The Little Cafe in Copenhagen

by Julie Caplin

  He turned my palm over and rested his fingers in the centre, sparking a more obvious tremor which elicited a dangerous smile from him. He knew exactly the effect he was having on me, although from the narrowing of his eyes I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t equally affected.

  His phone beeped but he ignored it.

  ‘I’ll book a table. It’s very popular.’ He paused, holding my eyes with steady intent. ‘It’s down the road from my flat.’

  There it was. Crunch point. A possibility.

  ‘Great. Brilliant.’ We smiled at each other, like a little island oblivious to everyone around us.

  ‘It’s a bit … quieter than this. I’ll book a table. Eight OK?’

  ‘Yes. That would be lovely …’

  His phone beeped again.

  ‘Oh bugger, I’m sorry. I need to read this and I know it’s work and they’ll want me back.’ His face fell as he read his phone. ‘Yup.’

  He turned to me. ‘Shit, this is crap. I didn’t want to cancel on you … but running out is just as bad.’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t normally, I promise, but I’m trying to get back onto the business desk. There’s a story breaking. I volunteered to help out. And bloody sod’s law it’s broken. I need to get back.’

  He touched my hand, a brief featherlight touch which meant more than some heartfelt hand squeezing. ‘Kate … It’s not that work comes first … oh shit it kind of does … but this is different.’

  I held up my hand, laughing at him stumbling over the words. ‘I completely get it.’ I stood up as he gathered up his newspaper and jacket. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’

  Gratitude glinted in his eyes. ‘Thanks for being so understanding.’

  ‘You’d better pray there isn’t a PR emergency on Saturday.’ I grinned at him.

  ‘Hmm, wallpaper has been declared out of vogue.’ He tucked his hand under my elbow as we walked out of the bar. ‘Curtains are a thing of the past. The sofa is dead.’

  As we emerged onto the busy street, I turned to him and gave him a superior look.

  ‘Very funny. Mock all you like. I love my job.’ As I said it, I realised the words were habitual rather than heartfelt.

  Several kisses later, punctuated by an increasing number of text alerts, he reluctantly pulled back, touching my lips with his thumb.

  ‘Gotta go.’

  Although Saturday seemed a very long time away, the wistful glance he gave me over his shoulder would last until then.

  Chapter 28

  ‘Crikey Mary, Pollyanna’s alive and well,’ said Connie clutching a black coffee as I bounced into the kitchen.

  ‘Hangover?’ There was a definite tinge of green to her cheeks and charcoal circles under her eyes.

  ‘Queen-sized,’ she moaned, slipping further down into the new kitchen chair. ‘Remind me that margaritas should be drunk in moderation.’

  ‘I’ve done that before and you always ignore me.’

  ‘Well remind me harder. I should have stayed in with you last night and celebrated all things Ikea. But Friday nights are made for dancing.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said, pointedly looking at her wan cheeks.

  She lifted the new coffee mug, not one of mine, and glanced around at the open plan kitchen and lounge which had undergone a radical transformation. ‘Looks great though, I don’t know why we didn’t do it before.’

  Operation Hygge had been embraced with a vengeance. Connie put a forceful case to our landlord pointing out that getting new tenants was high risk compared to two very reliable ones currently in situ and lo and behold he came and sorted out the mould and boiler that very week. And just when she’d beaten him into submission, she added that the carpet might have fleas. Our landlord, being one of those ducking and diving types, managed to have a new mid-grey carpet (as specified by Connie) installed on Thursday.

  With our pooled resources, investing some of the money we’d been saving for a deposit on a new flat, the trip to Ikea in Croydon, in Connie’s ex-boyfriend’s clapped out transit van, had been a roaring success.

  ‘We did good.’ Connie looked over at the new pale blue sofa, piled with cushions and a co-ordinating throw which contrasted beautifully with the pale blue-grey walls which had taken most of Wednesday night to paint. ‘And the lamp makes all the difference,’ she teased.

  ‘I hope Megan never remembers how much it cost,’ I said. The lamp I’d bought for the pitch had been stuffed in the stationery cupboard and had come home with me in a taxi on Friday and was worth every penny of the fare.

  We’d transformed the flat with a bit of elbow grease and retail therapy. I’d bought some shelves and storage boxes which had tidied up my bedroom and made it so much more appealing. Not quite seductive boudoir but I could bring someone home for the night. Not that I planned to of course. Well not … well possibly.

  ‘You know, I feel like a proper grown up. Why didn’t we do this before? It makes you feel so much better.’

  ‘Hygge.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop saying that.’ Connie shuddered. ‘I might chukka any minute. My stomach is on maximum spin at the moment.’ She rose to her feet and switched on the kettle, leaning back against the kitchen units. ‘I need coffee otherwise I’ll end up going back to bed and today will be a write-off. What time are you off to meet lover boy? And are you planning to spend the whole day getting ready?’

  I couldn’t help beaming at her. ‘His name’s Ben, remember.’ My stomach was full of silly, squiggly feelings. ‘And I’m leaving at half six.’ I checked my phone. ‘In seven hours and twenty-six minutes.’

  ‘Uh-oh, is our Kate in lurve?’

  I closed my eyes, feeling the pink on my cheeks. ‘I really, really like him.’

  ‘What really like him or really, really, really like him?’ Connie clasped her hands over her heart pretending to swoon.

  ‘You’re so childish,’ I tried to be lofty but it was impossible.

  ‘Aw, look at your smiley little face,’ she teased coming over to me and poking at the corner of my mouth.

  ‘Oh, just stop,’ I said pushing her hand away.

  ‘Soz, you’ll have fun.’ She gave me a swift hug. ‘This Ben suits you, whereas Josh never did. He seemed to add to your stress levels.’

  ‘He’s lovely. He might just be …’ I’d told her about our original meeting which she’d thought utterly romantic.

  ‘The one,’ she finished for me.

  ‘That’ll probably jinx things now,’ I said, crossing my fingers and holding them up.

  ‘No.’ Connie tipped her head on one side. ‘You seem different … I think there might be something to this hygge business.’ We both surveyed the new improved home décor. ‘Funny isn’t it, how you put up with stuff. And then the minute you actually think about it … and start doing stuff, your whole outlook changes,’ she mused and shot me an assessing look.

  ‘Are you psychoanalysing me?’ I asked warily.

  ‘You seem a bit different since you came back … more …’ she cast about for the right word before coming up with, ‘singy.’

  ‘Singy? You make me sound like Maria Von Trap.’

  With a giggle, she said, ‘Go on give us a burst of The Hills are alive …’

  Even as I ignored her with a pointed roll of my eyes, I could instantly hear the notes and Julie Andrews’ voice in my head. The song danced on the tip of my tongue.

  ‘You know what I mean, you sing a lot.’

  ‘And that’s the big difference?’ I was intrigued to hear what she had to say, but pretending to be indifferent.

  ‘Yes,’ she poked me on the shoulder, a gesture which on anyone else might seem aggressive, ‘you’re much more positive. Decisive. More upbeat. A lot less ground down … and you’ve come home early from work, well, early for you, every night this week. And when you come home you’re full of ideas, instead of looking knackered and anxious.’

  ‘Maybe the Danish outlook rubbed off on me.’
Singing aside, life did feel a bit lighter.

  ‘Or maybe it’s love?’ The words hovered in the air, tantalising and terrifying, as she watched me carefully.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said, shooting them down, as if denial would remove all and any chance of them being anywhere near a possibility. ‘It’s a date, I like him … but …’

  ‘But?’ Connie was in one of her take-no-prisoners moods.

  ‘We’ve both got stuff going on. Our careers. And he’s too close to work. I’m not going to get burned like that again. Look what happened with Josh. And neither of us have time for anything serious.’

  ‘You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself. That’s like, what seven excuses,’ persisted Connie. ‘If you like him, you can make it work.’

  She made it sound so easy. I rubbed my hand across my mouth. Was it? Could it be? ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Bollocks. Only because you choose to make it complicated. Girl meets boy. Girl likes boy. Girl dates boy. Girl and boy become a couple. Bam. Simples.’ She held up a shushing finger. ‘Don’t give me all those excuses. If you want it you can have it.’

  She saw the doubts hovering, ‘Crikey Kate, you do it at work, make things happen for you. Why not in your personal life? You’ve put that place first far too bloody often. Think about you for a change.’ Her face softened. ‘Right, lecture over. What are you wearing tonight?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  Only because I couldn’t decide what to do. Go out to impress or play it cool?

  ‘And have you got new undies?’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘Right, we’re going shopping.’

  ‘Who said I was going to sleep with him?’

  Connie was suddenly all innocence. ‘No one. And it’s not whether you do or don’t, it’s about feeling irresistible and knowing you can if you want to.’

  ‘OK,’ I jumped to my feet. ‘You make a good point …’ And going shopping would fill the next few hours nicely.

  It’s amazing what a new bra and matching knickers does for your confidence, along with knowing that no stone has been left unturned during a two hour date preparation process overseen by Connie. Bullied would be too strong a word, encouraged was perhaps fairer. She insisted that I did everything to look my best. Eyebrows plucked, legs shaved, hair washed, dried and curled, make-up expertly applied with Connie’s very expensive Clinique stay-put-mist stuff sprayed over the top and she’d generously let me use her Jo Malone body crème. If nothing else I smelled gorgeous … everywhere.

  Ben had insisted on meeting me at the tube station and as I rode up the escalator, I hung onto the rubber handrail trying to steady my slightly shaky legs, convinced I’d read far too much into this. Dinner. That was all. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kate. Unfortunately, my body had not got that memo. On the tube I was jumpy, my legs crossed tight, one foot jerking the shoe hanging from my toes up and down for most of the journey and I must have checked the contents of my clutch five times over. Phone. Keys. Money. Perfume.

  In the end, I wore one of my favourite dresses, a little red number, with a rolled Bardot style neckline, emphasising my collarbone and shoulders, accessorized with blue shoes and the blue clutch. Figure hugging and sophisticated, it fitted in all the right places, demure but also hinting at more with the wide expanse of skin exposed by the stylish neckline, normally covered up with a sensible cashmere cardi.

  My hair was up, a few strategic curls escaping skimming the top of my back whispering across my skin as I headed towards the entrance of the station. Ben waited leaning against the tiled wall and as soon as he spotted me I saw his eyes light up, a slow smile of approval filling his face as he gave me a long, unhurried once over. As his interested gaze roved second by second from my shoes, up, up and up to my chest, my neck, my face, excitement fizzed like a champagne bottle about to explode and when I reached him, without preamble, he pulled me to him and our mouths automatically fused in a short, desperate kiss as if we’d waited far too long.

  Whew! Heady with hormones and lust, the kiss almost floored me and when our lips finally parted, I clung to him, trying to regain my equilibrium. It was gratifying to see that his eyes looked equally glazed and he held me firmly too.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, the huskiness in his voice rasping over me. How had I forgotten how bloody gorgeous he was? I reached up and touched a freshly shaven cheek, almost in a daze, as if trying to reacquaint myself.

  ‘Hi, yourself.’

  Together we smiled at each other, oblivious to the other people passing. We must have been in the way but I don’t think either of us were thinking clearly at the time.

  ‘You look …’ His hand reached up to my hair, twisting one of the curls around his finger and I knew exactly why Connie had done it like this. ‘I like the hair.’ His finger skimmed the delicate skin on my neck, making me shiver. Nerve endings dancing all the way south, sending little tremors to places they had no place to be.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, leaning in to touch his smooth jawline with my lips. ‘I like …’ I dotted a series of kisses in a path along his face and down his neck. I inhaled the scent of him, musky tones, man and aftershave, intoxicating and suddenly very, very tempting.

  My hormones were in danger of hijacking me, taking complete control. Actually, I lie, they had stormed command central and I’d all out surrendered to the hell-bent-on-getting-laid buggers or maybe it was just Ben. In a navy shirt with a tiny white … pattern, flowers, things, I don’t know … to be honest - that shirt fitted, hell it really fitted … broad shoulders, white buttons for the undoing, chest … my mouth had gone so dry and I wanted to cross my legs, to stop the fierce need that had taken up residence. What the hell was wrong with me?

  My fingers wanted to walk right down that shirt and peel open every last button. Push back the printed cotton from his shoulders.

  Ben’s indrawn sharp breath and husky, ‘Kate,’ drew me up quickly.

  Thankfully the sultry, glazed look in his eyes and the fingers rhythmically stroking my upper arms, suggested he was as wound up and enthralled as I was, except he had a tiny bit of sense left. ‘Kate.’

  I nodded. Restaurant. Dinner. Reluctantly I pulled away, with one last nuzzle of his neck, my tongue tracing his skin … yes OK, that was deliberate, making a point.

  We pulled apart, eyeing each other with rueful smiles, our eyes meeting in knowing suggestion before Ben laced his fingers through mine and squeezed my hand. ‘This way,’ he said with a naughty, unrepentant grin, ‘We should go to the restaurant … before … before.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, we should.’

  The short walk to the restaurant calmed things down and my pulse had just about returned to normal as the waiter pulled out a high backed, velvet cushioned chair, second cousin once removed from a throne and I sat down, glad that I put on a smart dress.

  Ben ordered a bottle of red wine and the waiter left us with the menus.

  ‘This is gorgeous,’ I said, fascinated by the deep purple walls and the gold leaf elephants trooping trunk to tail around the top edges. Embroidery and sequins edged the table cloths, coloured glass votives glowing jewel bright with tea lights giving a touch of Bollywood verve and colour.

  ‘Wait until you try the food,’ he said. ‘I’ve only been here once before, for my sister’s birthday.’ He paused, ‘I was waiting for a good excuse to come back.’

  ‘I’m an excuse?’ I lifted an imperious eyebrow, propping my chin on my hands.

  He reached forward with a smile and took one of my hands, his fingers sliding along the inside of my wrist, butterfly soft. ‘A reason.’

  I smiled back and turned my hand so that it rested in his, loose and relaxed.

  The waiter returned and we sat in silence as he carefully opened the bottle, let Ben try the wine and then poured us both a glass.

  ‘Cheers.’ We tapped our glasses.

  ‘Thank you, for bringing me here. It looks lovely.’ I looked around the restaurant, every table was full
. At the nearest table to us, with two older couples, a waiter unloaded a trolley, placing a candle lit food warmer in the centre of the table before placing silver dishes of golden rice, a dark red curry, and a creamy amber chicken dish as well as a pile of puffed, charred naans.

  ‘Wow,’ I gave a low moan of greed, ‘it smells amazing.’

  ‘Mmm, doesn’t it just. It’s Kashmiri food. Lots of yoghurt, cardamom, cinnamon and cloves. They use a lot of saffron and ghee. It’s very rich.’

  ‘Tour guide Ben morphs into food expert?’ I said, impressed but determined to tease him.

  He grinned and held up the menu, ‘I’ve read it before.’

  ‘And we all know you love your facts,’ I said remembering his knowledge of the Grosvenor Hotel and his avid interest in the Opera House.

  He nodded, slightly sheepish, ‘It’s the journalist in me. I like facts. Checking them.’

  ‘Is that why you became a journalist?’ My lips twitched, ‘Permission to be … curious?’

  His fingers tightened on my hand, ‘Were you about to say nosy, then?’

  ‘Who me?’ I feigned innocence.

  ‘Do you think I’m a bit nerdy?’ he asked, laughter dancing in his eyes.

  ‘It crossed my mind. A pair of glasses and you could rock the Clark Kent look.’

  He burst out laughing. ‘I love that you never give me an inch. Half the women I know would have said no, and fluttered their eyelashes at me. Or at least inferred I was Superman.’

  ‘Why? Because you’re just,’ I lapsed into a breathy sweet voice, ‘so gorgeous,’ ignoring the compliment and the rush of warmth it gave me.

  ‘Remind me why I like you so much?’ His mouth quirked at one side as he tugged at my hand, his fingers linking through mine, his words filling me with warmth.

  ‘Because I keep you on your toes and don’t take any of that five seconds crap,’ my warm husky tone was at odds with my words. I couldn’t get the “like you so much” out of my head or the rush of feelings doing a happy dance.

  Thankfully the waiter appeared, shook out our napkins and placed them on our laps because I for one was getting very hot and bothered.