Page 5 of A Copenhagen Snowmance
“White. But the accessories are grey.” She sees his intention, but she’s flipping cold and doesn’t have time for this. “Look, either of those things I could have seen on old lettings ad pictures. But Icantell you the third step on the second staircase squeaks like a bitch.”
His face relaxes. Fractionally.
“Anna, did you say?” She nods. He sighs. Deeply. “I’m freezing my tits off here.” Yes, she can see. AndSame, she thinks, but keeps it to herself. “Come in, warm up and we’ll work out what to do with you.” The delivery is slightly begrudging, but Anna graciously chooses to overlook it.
* * *
She waits in her own entrance hall, as the guy sprints back up the stairs then re-emerges in under two minutes in joggers and pulling a sweatshirt down over his chest. She averts her eyes from the last sliver of skin, but she’s surprised herself at how much she’s ogled. Ogling has been soundly off the cards lately.
“Give me your coat,” he says. She unpeels the dripping coat from her body. “That’s what you’ve been wearing?” he asks incredulously. “I thought you Danes knew how to dress for the weather.” She resists the urge to snarl.
She hands him the coat and he obviously regrets his offer the moment his hand comes into contact with the wet wool. His is no poker face; it’s virtually subtitled. He hangs it on a peg, though.
“I… forgot,” is the only real excuse she has. “And it was just supposed to be a quick in-and-out trip.” That mantra has not worked. She also hands him her sopping hat, its pompom a sorry state.
He looks critically at her. “Your clothes are wet, too.” He makes it sound like she’s done it on purpose, to annoy him.
“I am aware,” she mumbles.
His eyes move towards the open kitchen-diner living room, and she senses his reluctance. But his manners are stronger, it seems.
“Tea?” he asks, ushering her further in. “Or are you still mainlining coffee at this hour, like a true Dane?”
She’s been drinking tea in the evening since she’d been away atefterskole, between the end of her senior school and college.
“Tea would be great, thank you.” Just the thought of hot tea is almost enough to bring her to tears again. She’s still feeling stupid about the over-clothes and very aware of the wet remaining clothes, every movement clammy and cold.
The room is mainly as she remembers it, the pale wood dining table and chairs and pendant lights. It was a great space for dinner parties. Today, one end of the table is covered by piles of work papers and the other a space where she supposes he eats. The room is lived in without being messy, orderly in its daily use. Hermormor’s Swiss cheese plant is still going in one corner, which makes her smile. The kitchen has way fewer things cluttering the tops than when she lived here. It’s tidier than her London kitchen, so she supposes it must be a “her” thing. A large rechargeable candle flickers in the window. That’s his and she likes it, what it represents. But best of all, it’s the memories the room offers that have her staring for a long moment, memories of being here with Vivi and Mads, but also with Carl and the life they had here. Lounging on the sofa at the far wall, basking in the morning sunshine with cups of coffee, stroking a purring Pølse, and watching the birds in the courtyard garden. There’s a knitted throw hanging over the arm of the sofa, and Anna has to rein in the overwhelming desire to wrap her sodden body in it.
“Do you need some dry clothes?” he prompts, knocking her out of her reverie. “Something while you tumble yours?” Her black merino-wool V-neck and black trousers are dry-clean only. Neither of them are going near the tumble dryer.
“Thank you… er…” She’s standing in the kitchen with a man whose name she doesn’t know. Or at least she can’t remember. She’d digi-signed the lease documents the agent had sent her in a hurry, keen to get it out of her head. Was his surname MacKinlay?
He takes the hint, with a grunt. “James. Jamie MacDonald.” He doesn’t look at her as he makes the tea. He uses loose leaves and a strainer, the tea leaves having been spooned from a small brown paper bag. He’s either been gifted it or self-selected the blend in a shop. She likes the idea of him assessing the scents before making his choice. It’s something she’d always done, too.
“Jamie, thank you. But I’m thinking I can maybe change into some of my clothes stored in the room upstairs.”
He frowns for a second, then understands. “You mean the sex room?” he asks and Anna has to cough her caught breath. Her mind spins through the rooms upstairs and wonders what he’s done to one of them. Surely there were terms and conditions in the lease about that kind of redecorating?
Jamie places a steaming cup in front of her. Her hands are around the ceramic cup in a short second.
“The room with the padlock. That’s what my friends call it. No one knows what’s behind the door.” He’s not laughing as such, not at her, certainly, but she senses amusement there. Like heiscapable of humour.
“Oh.” Now she sees.
“The estate agent said it was your stuff, but it put other viewers off. They were expecting a body or something torturous behind it. They’ve been reading too much Nordic Noir. But their loss was my gain, so…” This is the most he’s spoken to her so far, so she suspects he’s genuinely pleased with his luck. To be fair, he’s got a great house here, in a central location. The houses are much sought-after, which is ironic, given they were built as lowly workers’ terraces, three families to each house. She hadn’t been aware of viewers not taking to the house, she’d left the agent to it.
“Trust me, there’s just my personal items in there. No bodies. I just didn’t have time to arrange storage when I left. Piling everything into the one room and locking it seemed the best idea. That and the storeroom in the basement.” She sees now that it is… irregular, but she hadn’t been thinking too straight at the time. All she’d thought about was getting the hell out of town. “I have the key. If it’s OK with you, I could grab some dry clothes?”
“Sure.” Back to the minimal sentences then. They drink their tea in relative silence, Jamie busying himself tidying his paperwork away, in what she suspects is an effort not to engage her further in conversation– or to hide his notes just in case this is an elaborate ruse of industrial espionage. Either way, Anna can’t see how she’s going to get to a point of asking whether she can stay the night. Her eyes skitter to the courtyard, wondering whether she can at least slyly scatter Pølse’s ashes somewhere out there in one of his beloved sunspots. Unlikely.
Eventually, she digs out the Viking keyring and heads for the staircase. He follows. She’s not surprised. He’s already not happy about her being there, so there’s no way he’ll let her roam about his possessions upstairs unchecked. Understanding, she stays quiet, thinking, too, that it must be strange living with a mystery room in your home. She looks about as she goes, trying to see all the differences. It’s strange; her home, but not her home. She recognises the basic layer of walls, floor, simple furniture and rugs, but then there’s a top layer, of things which aren’t hers; a guitar on a stand in a corner, a couple of framed photos on the sideboard. It’s strange, but she finds she likes it. Her house is still a home, and it deserves to be loved.
Something suddenly dawns on her. “Do you live here alone?” What she really means is: Is your wife about to come home and find another woman getting dressed in your house?Anna wouldn’t wish that on anyone. She’s astounded she hasn’t thought of it until now. She really hasn’t thought coming here through. The intrusion. She only thought about getting warm, somewhere she felt safe.
“Aye,” he says. His tone is wary. Maybe he’s feeling uncomfortable being alone here with her? He hadn’t really had much choice in the matter. Anna tries to put him at ease with more chatter as she scales the stairs.
“And you’ve been in Copenhagen long?” He’d known to shoutJeg kommerat the door. He’s obviously picking up the language or actively learning it.
