LITMIR.BIZ

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thief in the night, I opened drawers and cupboards, checking out the sewing kit and shoe cleaning cloth before moving into the bathroom and hesitantly picking up the posh smellies, Sage and Seaspray. I took a quick sniff of the opulent scent which made me feel even more like a fish out of water.

      I perched on the very edge of the bed, bouncing slightly on the soft mattress, wondering what to do, unable to dispel the sense of being an intruder casing someone else’s life. Unpacking seemed presumptuous; it almost didn’t feel right to put my clothes in the wardrobe. Unsettled and lost, I took in a deep breath, wishing I wasn’t on my own.

      My mother loves looking after people. Lars’ words floated in my head. Suddenly I longed for a touch of down to earth normality. A café with coffee and warm pastry sounded perfect.

      In my newly purchased feather down coat, which from looking at everyone at the airport was going to make me fit right in, I felt awfully brave stepping out from the hotel, even though according to my map, Varme was only a few streets away. It felt like an awfully big adventure. This was my first trip abroad on my own and the poshest hotel I’d ever stayed in. With a quick look heavenwards, I beamed to myself. Mum would definitely approve. With a brief pang, I imagined what it might have been like, if I could have told her all about it.

      It took me less than five minutes to navigate the cobbled streets to find Varme and five seconds to fall head over heels in love with it. Cute, quaint, there was also something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, which made it so appealing. It certainly wasn’t fancy, not like the hotel. The name was written in copper metal letters about twenty centimetres high in a sensible reassuring courier font, Varme, like flames licking the bordering grey painted wood. Which made sense as the translation of Varme in English was warmth. The floor to ceiling windows painted in the same grey trim were sandwiched between huge thick sandy colour stone walls, more like the walls of a fortress. A tiny flight of steps led down into the café to glazed doors and when I pushed them open I was immediately assaulted by the smell of cinnamon and coffee and almost wilted with pleasure on the spot. One cup of rather dire coffee on the plane did not cut it as far as my body was concerned.

      A small, slight woman with a perky blonde ponytail was clearing tables with quick neat economy. Dressed in black jeans and a black jumper, she looked up and said, ‘God morgen,’ with an easy smile, giving the table a last wipe and turning to face me.

      ‘Hello, I’m looking for Eva Wilder.’ My sensible ballet pumps squeaked slightly on the herringbone pattern arrangement of the tiles on the floor as I took a step towards her, trying not to look around the room in wonderment. There was so much to see, drawing your eye here, there and everywhere. Long and narrow, either end of the room had white walls painted with flowers, blurry, watercolour style that looked contemporary and smart rather than twee and cottagey.

      ‘And then you’ve found her.’ Her eyes sparkled with genuine delight. ‘You must be Kate. Lars has told me all about you.’ She threw down her cloth and came over putting both hands on my arms and studying me with smiley assessment which slightly unnerved me as if somehow, I’d unknowingly graduated to long lost member of the family. ‘How lovely to meet you. I just know we’re going to get along. Welcome to Varme.’ Without pausing to draw breath she pulled me over to a chalky white painted table and pushed me into a seat.

      ‘Let’s have a coffee and you can tell me all about yourself.’

      ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ I said with prim English politeness, hoping she’d forget about the latter.

      ‘And weinerbrod?’

      I was about to decline but my stomach let a howl of resistance, so audible Eva didn’t wait for an answer. I knew from some pre-trip research that bizarrely what the rest of the world called Danish pastries were, in fact, called Viennese bread in Denmark. Go figure.

      ‘Yes please, I’ve only had one coffee today and that was on the plane.’ I pulled a face, to illustrate its woeful quality.

      ‘Then, we must fix that.’ Like her son, she had a slight American intonation to her accent. Unlike his bright blue eyes, hers were a merry brown that danced in a small petite face like a mischievous sprite. It was difficult to imagine that she was mother to the strapping Lars, he must be nearly twice her height and she certainly didn’t look old enough.

      I sat down and took advantage of her busy industry to take a good look around. There was a central counter in the middle of the long back wall, with rows and rows of copper coloured coffee canisters on the back wall along with grey painted racks of plates, cups and mugs. From here I could pick out the famous Royal Copenhagen Blue floral pattern on the white china. On the front of the counter were glass domes, under which a wonderful selection of cakes, pastries and desserts sheltered. In between them were glass cabinets filled with colourful open sandwiches which looked too well-decorated and ornate to eat.

      Behind was a serving hatch through which you could see a small, very compact kitchen, which was clearly where the delicious smells were coming from.

      ‘Columbian coffee today, I think,’ she said giving me another one of her appraising looks.

      I nodded. ‘Sounds lovely.’ Something about her impish smile made me add, ‘Although to be honest, I worked as a barista when I was a student and I’m not sure I’d know Columbian coffee if it bit me.’

      ‘A useful talent. If you can make coffee you’ll never be out of a job. I’ll have to set you to work if we get busy.’ Despite her wink, I was pretty sure she meant it.

      ‘Do you run this by yourself?’

      ‘Most of the time although I have some part time help from friends and students.’

      ‘It’s a lovely place.’

      On the walls around the café, pale mint green glass shelves housed little vignettes, perfectly formed displays. Five delicate wine goblets made from deep purple glass. Seven silver eggs in different sizes. A single antique cup and saucer with a whole shelf to itself. The eclectic mix worked well and fascinated me. I’d never seen anything quite like it but it didn’t feel designery or that someone was trying too hard.

      ‘I love the glasses,’ I said pointing to them. ‘You have some beautiful things.’

      ‘It’s the Danish way. It’s been psychologically proven that looking at something beautiful makes people happier. That’s why as a nation we are so keen on our design. I picked the glasses up in a flea market years ago, but I’ve got so many now and I couldn’t bear to part with them. They look rather nice there, don’t they?’

      Which matched my impression that each item had been put out simply because they were liked.

      ‘Gosh your English is amazing.’

      She laughed. ‘I lived in London for many years. Here.’ She came to the table and unloaded a tray passing a tall china cup and saucer my way with a little jug of milk. ‘Nice and strong. And spandauer.’

      Spandauer turned out to be a square pastry with turned up corners and a jammy red middle, the glistening buttery edges as delicious as they looked when I took the first crumbly mouthful and the strawberry jam bursting with sweetness.

      ‘Mmm,’ I groaned unable to help myself. ‘That is delicious. Everything’s been a bit of a rush this morning.’

      ‘Well now you can relax.’

      ‘I don’t know about that.’ I gave my watch a quick check. ‘I need to be back at the hotel to round everyone up in half an hour.’

      ‘Plenty of time.’

      ‘Don’t forget I’m the one working. The others are the guests. I’m on duty.’

      ‘Does that worry you?’ she asked rather too astutely to my mind.

      I nodded.

      ‘Here put my number into your phone. You can always call me if you need anything, but I know you will be fine. And while you’re here, you’re not on duty. My son wanted you to experience the real Denmark,

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