Pernille Hughes - Probably the Best Kiss in the World

“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.

“It’s an established family, Jen, you can’t run a business like that, or uphold the standards and credibility in society like they have, without enforcing some tough rules.” His voice was slightly tight and it made her look up at him. “I know someone who works there.” Fair enough.

“So, the boat?” she prompted him, eager to get him back to his barge story, because she liked the way he talked about it. As she’d hoped his face lit up again as he recounted how he’d got a tip-off the brewery was clearing out an old dock property and a couple of barges were due to be scrapped.

“I fell in love with this one and over three years spent weekends working on her, finally finding a suitable mooring spot and moving in.”

“Wait a minute, you mean you did all this? Yourself?”

“Well, no,” he said, which sounded more likely. “The hull repairs needed a boat builder, but the water-proofing and the building and the decorating, that was me. And some friends helped, though some were more useful than others. Some I’d make sit in the floor with a beer and a guitar, so they kept their hands off any tools.”

“You’re obviously very creative,” she said. She was still blown away by the interior.

“Ha! I don’t know about that.” He stroked his hand fondly on the deck as he spoke. “It was a labour of love, though. I’ve had my happiest times here.”

“Oh Lord, it’s some secret shag-pad, isn’t it?” Jen asked, the beer and the encroaching night curbing her filters. He laughed.

“Secret yes, shag-pad no. I just travel a lot and I’m not in Copenhagen so often. I wanted somewhere special to come to.”

“Oh right.”

“And I haven’t got an ex-wife hidden in the suburbs with numerous children, if that is what you’re thinking. This is it. This is me.” He held his hands out from his sides, palms up. Jen was touched by the gesture which was both humble and offering at the same time. And for some reason she was pleased about the no wife thing.

His phone dinged. Glancing at it, he barked a laugh and showed it to her. Lydia had replied to her stroppy text. The message read Wish you were beer! It took a moment for Jen to clock it was a selfie. Lydia’s mouth was open in a scream, and yet her eyes weren’t filled with terror. Her hair was also standing upright. It made no sense, until Jen saw that the background was the ground.

“Oh dear God,” she gasped. Lydia was taking selfies upside down on very high fairground rides. Just the thought made her stomach turn. A second message dinged in to ask whether Jen was joining them in Tivoli. Jen shuddered.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Jen?” Yakob laughed. “I was planning to get sushi delivered.”

In her head it was a no brainer. Staying here, calmly enjoying the evening on a beer barge was a million times more appealing than dodging hellish rides with her traitorous sister. Normally, she’d have reluctantly gone to keep an eye on Lydia, but considering they’d ditched her, she figured Alice and Max could have the pleasure. However, there was a nagging in her conscience that perhaps newly engaged women shouldn’t be having dinner with strange men. She questioned whether Robert would see it as a necessary part of thanking a good Samaritan. Possibly an old, wizened Samaritan, but not this buff one next to her.

Jen weighed it up. Technically, staying a bit longer, having some food could be classed as part of getting over her canal shock. He was still Samaritan-ing her and such kindness shouldn’t be snubbed, in her book. It wasn’t like it was a date, which would be a complete no-no. And of course her clothes were still drying, so it made sense to stay until she could take them with her. That was just practical.

She took a moment of looking him square in the face before she gave her answer. “Sounds great,” she said. It was what Lydia would have wanted her to do, and Lydia was in charge this weekend after all, not her.

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