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one,” she replied, following his nod to the cooler. There was a range of bottles inside, all Kronegaard she noticed, but then she supposed it was their home territory, so she could make allowances. She picked one in a brown bottle to match his. It wasn’t one she’d seen before. The only Kronegaard beers she knew came in their famous green bottles.

      She settled into her spot next to him and at first sat in awkward silence. He didn’t appear to feel awkward however. He seemed completely relaxed, simply enjoying the setting sun and calm of the ending day. Gradually, she tried to follow his lead on the relaxation as they sank the first of their beers. A couple of kayakers paddled past them and a few more GoBoats, the passing picnic tables increasingly stocked with evening drinks. Finally, ready to talk again, she pointed to a Tupperware box at his side which he’d regularly move to be directly in the receding sunlight.

      “What’s that?”

      “Your phone,” he said. “I’ve switched it off, removed the SIM and put all of it in rice to draw out the water. Keeping it warm helps too. In a couple of days, you might get lucky and have it working again.”

      “Really?” She’d been trying to hold onto her grief until she was back in her hotel room, her panic locked away in her head until then. “Does that work?”

      “Did for me when I dropped mine in a toilet. Worth a try.”

      Delighted there was a plan afoot she held up her bottle to clink it with him.

      “Skaal,” he said. It sounded like Skorl, and she returned it to the best of her ability, which made him smile again. He obviously found her entertaining, and not generally having that role when in company, Jen didn’t quite know what to make of it.

      “So Jen, is this your first time in Copenhagen?”

      “It is,” she said with a nod, “it’s been on my wish list for years, but you know, ‘life gets in the way’.”

      “And other than the underside of a GoBoat, what have you seen?”

      “Well, I did have a to-see list on my …” she barely managed to point at the Tupperware box, feeling a lump beginning to form in her throat but reining it in so as not to completely overreach her prat quota for the day by crying in front of him, “however, as you’ve seen, my travel-mates are a rather unruly bunch and do not respect lists and planning.” His chuckle was somewhat disconcerting. Clearly he thought she was being funny and actually she wasn’t, not about the value of planning. Robert would have been nodding with her. Perhaps Danes were different. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. “I had a detailed plan on my laptop, but … well, I had to cobble together a replacement on the plane.” She reeled off the points of interest she could remember, which was all of them, probably mangling the pronunciation of some.

      “That is very … comprehensive,” he said. She couldn’t quite work out whether he was impressed or amused.

      “Well, if you only have a couple of days, you need to be efficient,” Jen said seriously. Some people – Lydia, Alice and Max for example – apparently didn’t get that.

      “And what about free time?” he asked. His eyes had a twinkle to them.

      She didn’t know what he meant. “The whole weekend is free time. It’s … well it’s the weekend.” That was the same in Danish, surely? “Weekend” was one of those universal words, wasn’t it?

      “Yes,” he said, “but I do not hear any time allocated to simply walking through the streets, along the canals, looking and breathing.” He gave a light wave to their surroundings.

      Jen could only blink at him. It made him laugh. “I am teasing you, Jen.” She released a slightly unnerved laugh. Other than Lydia, no one ever teased her. “It is a good list of things to do,” he said placating her, “but perhaps you should not walk too fast between the sights. You might miss some lovely things; the buildings, the hidden courtyards, quirky fountains, the balconies.”

      Well yes, that did make sense, she thought, scanning the canal in front of them and the quaysides. There was lots to see when you took a moment to look. Tall hollyhocks in the cobbled doorways, carved wooden double doors, bicycles meandering along everywhere. Perhaps, she should assign some meandering time in her numerous trip lists at home. She was pretty sure though that breathing would come naturally.

      “But most importantly,” she continued, keen to move him on from the teasing and regain her footing, “I managed to see the Kronegaard museum this morning.”

      He gave her an odd look. “Kronegaard? Really?” He pronounced it the Danish way, krorn-gorr, rolling the kr.

      “Oh yes. I’ve always wanted to go. The guide book said it would take two hours, but I took three. It was wonderful. Have you been?”

      “I have,” he replied, his eyebrows slightly raised.

      “Are you from Copenhagen?” she asked.

      “Born and bred.” It struck her as a British phrase, but then from what she’d experienced so far all the Danes’ English was excellent. “And what did you think of the museum?”

      And then she was off; waxing lyrical about how inspiring it had been and how the corporate story had changed her perception, not of the brand per se, but of the business choices. She gushed about Henrik, his hard work and his legacy. Mouth going ten to the dozen, her eyes kept flicking to his face, noting how his expression kept changing as she shared her opinions.

      “You’ve been lots of times, haven’t you?” she said.

      “How could you tell?”

      “Your face. While I described it all, your face was this mix of pride and concentration. Pride at the bits I liked and concentration at the bits I didn’t. It was interesting to watch. You could have got all defensive at the criticism.”

      He shrugged. “It’s good to hear what visitors think. I guess when you come from a small city, in a very small country, you do feel a huge sense of pride in a success story. And the criticism? Well, there is nothing to learn by getting angry.”

      “I think you Copenhageners have lots to be proud of,” she said, nodding out at the current view.

      “Do you recognise the barge?” he asked. “It’s one of the old Kronegaard delivery barges, it took beer across the city’s canals, or brought in the raw supplies.” He looked up at Jen, his eyes dancing. “Once it would have reeked of beer. In some spaces I can still smell the hops.”

      “Really? I saw pictures of them in the museum, I just hadn’t made the connection.”

      “So are you a Kronegaard fan?” he asked. He did a very good job of making his interest appear genuine. Lord knew she was rarely faced with any when she talked to her friends about her passion for beer. They were happy just to drink it.

      “Ha! No.” Was it wrong to enjoy the surprise on his face? It clearly wasn’t the answer he was expecting after her gushing about the museum. Jen took another swig of her beer. “From what I saw today, I like the Krone family, their tenacity, their vision, I’m just not a fan of what the brand has become. It’s just another conglomerate, chomping its way through smaller brewers and plundering the market for the biggest share. There’s no heart in that. It’s nothing personal against the family, although before today I figured it was all corporate-owned now. One of the boards in the museum said the family are still major shareholders.”

      His expression had turned somewhat more concentrated. She liked that look too.

      “It’s a huge family, many of them have jobs there.”

      “Well, what’s family for, if they can’t land you a job?” she said, blithely.

      “No, they all have to be fully qualified in some field before they are let in,” he said, before adding, “from what I understand.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” she said, leaning back on her elbow.

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