Page 19 of A Copenhagen Snowmance

Chapter Thirteen

There’s been a lot of progress made on the jigsaw, Anna notices, when leaving her room the following morning.

He must have been up early, and he must also have been moving around like a ninja as she didn’t hear him at all.

He’d certainly skipped the third step. Maybe he uses the jigsaw to clear his head, she supposes, as when she makes it to the kitchen, he’s at work; the coffee is on as normal and he’s on the telephone.

They go through their now ritual of mouthing “God morgen” to each other, as she pours herself a mugful, then comes to refill his.

He’s also been out to the baker, as there’s a plate of pastries on the kitchen counter for breakfast. She helps herself to a spandauer, with its custard centre and white-icing drizzle, commonly known as “the baker’s bad eye”, and scoffs it in a flat minute.

It’s only now, coffee in hand and pastry in gob, that Anna registers the call is contentious.

“No, Dad,” Jamie says, insistent and weary at the same time. “We’ve been through this. My life is here. It’s everything I want. I’m sorry.”

Anna makes herself busy, trying not to listen in, but it’s hard when she’s hearing the mix of frustration and guilt in Jamie’s voice.

She sits at the table when the call comes to an uncomfortable end.

“Still wants you back on Skye?” she asks. There’s no point acting oblivious.

He gives a long exhale. “Aye. Same conversation over and over. He doesn’t get it, or he doesn’t want to hear it.”

“He doesn’t want you to be happy?”

Jamie looks her in the eyes. “He can’t see how I wouldn’t be happy on Skye.

An island he loves and has never left, and a farm he was born to and wants to pass on to his only son.

In his eyes, it’s a gift I’m passing up, for something he has no experience of.

” He gives her a flat smile, then changes the subject with a more upbeat, “What’s the plan? ”

“Well, I’ve already had my daily chat with my friends at the airline.

We all know each other by name now,” she says, holding out the plate to him.

He takes a kanelsnegl, some of the pastry flaking onto his work.

“Copenhagen is clear and flights are going again, provided you live east of here and didn’t have the snowstorm.

British airports are still stuffed and all UK flights still cancelled.

So, no news, to be honest.” She’s almost resigned to it now.

Maybe getting the fear of seeing Carl out of the way, has doused some of the urgency?

Anna lifts up the laptop she’s brought down.

“Can I work here? It’s all research, not calls, so I won’t disturb you.”

“Of course,” he says. “Unless my calls will disturb you?”

“Nope. It’s nice to have other voices around.” She’s used to working alone in her apartment. Often, she’ll move to a café just to hear other human beings.

And so, they sit together, each hammering away at their respective keyboards.

It’s a comfortable silence, even as Jamie refills their coffee cups, or Anna brings a plate of sm?kager to the table to go with it.

Now and again, Jamie takes a call, and Anna tries to ignore it, but it’s intriguing to see and hear him being his professional self.

Carl always had his work persona – more bolshy and demanding – because that’s how he got his way.

Jamie’s persona isn’t too different, from what she’s seen of him, from his home self, listening rather than demanding, considering, standing firm in some cases, compromising when he’s shown a better way.

It makes for a far more relaxed environment and Anna imagines his office must be the same.

When she isn’t actively travelling or devising and discussing her tour ideas, she doesn’t have much face-to-face interaction.

It’s mostly the subsequent online research, emailing vendors or cruise lines, or her staple of writing articles for Katrine’s website.

It’s during a pause in the hammering that Anna hears Jamie’s breath hitch. He’s been checking something on his phone.

“What?” she asks, naturally intrigued.

Jamie’s eyes meet hers across the screen.

“Nothing.”

Something feels off. Anna might work in travel, but she’s still a journalist by training and she can sense there’s something here.

“You gasped.”

“I don’t gasp,” states Jamie. “Maiden aunts and Regency heroines gasp.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your breath distinctly hitched. It suggested shock or disgust.”

His brow furrows at that. “I grew up on a farm. Takes a lot to disgust me.”

“Shock then,” she says, taking it as an admission. She makes a “gimme” gesture at his phone. He places it screen down on the table instead.

“Trade secrets?” she asks. Fair enough if it is, but he hasn’t suggested there’s anything clandestine or competitive in his work.

“It’s nothing,” he says again, smoother this time, but it’s too late. Something is going on.

“Jamie? If it isn’t a business thing, then just show me? Is it Carl, did he put something on the street Facebook group? I bet he’s still on there.” She isn’t. That was a tie she had to cut early on.

Something is battling on his face. Anna crosses her arms.

“I’ve been a teenage girl, Jamie. I can out-stare you, out-mood you and out-stubborn you. Give it up.” She repeats the hand gesture.

He scratches his cheek, then finally sighs, before opening his phone and sliding it across, with a “You asked for it. Remember that.”

The sound that comes from Anna is somewhere between a scream and a yowl. Jamie sits back and rides it out. He’s crossed his own arms, mirroring her, but it appears more like a “told you, but you wouldn’t listen” gesture.

“Oh my God!” she manages once the sound has abated. She cannot believe what she’s seeing. “What is the matter with people?!”

There on the screen is a new photo of her and Jamie, gazing at each other like smitten kittens.

The sky is dark behind them, there’s steam rising around them from the tubs, their skin is glistening from the water.

Jamie is holding the towel, seconds from swaddling her in it.

Some other hot-tubber has snapped this of Jamie and Anna.

Or rather Jamie and Anna in the teeny-weeny bikini.

“I look like some bloody nisse-nymph!” The red hat and red bikini does make her look like a Christmas elf. “Did you see anyone with their phone?” she snaps, cross, appalled, distressed, all of that.

“Um, I was just looking at you,” he says, pointing to the phone as proof, keen to show he was in no way complicit. “I would have made them delete it if I had.” She would have dunked the photographer and their phone.

Anna’s own phone pings. Her eyes skitter to the message. Katrine. It’s a “starry-eyed” emoji with a photo attached. Anna doesn’t need to open it.

“That’s it,” she says, flopping back into the seat. “I am not leaving this house until I’m heading for the airport.”

“Yeah, no,” states Jamie. “We have an arrangement for this afternoon.”

“What?”

“Just get your work done,” he says. “We leave in about an hour.”

“Not leaving,” she says crossly. She sounds like a toddler, she knows.

“Anna, stop. I’m not going to blow sunshine up you by pointing out that it’s a hot photo. You’ll see that yourself when you calm the hell down. But I am telling you not to let it get in the way of your life. Ignore it.”

“Easy for you to say, you aren’t in a miniscule bikini,” she seethes.

“I am, in fact, topless, if you look,” he points out.

“I’m wearing half the amount of garments you are.

So, I should command the majority of the outrage here.

But I know there’s nothing I can do about this, and to be honest, this suits my purpose brilliantly.

Smilla will have something for her show and tell. ”

Anna’s jaw drops. “You’re happy with this?!”

“It’s a blatant infringement of privacy. Aye. I get it. But it’s out there already and we aren’t doing anything indecent, and as such I’m going to see it as serving a purpose in our fake-dating. Great job there, fake girlfriend.”

His own stubbornness is well on show and outraged as she is, she can’t help but be impressed by his reframing.

Again, if it had been anyone but herself she would have thought it a romantic shot, probably commissioned by Copenhot themselves.

Perhaps she should reflect on what she finds acceptable for others but not herself, but that can wait for another day.

Another day when she is safely away from this city.

Jamie’s expression says he isn’t going to be budged on this. With a cross huff, she goes back to her own work, hammering more aggressively on the keyboard and ignoring him for the following hour.

* * *

At noon precisely, Jamie slaps down the lid on his laptop.

“Time’s up. Let’s go.” His tone is bossier than normal, like he’s expecting resistance.

She hadn’t planned on a half day, but then she’s her own boss. The thought of bunking off with decent company is appealing. She’ll eventually be back in London with plenty of alone-time to fill. And yet, she says, “I really don’t want to go out.”

“I know,” he says, his voice softer, “but you can’t live like that. Hiding. And we had a plan. So, go get P?lse, and your big coat. I’ve got the rest.”

Oh. She hasn’t given much thought to his mentioning the ashes last night. But apparently this is happening.

The walk to Holmens Kirkegaard from the house is only ten minutes, but Anna revels in it.

She’s fully wrapped up in a hat under her hood, coat, scarf, gloves, winter boots and a thick layer of lip balm.

It’s a blue-sky day, but the cold is bitter out there.

Jamie is equally wrapped up and carrying a rucksack that he’s refusing to reveal the contents of. Mysterious. Anna is not averse to this.