Page 1 of A Copenhagen Snowmance

Chapter One

Ind og ud. Ind og ud.

It repeats in her head and under her breath. In and out. A mantra to get her through the day, supported by a steady tap of her passport drumming on her bag.

The man in front of Anna, tall and broad, turns to look where the tapping sound is coming from, and scowls.

He must be having a bad day. It’s hardly a crime, or loud for that matter.

And she really isn’t doing it on purpose.

More of a nervous tic. But she does cease and desist as per his scowl as she doesn’t want to cause a scene.

Instead, she pages through the passport, pausing only to shuffle closer to the control booth and the policewoman inside it.

Each of the many stamps brings her joy. So many trips, and adventures.

She won’t get one here, though. This will just be a cursory glance.

Anna gazes to the side, but there are no windows overlooking the planes in this part of Copenhagen airport. Being able to see the planes, parked and readying to leave again, would make her feel better. In and out, she chants again in her head. That’s all this is.

The guy moves to the booth while she stands behind the yellow line on the beautiful floor.

Copenhagen airport has the most beautiful cherry-wood floor – all part of the Danish design aesthetic; its building is modern throughout, and if viewed from the sky, the shape of a paper aeroplane.

Anna used to love passing through, window-shopping in the modern jewellery design of Georg Jensen and Ole Lynggaard, the homeware of Illum, or having a last-second hot dog from a p?lsevogn stall or grabbing a cinnamon pastry in Ole guilty about the man’s coat, annoyed at his rudeness, gutted about her mauled hot dog, all on top of not wanting to be here at all.

The hall is busy. Relatives stand in throngs, with Danish flags – as is the custom – waiting for their loved ones.

No one is waiting for Anna. No one knows she’s here except for the people at the clinic and they might be doubtful about her turning up.

It’s taken some cajoling. Keeping her head down, Anna steers towards the end of the hall where the metro waits to take her into the city.

Despite trying to keep her eyes front and centre, they’re drawn to the large glass windowpanes.

The air outside is moving. Snow. Not dainty, confetti flakes, but large fluffy tufts against the dove-grey sky.

Well, that shows how out of practice she is.

She hadn’t checked the weather before coming.

The Nordics know how to dress for the weather, and although she’s wearing her large woollen coat and leather boots, that’s simply because it’s December and London is chilly, not because she’s checked.

It hadn’t occurred to her, in her reluctant prepping for this trip, to consult the forecast. Her plan of landing, making the pick-up and leaving, had somewhat missed all the exterior and contextual detail.

Which is ludicrous for a travel specialist. Now, looking about at her fellow metro-users, she sees that even coat and boots allowing, she is still underdressed for Copenhagen.

Others wear hats, scarves, gloves and proper winter boots, while the children are in padded one-pieces and earmuffs or balaclavas.

She realises her transition is possibly now complete; she’s become a tourist. In the city where she was born.

She isn’t quite sure how she feels about that.

A small joy, perhaps, that she’s properly severed a tie, but also a deep-seated embarrassment that she hasn’t got this right.

There is no bad weather, states the Danish saying, only poor clothes choices.

She’s on the wrong side of that today. Oh my God, she thinks, what an amateur.

She delves into her bag, the one Maiken always said she could live out of for a fortnight, if marooned, with a “Come on. Pleeease,” muttered under her breath.

And there, in the depths, Anna gets the first win of the day, which she celebrates with a resounding “Ja!” – scaring the Chinese tourist walking next to her.

Her knitted hat – squashed and lightly covered in the smaller detritus of her bag: dust, paper fragments, and …

a boiled sweet stuck to the pompom – is gripped in her hand.

Encouraged, she checks her coat pockets, hoping she’ll find some gloves, primed to congratulate herself on having some innate, Nordic preservation skills after all, but is disappointed.

No matter, she consoles herself, she can stuff her hands in her pockets, unlike her head, so this is the better outcome.

Given the size of the snowflakes and the rate they’re falling, this is definitely the better way around.

“Ind og ud,” she repeats. Into the city, make the collection, back on the metro, back on the plane, back to London. Bish bash bosh. Done. One day and it’s over. One single day she’ll sign off and box up in the back of her mind. Provided no one sees her, it will be as if it never happened.

In her hopes, mashed hot dog aside, everything will be smooth today; no hold-ups, no delays, no chance meetings with people she doesn’t want to see.

Or even those she might want to see, as they’ll come with recriminations.

Why hasn’t she called? Why doesn’t she ever call?

And they’ll invite her to stop for a coffee, as they always have, and she’ll say no and then she’ll feel bad.

Plucking the sweet, a mint hexagon with a chocolate inner, from the not-so-tufty pompom, she tucks the hat on her head.

Better she keeps her head down and merges into the behatted crowds.

In and out, it comes as a determined mutter, now.

She’ll get through the day, and as a reward, just before she heads to her gate, she’ll treat herself to a little moment of nostalgia.

Not longing. Of course not. She left Copenhagen of her own volition.

But another hot dog – uninterrupted this time – along with a bottle of Cocio chocolate milk, will be just the pick-me-up she’ll need.

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