mortification that it simply is.
‘I'll look the other way,’ he promises. ‘I am drawing this view.’ He waves his hand out over the grassy dunes, and the North Sea beyond. There are gulls on the shoreline and shipping traffic on the horizon. I'd be tempted to have a go at it myself, if it wasn’t for, you know, the immediate flashing issue. It seems churlish and rude to leave, when we both know I'll only have to pick another dune a little further along. Argh, why is he here? Unlucky or what? Am I some sort of humiliation magnet?
‘I have a beer for you,’ he offers, briefly looking back, his face earnest. Tanned, lightly stubbled and adorably earnest.
‘In England we warn people against strangers offering alcohol.’ For a second he looks surprised, and then a cheeky smirk spreads across that face. Did I mention it was a lovely face?
‘In Denmark too,’ he nods, ‘but you need it for medicinal purposes.’
‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask, cocking my head at him. He doesn’t look like any doctor I’ve ever consulted. Not unless you count that one on Embarrassing Bodies, who, now that I think of it, is of Danish extraction too.
‘No,’ he shakes his head, ‘but my next door neighbour is, so it’s close enough, and I can see you are in shock.’
Suddenly I’m the embarrassed body again. I drop down onto the sand, resigned to sharing his gryde. It is warmer here, the depth of the hollow sheltering us from the sea breeze. It has been a long day, with lots of cycling, and sitting with a cold beer actually sounds dreamy. I arrange my dress so that the air can get to it. Still facing away, he digs a brown bottle out of his cool-box, and loosens the cap before handing it to me.
‘Thank you and Skål,’ I say, knocking back a deep, long, wonderfully chilled swig. I can see his eyebrow rise at the side of his face.
‘Your pronunciation is good.’
‘Should be. It’s one of the few Danish words I get to say. That, Go'morgen and Tak.’ I lean back against the sand. The sun is on my face and it is glorious. ‘I'm working in Copenhagen for the year and everyone speaks English to me. ‘Good morning’ and ‘Thanks’ are all I can get in.’
‘Skål,’ he returns, bobbing his bottle at me. ‘I'm Anders, by the way.’
‘Affie,’ I supply and take another swig. Judging by the Skagen Bryghus label it is the local brew. It’s good. Cold and refreshing.
‘Affie? I haven’t heard this name before.’
‘Well, it is a nickname,’ I confess. ‘It’s short for, um, Aphrodite. My mother, aside from obviously being cruel, is obsessed with mythology, fantasy and superstitions.’ I don’t know why I am telling him this. I never tell people this. Maybe it is the beer, which is going down very easily, or that I have already virtually flashed him so I haven’t much else to hide.
‘Ah, so you are a love g—’ he starts.
‘Don’t. Just don’t,’ I cut him off with a groan. Goddess of Love Disasters, more like. ‘It’s a curse.’
I know he is grinning by the way his cheek moves. I throw the bottle cap at his back and I hear him chuckle. But he doesn’t turn around. He keeps his word.
He starts sketching again, and we fall into a comfortable silence. The gulls screeching, the murmur of the waves and the scratch of the pencil on the paper fill the void.
I wish I'd brought my own sketch book now. I'd sketch him sketching. He looks like summer; sun-kissed skin like he's been out here every day, unruly blond Scandi hair and a light smattering of freckles that start on the apple of his cheek which is just visible from here. The beard is more five-day than five o’clock shadow. I know his eyes are blue from when we were first gaping at each other. The same blue as the sky here, which has this special warm hue that everyone keeps talking about. His white shirt is crumpled, his khaki shorts equally so and his Nike Air Jesus sandals are well worn. It’s like he just rolled out of his suitcase. It suits him.
Eventually he asks me what I'm doing in Copenhagen and I explain about the design department being restructured.
‘I live in Copenhagen too,’ he says, ‘but I come here for the summer. I’m an illustrator. A cartoonist for the magazines and papers. I can do this
from anywhere.’
‘Lucky,’ I say, and he is, because living here for the full summer must be fabulous. There’s sea, sandy beaches and surprisingly hot weather considering we are level with Aberdeen.
‘Are you here alone, Affie?’ he asks. It doesn’t sound like a loaded question.
‘Yup,’ I say, draining the last of my bottle. Instinctively, he opens two more for us.
‘Ah, your boyfriend is still in England this year?’
‘No boyfriend.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Nope. Not one of those either. I’m sort of in a no-dating phase. Or at least not while I’m abroad, or on holiday.’
His pencil hesitates on the paper.
‘How come?’
‘I have a record of failed holiday relationships, and this last one I thought was the real deal and it wasn’t.’
Though the sky is clear, it feels like a cloud has passed over me.
‘He’s history,’ I mutter, before he can ask. But I know it isn’t true. He is very much my present, or the way he has made me feel is very much the present. I take another glug of the beer as it seems to numb that part of my thinking.
‘Affie?’
I realise I've been festering in my mardy thoughts. ‘Sorry?’
‘You seem sad. What happened?’
‘We met on holiday in Italy and for a year he was my boyfriend, and then he became someone else’s boyfriend but forgot to tell me, because he was greedy or arrogant or both.’ It is easier talking to his back. I don’t have to see the pity on his face. ‘And then when I found out, after everyone else knew, I gave him the choice–because I am that stupid and proud– and, well, he didn’t pick me. Roughly that.’
‘Ahh,’ he says, dipping his head slightly. I sense that he gets it.
‘But it’s OK,’ I say, eager to salvage a modicum of self-respect. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson. No more holiday relationships. They seem like serendipity, but really it’s all illusion.’
‘No exceptions?’
‘Nope,’ I state, determined. ‘I’m not taking the risk.’
He doesn’t say anything, just whistles in a way that indicates he thinks I’m taking a tough stand. Too right I am.
He keeps sketching, not remotely bothered by my being there, still not peeking. But the sun has done its job and my dress is almost dry. And I have to say that from a disastrous start, this afternoon has turned out unexpectedly pleasant. Finishing my beer I check myself and figure that I am good to go.
‘Thanks for the beer and the privacy.’ Finally he looks at me. And I mean looks. He totally checks me out, up and down. I can feel myself flushing and it isn’t just because I am light-headed in the sun.
‘You are dry,’ he nods with an approving smile. ‘Not transparent anymore.’ Oh. Not so much checking me out as checking me over for decency.
‘I am,’ I bluster, ‘so I'll be off.’
‘You are welcome to stay,’ he says easily. ‘Sunbathe.’
‘Thanks, but I only have the weekend and I believe there’s still lots to see.’
‘There is,’ he agrees, ‘you should have taken a week.’
‘Bye, Anders,’ I say, heading over the lip of the dune. It is hard to descend in sand and soon I’m skidding not so elegantly down it. The ground keeps falling away under my feet and I can’t keep up with it. There is no way to make this look good.
‘Affie!’
He's standing on the top of the dune, a hand shielding his eyes so he can see me. Hands on hips, I try to keep my balance and poise, but the sand shifts and I stumble backwards, losing all credibility.
‘It is St Hans’ Eve tonight. A midsummer festival. There will be bonfires.’ I cock my head to one side, waiting. ‘There is a large one by Vippefyret, the old lighthouse. You should see it.’
Yeah right. I'll look stupid at a bonfire by myself.
‘Where are you staying?’ he continues.
‘Brøndums.’
‘I'll collect you at eight.’ It sounds like a date and I don’t know how to nip that idea in the bud without being rude. ‘Consider it guided sight-seeing, Affie. It’s not a date.’
‘Um… OK then.’ That sounds safe enough. Plus what would I be doing otherwise? Sitting in my room reading about midsummer celebrations when I could be experiencing them.
I walk into the reception bang on eight. He’s already there, chatting to Leila the receptionist like they are old friends. He's still in the same clothes, with the addition of a navy knitted jumper thrown over his shoulders. I ditched the sundress as soon as I got back, in favour of jeans and a strappy top. It's warm out, but I have a cardy with me. It’s all good. Perfectly relaxed. Nothing about this smacks remotely of date.
‘We'll take my bike,’ he says, holding the door open for me. I'm not sure what that means but I head out. He unlocks an ancient racing-green bike with a wire basket on the pannier rack, which contains a bottle of bubbly, a brown paper bag bearing the name of the butcher-deli around the corner, some plastic cups and a couple of fleece blankets.
‘Get on,’ he says, swinging his leg over the bar and readying himself on the seat.
‘Where?’ I don’t get it. He's not offering me a croggie on the back, as the pannier rack is taken. For which I’m mighty thankful. I've already experienced travelling on the back of a bike in Copenhagen and that’s only something you do when your bum is numbed by drink, and I guarantee you’ll vow never to do it again the morning after when you’re walking like John Wayne.
‘Sit on the handle bars,’ he instructs.
‘No way.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s not legal,’ I bluff.
‘Hop on,’ he insists, ignoring my law-abidingness.
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m scared,’ I mutter.
‘I've been riding this bike since I was fifteen, Affie. Trust me. I'm very careful and I’ll go slow,’ he says.
‘Ha! The guy who I lost my virginity to said the very same thing,’ I snipe.
He laughs, then like the flick of a switch his face becomes stern. ‘Affie, get on the bike or the bonfire will be lit and the singing will be over.’
‘Singing? You didn’t mention singing.’
‘Danes love singing. I can’t stop it, but I can get some drink in us before it starts, if you will just get on the bike.’
A couple of minutes later I am squealing with delight as he races along the cycle path through town, past all the yellow painted houses with their red tile roofs, past the white picket fences and gardens of hollyhocks, wild roses and hydrangeas. There is something exhilarating about the wind rushing through your hair and hanging on for dear life under someone else's steam. It feels like an act of generosity and care and lunacy all at the same time.
Considering he’s done all the work, I seem to be the more breathless when we come to a stop at an area of open land, where the old seesaw-style lighthouse sits on a small hill. Given it is midsummer, it’s dusky but still remarkably light, so beyond it I can see a huge bonfire. There are many people milling around it and the evening air is full of chatter.
Anders balances the bike between his legs and waits for me to get down, but I falter. My hands won’t release their grip from the handle bar. I guess I should launch myself or spring off or something, but that just has FAIL written all over it.
‘Need some help, Affie?’
‘Please,’ I mutter, annoyed that I can’t do this. And then I’m immediately self-conscious as I feel his hands on my hips. They are large, warm and strong, carefully lifting me down. I duck my head to shield my blushing, busying myself with my phone before snapping some pictures. Anders locks the bike without his eyes leaving my face, amusement dancing in them.
God, he is gorgeous. Totally delectable.
I know that pull in the pit of my belly. I know the way that my skin feels at the touch of someone I am madly attracted to. Anders is smoking hot, and I was stupid thinking I could come out t
onight and be unaffected. But see, I have been here before and I know that it is just fantasy. A befuddlement. Holidays do that to me. I lose all ability to judge with any degree of sensibility.
There’s a tug on my sleeve and then I am being led across the straw-like grass towards the bonfire. As we get into the denser crowd, his hand takes mine and I am almost a puddle on the floor, while klaxons sound in alarm in my head.
We make it past the bonfire to the edge of the beach, where he stops at a small group already settled on the ground.
‘Hej Anders,’ they all chime in this suggestive way they have over here. It sounds like they know a secret about you, and they are pleased to see you because of it. They register our hands, though they don’t comment.
He introduces me and we sit side by side, arms touching, as the bonfire is lit. Anders cracks the bottle of champagne to a cheer from the others and pours me a cupful. I have to say this beats Guy Fawkes night. The air is balmy, the lapping of the waves is calming, and the atmosphere around us is cosy yet charged. The champagne helps too. Beat that, Bovril!
Anders picks something off the ground and flips it in the air. It’s a Danish 50 øre, the smallest of their coins.
‘A lucky penny,’ I say. He arches his brow. ‘Um…“see a penny pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck”? No?’ Judging by his face, that’s not a saying over here. Huh.
‘I’ve already had a lucky day,’ he says, and slides it into the top of my jeans pocket with the tip of his finger. Oh lordy. There’s that pull again and I’m flushing.
And then the singing starts, diverting our attention. Everyone knows the words to this folksong but instead of being cringey, the warmth, pride and community of it spreads across the air with the gathering heat of the flames. It makes me feel quite emotional and I’m so glad he’s brought me. I turn back to smile at him.
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 30