Page 2 of A Copenhagen Snowmance

The metro, a two-carriage driverless shuttle, is crammed with passengers heading into the city, who chat as they look out of the large windows at the island suburb of Amager as they pass.

Not so Anna, who keeps her eyes on her phone, resisting the call to fill her vision with the arrival into the city.

Before, she would have tried for a front seat with its big pane and savoured the journey, but not now.

Now, standing, she checks emails and tries to ignore the fact that with each stop, there seems to be more and more snow falling, much of it being carried into the carriage on passengers’ boots.

And more and more passengers come with each stop, too, pushing her further and further in, until they’re squashed like herring in a barrel, as the Danes would say.

At this latest surge, Anna finds herself crushed up against someone’s chest. She feels a breath exhale above her head.

What strikes her is the tone of the sigh; not a physical reaction to the squeeze of the crowd, but more …

dismay? Anna looks up through her lashes at the face above her.

And is met by a rigid visage, with steely, blue eyes, which do not look in any way pleased to see her again.

She suspects he knows about the cucumber.

There’s the slightest scent of ketchup about, too.

Casting her eyes quickly down again, Anna acts as if none of this is happening, that she isn’t rubbing against him with every shift of the train, thankful he’s choosing to ignore her and allowing her to do the same, though there’s little room for doubt between them – physically or figuratively – that he doesn’t like her.

It’s an enormous relief, then, when the train reaches Kongens Nytorv, where many of the passengers spill out to move above ground or connect to other lines.

Just as the city is small, so too is the metro network, with just four lines, but Anna hopes this is where she and Scowly Guy now go their separate ways, never to cross paths again.

But no. Connecting to the other set of lines, she spies him up ahead.

It’s clearly him, the enormous mess on the back of his coat unmissable.

He glances back and spots her, which of course garners her another scowl.

She wants to march up to him to tell him that obviously she’s not following him, she’s just heading in the same direction, which is totally different.

But she doesn’t, because Anna doesn’t do things like that.

And she’s trying to fly under the radar.

Instead, she fakes adjusting something on her boot, to expand the space between them.

And yet, they end up on the same train, nonetheless.

He moves up the carriage, none too subtly, away from her.

Anna focuses on her emails, keen for him to see he’s of no interest to her whatsoever, so he can keep his scowls to himself.

As the train reaches ?sterport station, Anna jumps off as fast as she can, primarily to demonstrate she truly isn’t following him, but secretly also to be in front, should he get off, too.

Which he does. Of course he does. Sighing, she keeps her eyes front and centre as they ride up the escalator, but she can’t help but catch a glimpse of his stony face.

It’s a shame, she thinks, that he’s such a miserable git, scowly and cross, because by all metrics, that would be an enviable face for a guy to have, objectively speaking; strong cheekbones, striking eyes and a razor-sharp jaw under perfect stubble.

And as such, she’s relieved when he takes his face in a different direction when they reach the street. Thank fuck for that.

Everywhere is covered in snow, with more falling, thick and fast. The clinic is two streets from ?sterport station and Anna negotiates the walk quickly and with minimal engagement with the scenery and buildings, which is tricky, as her traitorous eyes want to drink it all in.

However, as the pavements are already slippy with the snow, attention is needed.

Snowflakes keep catching on her eyelashes, which, much as Anna normally loves snow, is annoying.

She keeps her hands firmly wedged in her pockets, hoping the wool coat won’t soak up too much meltwater, knowing that naturally it will, and that the locals will be judging.

The banner across the front window says Farvel a moody old thing but beloved nonetheless, and absolutely the only reason that could bring her back to Copenhagen, as everything else save for weddings and funerals can be done digitally here.

She’s missed him. Very much. But in the madness of the last eighteen months, she’s never had the chance to properly mourn him. Or collect him. Hence the trip.

Placing the cylinder carefully in her bag and saying goodbye and thanks, and good luck and also merry Christmas, she leaves the veterinary clinic.

The cold smacks her in the face, and the snow serves a follow-up slap.

The wind has picked up and the flurries mean business.

Anna’s quick to rebutton her coat and cross her arms in front of her as she dips her head and steers directly across the street and in through a gate.

She has one more stop before she turns her nose back towards the metro, the airport and London.

And then that’ll be it. The Bosh to the Bish and the Bash.

One more stop, and she’ll finally be properly done with this city, its bad memories and scowly men.