Page 8 of A Copenhagen Snowmance
Jamie scoffs from his slouched position on the snug’s sofa. “The standard black/grey/white/beige palette of a Copenhagener’s wardrobe means, to a normal person’s eye, everything matches.”
Anna thinks about this for all of five seconds. “I don’t think that’s true. But you’re a man, blessed with a world of clothes which miraculously all go together, or you all live in a culture that doesn’t really care.”
Still, her clothes are warm, she’s not going out and so she chooses not to care either about her mismatching. She doesn’t mention that her bra and knickers, as well as being wildly mismatched, are from an aged selection with now questionable elastic robustness. But at least they too are dry.
Looking at the wardrobes, she wonders what she’d planned to do with the clothes. Was she intending to come back? No. She’d known that much eighteen months ago. But she hadn’t had time to sort or sell it all and in the end it became too much, and in her teary haze and manic flurry, she’d simply slid the doors shut and parked the whole problem. But (hurraaaah again!) her arctic coat is there and her Nordic winter boots, which just goes to show the state she was in when she left, stuffing mainly summer clothes in her case, as that was the current season. Her weather-prepping skills had clearly gone out of the window with the shock.
Jamie has pulled himself up to upright sitting, his focus on the jigsaw pieces on the coffee table. He’s been lightly scanning it, which Anna feels he might have been doing to give her space. Now his hand suddenly swoops on a piece and equally swiftly has it up and clicked into place. Anna drifts towards the table and considers the pieces. He’s already long into it, a vista of the colourful quayside at Nyhavn.
“Where’s the box lid?” she asks. She can see it’s Nyhavn, because it’s iconic and she’s a native, but she’d still like the cover picture to work from.
Jamie tuts at her. “We don’t cheat here. No pictures allowed.”
“That makes it double as hard.”
“Double the achievement,” he says, glancing up at her, through his fringe.
“Crazy,” she says, but picks up a piece, the apex of a roof she’d recognise anywhere, and fits it.
“Tak,” he says in thanks. He obviously doesn’t mind sharing. But then he stands, picks up their empty mugs and walks to the stairs.
“Take your time, do more of the puzzle if you like. I’ll make us some dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she starts, but he cuts her off.
“Don’t get too excited, I haven’t got much in. It might be fridge tapas. I’ll see what I can forage.” His manner is still frosty, but she senses he’s lowering his guard now, fractionally, given her story has proven true.
Anna watches as Jamie’s head disappears from sight. Uncomfortable as this is, she’s been lucky; he could have been out. He could have slammed the door in her face. He could have been creepy. But he wasn’t and he didn’t, and he absolutely isn’t. Frosty, yes, creepy, no. And like the light beard says, hehasbeen kind. And she thanks her lucky stars for that.
* * *
Feeling she should give him some space in his own home, Anna kicks around upstairs for a little while, then, when she feels she can’t hide any longer, joins him in the kitchen, to sit on a barstool overlooking his prepping. He has a glass of Merlot on the go, and he pours her one, too. It’s good and she’s glad for it.
Assessing the materials he’s working with, she hazards a guess. “Biksemad?”
“It’s leftovers, I know, but I had the potatoes, onions and meat from yesterday, and I can make it stretch for two.”
Anna lifts her hand to still him. “I lovebiksemad. Especially with a fried egg on top, if you have one? But to be honest I’m grateful for anything you make me.”
He slides an egg box into view. “Runny yolk or nah?”
“Runny. Always,” she says, and can tell he’s the same.
He picks up his glass, and for a second she thinks he’ll clink with her, but, on reflection he simply says “Skål,” and moves to the hob.
“So, what brings you to Copenhagen, Jamie MacDonald?” she asks, watching him moving around the kitchen preparing to fry the potato hash. He seems to glide about the space, closing cupboard doors gently, pushing drawers in quietly, which is in stark contrast to the way Carl used to slam around. It always felt like a protest, and he was under duress. Anna shakes off the thoughts of Carl, keen to stay in this moment and not tarnish being here with thoughts of her ex.
He pauses before he says, “Work.”
“Which is…?” She’d asked him before and he swerved it. Maybe it’s something top secret, but probably he doesn’t want to let her in any further. His long pause makes her think it’s the latter. If it was secret, he’d have a cover story, surely?
“I’m a sustainability consultant and work in a think-tank for city-sustainability initiatives. Denmark and Copenhagen are frontrunners for environmental issues, and it’s the perfect place for me to be.” Intriguingly, his tone is adamant about that last bit. Like it’s a statement. She wasn’t about to question it. Weird.
“And you’ve been here two years?”
“I have. And I love it here. It’s got a bit of everything I need.” For all his initial frostiness, now he sounds impassioned. Anna is finding him quite mercurial.
Her thoughts go to the photos upstairs of the Highland landscapes.
