The Copenhagen Affair

by Amulya Malladi

  “I met two women today,” she told him. “I even got their phone numbers. I think I made friends.”

  Harry nodded but didn’t ask about the friends. He was being so pleasant that Sanya decided to throw him a bone. “How are things at work?” she asked.

  If she had taken all her clothes off and said, “Take me, baby,” he wouldn’t have been more turned on than he was right now, Sanya knew. Talking business with her was better than sex for Harry. Though that didn’t say much these days because it had been a while since they’d had sex.

  “It seems to be taking forever for us to go through IT Foundry’s books,” Harry said.

  “Why?”

  Harry shrugged. “You can probably figure out the numbers better than I can, but our finance people just seem to have more and more questions.”

  Since Sanya had met Ravn, she had done research on IT Foundry and told Harry that everything she read said that the company was solid, reputable, and that Ravn was hailed as a top CEO for what he had achieved with it.

  “Maybe you want to look at the numbers?” Harry suggested, and just as he did, Sanya shuttered down.

  Back to work, are we, she thought, annoyed. But that wasn’t what really irritated her. What bothered her was that Harry was tarnishing Ravn’s reputation, and she wondered if he was doing it because he knew she was attracted to him.

  Harry backtracked quickly. “But let’s not worry about that now; I’m sure once the accountants look through the paperwork, they’ll tell us what’s up and what’s down. Tell me about these women you met.”

  “Expats,” Sanya said, even though she wanted to scream at Harry for making Ravn the villain in her story when she so badly wanted him to be the hero. “They’re writers. I may see them again.”

  When they walked home, Harry put his arm around her, loosely, like he did this all the time. He was trying, she knew. Sanya wanted to applaud Harry for pulling his socks up and sticking to her, because a weaker man would’ve left her to stew in her own filth.

  She smiled suddenly and leaned into Harry as they walked. She did love Harry. Especially this Harry.

  Chapter 8

  Penny and Mark Make the Papers

  Mandy stifled a scream when she opened her morning newspaper. She immediately called Ravn at the office.

  “Have you seen the headlines? Did you know about this?” she demanded.

  “About what?” Ravn asked.

  She told him. There was a long pause, and then Ravn said calmly, “Yes, I knew. I’m a little busy right now; can we talk over dinner?”

  “But we’re having Penny and Mark over, and those Americans,” Mandy said.

  “Then you can take Penny away to show her your bag or shoes or something and ask her everything you want to know,” Ravn said, and then suddenly out of character, he burst out, “Those damn Americans are part of the fucking problem to start with.”

  “What? What did the Americans do? Are we in any trouble?” Mandy asked.

  “No,” Ravn said, calm again. “All companies get audited from time to time. Since Mark and Penny are co-owners of their individual companies, the media is having a field day. Can you please not be upset?”

  “So this is not serious?” Mandy asked naïvely.

  “Of course it’s serious. But nothing is going to . . . skat, I’m busy,” Ravn said.

  He said he loved her and then hung up the phone before she could ask more questions. But he had for the first time in a long while called her skat, “darling” in Danish, so she believed him. Strange, wasn’t it, that in Danish skat meant both “darling” and “taxes.”

  Mandy chewed on her lower lip as she read the article in Danish once again. Ravn joked that she didn’t speak any Danish, and her oral Danish was only conversational, but she could read just fine, and she understood everyone very, very well. She chose not to speak the language, but it was a choice.

  The headlines were simple:

  Penny and Mark Barrett charged with tax fraud.

  Penny Barrett, ex-supermodel and current designer and fashionista, and her husband, the real estate mogul Mark Barrett, might soon face prison time if the tax fraud charges against them are proven in court. Mark Barrett, who has sold some of the most expensive properties in all of Scandinavia, has some holes in his accounting, especially for some real estate deals in southern Sweden. The properties were leased out, and investigators are looking into whether Barrett did not pay taxes on the revenue.

  The new government is poised to hit hard on the fashion-forward couple.

  “No matter who you are, you have to pay your taxes in this country. We’re not Greece,” said Søren Pedersen, who, at twenty-six years of age, is the youngest appointed tax minister in the history of Denmark. “I, of course, cannot speak about this particular case, but we are looking into every case thoroughly, and we will inform the media as it becomes relevant.”

  The story went on to say that Penny was just as liable as Mark for the tax fraud. Both of them could end up in prison for a good five years.

  Oh god. This could happen. This could really happen.

  She would have to take care of the children, Mandy told herself. She didn’t like Penny’s children at all. Sophia and Annabelle, eleven and eight respectively, were spoiled within an inch of their lives and were miserable little divas—mini versions of Penny. If Penny and Mark went to prison, at least there would be an opportunity to show these girls how to behave properly. With Katrine and Jonas all grown up and disinterested in home (and their mother)—Jonas had even moved out and was living with a friend in Frederiksberg when he wasn’t traveling—Mandy had all the time in the world to raise Penny’s girls.

  “Have you read this?” Mandy asked Katrine as she came into the kitchen.

  Katrine, still in the T-shirt and shorts she wore to sleep in the summer, scanned the newspaper article. “Are they going to jail, you think?” she asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “I don’t know,” Mandy said. “Would you like some breakfast?” She looked at the kitchen clock. “Or maybe lunch.”

  “I’ll just have a sandwich,” Katrine said, and opened the fridge to find some milk for her coffee.

  “I don’t see Kristian anymore,” Mandy asked after Katrine’s boyfriend.

  “Kristian is backpacking in South America,” Katrine said, and then added calmly, as if she were unaffected, which she probably was, “with someone else.”

  Her father’s daughter, Mandy thought resentfully. No emotions.

  Katrine was interning at Danske Bank for her skip year between high school and university. She was already signed up for college at Copenhagen Business School. Mandy wished Jonas had the same energy, but, like too many Hellerup boys, her son was unsure of his future. He was working at a pizzeria to pay his bills, well, part of his bills, as Mandy, without the knowledge of her husband, was paying her son’s rent and his travel expenses when he took off with his friends for Nice or Ibiza or Thailand.

  “Do you have a new boyfriend?” Mandy asked Katrine.

  “No. Do I need one?” Katrine said, and put a wedge of a Serrano ham on a slice of dark rye bread. She made two open-faced sandwiches, one with ham and the other with a mild Danish cheese, and sat down at the kitchen counter next to her mother.

  Katrine wasn’t one to run away from a discussion, but she was also not one to reveal how she felt about anything. Both Jonas and Katrine had Scandinavian stoicism in their blood.

  “Are you having a dinner party?” Katrine asked. “I saw salmon steaks in the fridge.”

  “Yes, Penny and Mark and some Americans who’re here to buy Daddy’s company are coming over,” Mandy said. “Would you like to join us?”

  Katrine shrugged. “Maybe. Shouldn’t you be making something Danish for the Americans? You know, to introduce them to Danish cuisine.”

  Mandy cleared her throat. This is where she drew the line. “I want to keep it casual.”

  Katrine frowned. “Mom, Danish food is casual; y
ou don’t have to make a Noma-grade meal.”

  “We’ll sit outside and Daddy will throw the fish on the grill,” Mandy said. She hated Danish food. The pork, the grease, the brown sauce, oh, the horrible brun sauce and the potatoes—it was unimaginative and boring, and she wasn’t going to serve that to her guests. If they wanted Danish food, she could recommend a few restaurants where they could get their fill of bøf med løg, beef patties with softened onions drenched in that detestable brown sauce.

  When the kids were growing up, Mandy made it a point to serve them healthy and nutritious food. Not like the other Danish children, who grew up eating rye bread with crap on top—by crap, she meant the horrible leverpostej, a sort of liver pate that could be served warm with pickled cucumbers. The smell of that concoction made Mandy sick. But Danish kids were Danish kids, and no matter how much she had trained them, they had learned to eat rye bread with crap on top, as Katrine was for breakfast. For all their Noma, Geranium, and best restaurant in the world nonsense, Danes had no culinary culture and ate abysmal food bought at low-end supermarket chains such as Fakta, Netto, and the god-awful REMA 1000. Denmark was discount nation—and everyone wanted to buy the cheapest food they could get their hands on. Mandy shopped at Torvehallerne, the gourmet and expensive farmers market, when she had time, and when she didn’t, she compromised with the high-end Meny supermarket in Rotunden at the Tuborg harbor.

  Meat and fish were always bought at the butcher and the fishmonger. She had gone to Torvehallerne in the morning, early, to pick up the salmon steaks and lobster, because it offered the best of the best, and even if the price was steep, she could afford it.

  Katrine laughed. “Your casual is so not casual. What’s for the appetizer and dessert?”

  “Lobster . . . also cooked on the grill,” Mandy said. “I’ll serve it with some nice garlic butter. We have poire belle Hélène with crème anglaise for dessert.”

  “You’re such a great cook, Mom. I really appreciate all the effort you put into inviting people and throwing parties. My friends love coming here because they get good food to eat. And everyone is always welcome.”

  “Of course they are,” Mandy said, sufficiently soothed.

  “Don’t worry about the paper, Mom,” Katrine said, as she put her plate into the dishwasher. “Penny and Mark will be fine. Daddy will make sure.” She gave her mother a rare hug in reassurance.

  For Mandy, home and family were her life. Her home was her business card. She had decorated it herself as part of her rehabilitation from middle-class girl from Oregon to pillar of high society in Denmark, and she liked to mention that as often as she could, not the transformation part but the fact that she herself had decorated her home, not some expensive, snooty interior designer. How many Hellerup wives could say that?

  “Oh, that vase is beautiful,” someone would compliment her, and Mandy would tell the story about how she picked it up in some small shop in Bali and how she had to haggle with the owner, a shrewd Balinese woman, to get it at a reasonable price. Everything in Mandy’s house had a story around it.

  The beautiful Navajo rug in the living room came from a trip to Sedona she and Ravn had taken before the kids were born, but that was where the twins were conceived. The painting of the woman with a basket of chilies was an R. C. Gorman original she had bought in DC at a gallery when they had gone as part of the Danish business delegation with Crown Prince Frederik and Crown Princess Mary.

  The dining area had a Spanish air to it. The Miró was an original she’d picked up during a vacation in Bilbao. The Spanish ambassador to Denmark had taken them to a gallery where it was hidden among a whole lot of other paintings. The Merello was not her choice; it was Ravn’s, she would say, and she wasn’t sure where he got it. No story there.

  The china and silverware were exclusively Danish because she had inherited some from Ravn’s mother when she died, and you couldn’t be part of the Ravn family and not acquire Danish designers. The furniture was mixed, some Piet Hein tables and lamps, some Arne Jacobsen, some old Finn Juhl, the father of the Danish design movement that Ravn liked (because his father had been a big fan).

  Anyone who came to Mandy’s house would eventually call her to help them decorate their house. It had happened many times. She had even led the team of designers Cindy had used to decorate the American ambassador’s residence.

  Mandy had also been on the board of ARoS, the beautiful museum in Aarhus. She was the sole socialite there among the many artists, gallery owners, critics, and curators. She had had to give it up when Jonas, four years ago, had that incident with almost getting kicked out of Ordrup Skole for selling laughing gas to friends at parties. Penny had been nonchalant and told her this is what kids did in Hellerup and Charlottenlund—it was almost a rite of passage—but Mandy had completely freaked out that Jonas was turning into a drug dealer and had for a year exclusively devoted herself to picking him up, dropping him off, feeding him, watching him, giving curfews, and even hiring a tutor to keep him on track. And she had succeeded. She would do what was needed to keep her family together and safe; and family included Penny.

  Penny was looking at sample designs for next year’s spring collection when Mandy walked into her boutique.

  “Are you okay? I saw the papers,” Mandy said, rushing into Penny’s office.

  Penny hugged Mandy and kissed her on both cheeks. She closed the door so her staff wouldn’t hear their conversation. They were already gossiping about the news.

  “We haven’t been charged,” Penny said. “You know how the media is, always cooking up stuff. They’re looking into Mark’s company, but they’re looking into everyone’s company these days. The new government is just searching for scapegoats to show how their new tax laws are going to save Denmark from an economic crisis.”

  Mandy knew Penny, had known her for as long as she had known Ravn. Penny was scared; she could smell the fear. It was just too delicious not to feel thrilled about something bad happening to always-successful Penny. She used to be a supermodel, and then she had kids and kept her body without a tummy tuck or the torturous gym routine and running that Mandy had to do. And her husband was Mark Barrett, who used to be . . . beautiful and rich. He wasn’t much of either anymore. Penny on the other hand had family money and what she earned herself as a model and businesswoman. Everything had just come too easy for Penny. There had to be balance in the universe, and apparently now there was.

  “Have you talked to Ravn?” Penny asked, as her assistant came in and handed Mandy a cup of coffee before discreetly leaving the office.

  Mandy sipped the coffee and shook her head. “I called him, but he said there was nothing to worry about.”

  “He said that?”

  “And then when I said we were having the Americans—you know, Harry and that Indian wife of his—over for dinner, he said . . . I don’t know if I should tell you,” Mandy said. Between Penny and her husband, her loyalties were clear.

  “We’re family,” Penny urged. “But if you’re uncomfortable, don’t; I’ll just give Ravn a call.”

  Mandy smiled. “He said something strange, that the Americans were causing the problem. How can they cause a problem for Mark when they’re looking into IT Foundry? How could they even be connected? It makes no sense. He really wants this sale to go through. He has so many plans for a new venture.”

  “What kind of plans?” Penny asked.

  “I don’t know . . . just plans,” Mandy said. “You know how secretive he is.”

  Penny nodded. “He certainly is. So . . . do you want me to show you that turquoise and cream dress I have set aside for you?”

  Chapter 9

  Penny Hits on Harry

  “Do you know where Café Victor is?” Harry asked Lucky, who was knee-deep in spreadsheets and looked more harangued than usual.

  “What?”

  “I just got a call from Penny Barrett, and she wants to see me for lunch at Café Victor,” Harry told him. “What does she want, I wonde
r?”

  “She wants to get into your pants,” Lucky said acidly.

  “I doubt it, and, in any case, I’m happy in my marriage.”

  “If you’re as happy in your marriage as you say you are, why do you keep screwing around?” Lucky asked.

  “I’ll never leave Sanya,” Harry said firmly.

  “Maybe she’ll leave you no choice,” Lucky said.

  “She makes me happy,” Harry said. “Even like this, being with her is better than being without her.”

  They had always been a team. Harry was the idea man and Lucky was the enforcer. When Harry became a vice president, Lucky became a director. And now that Harry was a partner, Lucky was just a step away as associate partner.

  “We have a meeting with Ravn at four,” Lucky said. “So as long as you can be done with your pants-dropping by then, it’ll be much appreciated.”

  Lucky liked to make it sound like Harry dropped his pants for just any woman who walked through the door. And even though it was true that Harry had not been faithful to Sanya, he’d only had three affairs, and that wasn’t so bad in a two-decade marriage, was it?

  “Today’s newspaper broke the story of tax fraud charges against Mark Barrett. I had the IT Foundry secretary translate the article.”

  Denmark’s equivalent to the Wall Street Journal was called Børsen, which meant “the stock exchange” in Danish.

  “But why is Penny after you? Does she think there is a connection between Mark and IT Foundry?” Lucky wondered.

  “That’s what I hope to find out,” Harry said. He leaned against Lucky’s desk. “This is turning out to be rather interesting, isn’t it?”

  Lucky grimaced. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of time and money down the toilet if IT Foundry is not viable for purchase.”

  Harry shrugged. “Sanya and I needed this time. A little getaway from the California pressure cooker.”

  Lucky frowned.

  Harry straightened his tie and said, “We save money if our due diligence shows that there was something rotten in the state of Denmark.” He winked at Lucky and added, “I’ll ask the secretary if she knows where Café Victor is.”