Читать книгу The Little Café in Copenhagen - Julie Caplin - Страница 16

Slick and modern, Copenhagen Airport looked very much like every other airport I’d been to, except that the signs were indisputably Danish with their funny slashed Os and As with tiny round circles and there was a replica statue of the Little Mermaid.

With all bags reclaimed, I led my unruly group out through nothing to declare. I could have quite happily kissed the man holding up a white board which read Hjem Party/Kate Sinclair. He stood directly opposite our exit and there was no missing him.

Suddenly feeling much more confident and sure of myself, I strode over to him. Once he’d introduced himself as Mads, thankfully appearing quite sane, he quickly led us out of the terminal to a waiting mini bus.

‘So, this is the beautiful city of Copenhagen, capital of Denmark, the happiest country in the world.’ He grinned. ‘You’re going to hear that a lot over the next few days, but it really is true. We have our own institute of happiness. And you’ll hear a lot about our social care, our taxes and our liberal approach. My job is going to be to show you a little taste of the real Denmark, but there’s gonna be lots of downtime for you to go out and do a bit of exploring for yourself.

‘Tomorrow, we will see the city from the water, which gives you the best views.’ He pulled out a rolled scroll of tatty paper, unfurled it with a flourish and waved it like a flag. ‘And you’ll also get your first taste of proper Danish pastries. You have to try one of our famous kanelsnegle. But for today we will stop for lunch, followed by a tour of the royal palace at Amalieburg followed by dinner in the hotel this evening.’

He finished every sentence with a triumphant uplift in his tone that was charming and endearing at once.

Benedict was absorbed in his phone, looking utterly disinterested. I wanted to kick him in the shin and tell him to stop being so rude, but Mads, who shared a few genes with the Duracell bunny, seemed totally oblivious and continued pointing things out from the windows.

‘What’s kanelsnegle when it’s at home?’ asked Avril, wrinkling her nose.

‘Cinnamon Snail,’ piped up Sophie, gesturing the shape with her hands. ‘A cinnamon flavoured roll. Proper Danish pastry. I can’t wait for that. I’ve been trying to get the recipe right for the magazine.’

So that’s what they were, I’d never got around to looking them up … or Eva Wilder’s café Varme. Lars had included his mother’s café on the extensive itinerary as a regular pit stop. For a big successful business man he’d been surprisingly soft and rather sweet about his family.

Fiona had perked up since we’d got off the plane and was busy taking photos of absolutely everything. I could sense suppressed excitement as she sat on the edge of the seat gripping the door, although she didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Next to her Sophie and David seemed amused by her snap happy attack on the view through the glass and chatted between themselves including her in their comments, although she didn’t respond. Conrad and Avril were laughing together at the very back and already getting on like the proverbial house on fire, I just didn’t want to get burned.

Although I did note that Avril had posted on Twitter, Arrived in Denmark, home to popular royal family, cinnamon snails and happiness #WonderfulCopenhagen #presstripantics

If this was work I could take it. My chin almost hit the floor when we pulled up outside the hotel. It was abs-o-lutely bloody gorgeous, none of your three-star rubbish I was used to. This was five-star all the way, from the top hatted and grey wool coated doormen with their brass railed luggage trolleys to the quiet stately elegance of the vast reception area.

‘Now this is more like it,’ said Conrad, a broad grin wrinkling his face, making his moustache twitch with pleasure as he looked around. I tried to look as if it were all part and parcel of another day at the office but failed miserably when Sophie sidled up to me and whispered, ‘Wow. Seriously.’

‘I know,’ I whispered back, almost giggling with a mixture of giddiness and terror. ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’

Shit. I wasn’t expecting this. Putting six people up in a hotel like this was going to cost a fortune. My stomach turned over. This was serious business. And I was in charge.

There was a slight rushing in my ears as I stood there. How quickly were they all going to realise that I was a complete fraud. I knew about as much about hygge as could be written on the back of a fag packet and believed in it about it as much as I believed in fairies.

Avril, the first to hand her cases over to the doormen, didn’t bat an eyelid as she sauntered over to one of the sumptuous grey velvet sofas and sank down gracefully crossing her slender legs, the epitome of elegance. David was a lot less sangfroid, if the little jerky movements and grins at the sight of everything was anything to go by and lord love him, he didn’t mind who knew it. He followed Avril and sat down in a pale lemon upholstered chair with the same furniture arrangement but not too close. The scene reminded me of our old dog, Toaster, whose distance from the gas fire was measured by the mood of Maud the cat who ruled the house with an iron whisker.

Fiona slowed right down, and turned on the spot, head tilted upwards as if trying to take in every last detail of the décor. The walls held the sheen of expensive wallpaper, a subtle stylish grey against the white wooden trim around the floors and ceilings. Exquisite flowers, their colours harmonising perfectly, decorated the room; purple calla lilies arranged in a tall simple glass vase on a mantelpiece reflected two-fold in a gilt-edged mirror, large tied posies of blousy ranunculas in a gorgeous warm pink filled the centre of occasional tables and tiny pots of white cyclamen tastefully dotted the dark mahogany reception desk.

I sent a dozen pictures of my swanky hotel room via WhatsApp to Connie, a tad mean, perhaps, as no doubt she’d be knee deep in reception children at this time of day. It was a delaying tactic as I almost didn’t dare touch anything. The bed with its crisp pure white sheets and designer accessories was so huge you could get lost in there. Like a thief in the night, I opened drawers and cupboards, checking out the sewing kit and shoe cleaning cloth before moving into the bathroom and hesitantly picking up the posh smellies, Sage and Seaspray. I took a quick sniff of the opulent scent which made me feel even more like a fish out of water.

I perched on the very edge of the bed, bouncing slightly on the soft mattress, wondering what to do, unable to dispel the sense of being an intruder casing someone else’s life. Unpacking seemed presumptuous; it almost didn’t feel right to put my clothes in the wardrobe. Unsettled and lost, I took in a deep breath, wishing I wasn’t on my own.

My mother loves looking after people. Lars’ words floated in my head. Suddenly I longed for a touch of down to earth normality. A café with coffee and warm pastry sounded perfect.

In my newly purchased feather down coat, which from looking at everyone at the airport was going to make me fit right in, I felt awfully brave stepping out from the hotel, even though according to my map, Varme was only a few streets away. It felt like an awfully big adventure. This was my first trip abroad on my own and the poshest hotel I’d ever stayed in. With a quick look heavenwards, I beamed to myself. Mum would definitely approve. With a brief pang, I imagined what it might have been like, if I could have told her all about it.

It took me less than five minutes to navigate the cobbled streets to find Varme and five seconds to fall head over heels in love with it. Cute, quaint, there was also something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, which made it so appealing. It certainly wasn’t fancy, not like the hotel. The name was written in copper metal letters about twenty centimetres high in a sensible reassuring courier font, Varme, like flames licking the bordering grey painted wood. Which made sense as the translation of Varme in English was warmth. The floor to ceiling windows painted in the same grey trim were sandwiched between huge thick sandy colour stone walls, more like the walls of a fortress. A tiny flight of steps led down into the café to glazed doors and when I pushed them open I was immediately assaulted by the smell of cinnamon and coffee and almost wilted with pleasure on the spot. One cup of rather dire coffee on the plane did not cut it as far as my body was concerned.

A small, slight woman with a perky blonde ponytail was clearing tables with quick neat economy. Dressed in black jeans and a black jumper, she looked up and said, ‘God morgen,’ with an easy smile, giving the table a last wipe and turning to face me.

‘Hello, I’m looking for Eva Wilder.’ My sensible ballet pumps squeaked slightly on the herringbone pattern arrangement of the tiles on the floor as I took a step towards her, trying not to look around the room in wonderment. There was so much to see, drawing your eye here, there and everywhere. Long and narrow, either end of the room had white walls painted with flowers, blurry, watercolour style that looked contemporary and smart rather than twee and cottagey.

‘And then you’ve found her.’ Her eyes sparkled with genuine delight. ‘You must be Kate. Lars has told me all about you.’ She threw down her cloth and came over putting both hands on my arms and studying me with smiley assessment which slightly unnerved me as if somehow, I’d unknowingly graduated to long lost member of the family. ‘How lovely to meet you. I just know we’re going to get along. Welcome to Varme.’ Without pausing to draw breath she pulled me over to a chalky white painted table and pushed me into a seat.

‘Let’s have a coffee and you can tell me all about yourself.’

‘Coffee would be lovely,’ I said with prim English politeness, hoping she’d forget about the latter.

‘And weinerbrod?’

I was about to decline but my stomach let a howl of resistance, so audible Eva didn’t wait for an answer. I knew from some pre-trip research that bizarrely what the rest of the world called Danish pastries were, in fact, called Viennese bread in Denmark. Go figure.

‘Yes please, I’ve only had one coffee today and that was on the plane.’ I pulled a face, to illustrate its woeful quality.

‘Then, we must fix that.’ Like her son, she had a slight American intonation to her accent. Unlike his bright blue eyes, hers were a merry brown that danced in a small petite face like a mischievous sprite. It was difficult to imagine that she was mother to the strapping Lars, he must be nearly twice her height and she certainly didn’t look old enough.

I sat down and took advantage of her busy industry to take a good look around. There was a central counter in the middle of the long back wall, with rows and rows of copper coloured coffee canisters on the back wall along with grey painted racks of plates, cups and mugs. From here I could pick out the famous Royal Copenhagen Blue floral pattern on the white china. On the front of the counter were glass domes, under which a wonderful selection of cakes, pastries and desserts sheltered. In between them were glass cabinets filled with colourful open sandwiches which looked too well-decorated and ornate to eat.

Behind was a serving hatch through which you could see a small, very compact kitchen, which was clearly where the delicious smells were coming from.

‘Columbian coffee today, I think,’ she said giving me another one of her appraising looks.

I nodded. ‘Sounds lovely.’ Something about her impish smile made me add, ‘Although to be honest, I worked as a barista when I was a student and I’m not sure I’d know Columbian coffee if it bit me.’

‘A useful talent. If you can make coffee you’ll never be out of a job. I’ll have to set you to work if we get busy.’ Despite her wink, I was pretty sure she meant it.

‘Do you run this by yourself?’

‘Most of the time although I have some part time help from friends and students.’

‘It’s a lovely place.’

On the walls around the café, pale mint green glass shelves housed little vignettes, perfectly formed displays. Five delicate wine goblets made from deep purple glass. Seven silver eggs in different sizes. A single antique cup and saucer with a whole shelf to itself. The eclectic mix worked well and fascinated me. I’d never seen anything quite like it but it didn’t feel designery or that someone was trying too hard.

‘I love the glasses,’ I said pointing to them. ‘You have some beautiful things.’

‘It’s the Danish way. It’s been psychologically proven that looking at something beautiful makes people happier. That’s why as a nation we are so keen on our design. I picked the glasses up in a flea market years ago, but I’ve got so many now and I couldn’t bear to part with them. They look rather nice there, don’t they?’

Which matched my impression that each item had been put out simply because they were liked.

‘Gosh your English is amazing.’

She laughed. ‘I lived in London for many years. Here.’ She came to the table and unloaded a tray passing a tall china cup and saucer my way with a little jug of milk. ‘Nice and strong. And spandauer.’

Spandauer turned out to be a square pastry with turned up corners and a jammy red middle, the glistening buttery edges as delicious as they looked when I took the first crumbly mouthful and the strawberry jam bursting with sweetness.

‘Mmm,’ I groaned unable to help myself. ‘That is delicious. Everything’s been a bit of a rush this morning.’

‘Well now you can relax.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ I gave my watch a quick check. ‘I need to be back at the hotel to round everyone up in half an hour.’

‘Plenty of time.’

‘Don’t forget I’m the one working. The others are the guests. I’m on duty.’

‘Does that worry you?’ she asked rather too astutely to my mind.

I nodded.

‘Here put my number into your phone. You can always call me if you need anything, but I know you will be fine. And while you’re here, you’re not on duty. My son wanted you to experience the real Denmark, to relax and enjoy our Danish hospitality. For you and your journalists to see for yourselves why we keep being voted the happiest country in the world. I need to finish a few things but we can chat.’

She wandered over to check on the only other customers in the café, a middle-aged couple in one corner and a teenage boy plugged into his iPhone at the bar by the window.

I sipped at my coffee as she delivered pewter mini buckets of flowers to each table along with handwritten menus displayed in little A5 photo frames.

‘Those are cute,’ I touched the delicate glass photo frame on my table.

‘Flea markets again in England. People there throw so many things away.’ She held out another pretty etched silver photo frame. ‘In Denmark, we don’t buy as many things but we keep them for a very long time. And we like to buy very good design and high quality.’ She pointed upwards.

‘Lights are a big thing in Denmark.’ Above us were three large waterfalls of glass but around the edges of the room were lamps of varying height. ‘You will find that a student might buy a very expensive Paul Henningsen lamp for thousands of Kroner because it is important to have nice things in our homes but not lots of nice things.’

The couple beckoned her over, asking to pay their bill and I took advantage of Eva’s absence to pull out my phone to check my emails which were still flooding in as usual. Despite being out of the office for a full week, there was no chance of putting an out of office message on my email. I was still expected to be on call for my other clients and any press enquiries as usual. So much for relaxing.

I answered a few before Eva came back. ‘Tell me a little about yourself.’

My mind went blank. What did you tell a complete stranger? I had no idea where to start.

‘Well, I live in London. I work for a PR agency and Lars has asked us to help launch his department store.’ I ground to a halt and shrugged as she waited expectantly, gentle eyes watching me.

‘Not married. No children?’

‘No.’

‘A boyfriend, perhaps.’

I shuddered, thinking of Josh. ‘No. Not at the moment.’

‘Ah, there was one.’

‘Yes but … well I don’t really have time for one.’ And the most recent had been a gobshite. I didn’t think that would translate. ‘Work is … well my main focus at the moment.’

She stroked the petals on the flowers on the table. ‘Yes, but there is more to life than work. For a pretty young woman like you. Friends, family.’ Her eyes twinkled as she pulled at a few dead leaves, her head cocked like a cheeky robin.

‘My family live just outside London. I see them, of course. I have two brothers.’ And what would they make of Copenhagen? John went on lads’ holidays, the gruesome details of which seemed to involve copious quantities of cheap lager, clubbing until dawn and sleeping indiscriminately with available women. Brandon had been saving forever to go to a Star Wars convention in California, although him ever getting there was about as likely as a trip to the moon and Dad, well, he hadn’t been on holiday since Mum had died.

‘My mum died when I was fourteen,’ I blurted out. I rarely told people that and surprised myself by telling Eva. There was just something about her though. She was so warm and friendly.

‘That’s very sad.’

‘Yes, well it was a long time ago,’ I said reaching for my phone but when I picked it up I was reluctant to look at the screen under Eva’s careful scrutiny.

‘That’s hard for a young girl.’

I chased down a few flakes of pastry with the tip of my finger and nibbled at them to avoid looking at her.

‘The café is lovely. How long have you been running it?’

Eva smiled. ‘For six years. I started it not long after I split up from Lars’ father.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t know.’

‘Like you say it was a long time ago and I’m much happier.’ Her mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Anders is not Danish, well, he is but he spent too long in the US and London. He’s a workaholic.’

I frowned not quite understanding.

‘That’s not the Danish way. We do not live to work. I hoped when the children left that he would want to stop working so hard. We lived in London for many years and then when we came back to Copenhagen, I thought that he would slow down. That we would do more things together but he couldn’t let go. We had everything. A lovely house. Our children had grown up. It was time for us to be a couple but he is still in his office working and working and working. Life is short. Now I spend time with my friends.’ She rested her chin in her hands, exuding serenity and a confident sense of calm. She didn’t sound unhappy or regretful. ‘I have made a life here. Many of my customers have become friends. I have made something of my own but that I can share.’ Her face brightened. ‘I love to cook. Feed people. Look after them. I am very privileged to do this for the people of Copenhagen.’

I nodded. Each to their own. As far as I was concerned cooking was one massive chore, a necessary evil that entailed washing up and cleaning up and far too much of a waste of time. Thank God for the express supermarkets which made it much easier to do smash and grab style grocery shopping and buy ready-meals.

‘What sort of things do you like to cook?’ she asked.

Oops she’d taken the nodding as agreement. I froze and picked up my coffee gazing into it for inspiration.

‘Erm, well you know …’

She pinned me with a ‘gotcha’ grin which left me nowhere to go but fess up.

‘There’s never enough time. I work late and me and my flatmate are in at different times. There’s not much point in cooking for one.’

It was difficult to take offence at the amused disapproval in the quick shake of her head.

‘I think this trip to Copenhagen is just what you need, Katie.’

‘It’s Ka …’ I paused and changed my mind. The warmth in her voice softened my name reminding me of my mum. Suddenly there seemed a world of difference between a Kate and Katie.