Julie Caplin - The Little Café in Copenhagen - Fall in love and escape the winter blues with this wonderfully heartwarming and feelgood novel

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Harper Impulse

an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Julie Caplin 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Julie Caplin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008259747

Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008259730

Version: 2018-10-26

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright Harper Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018 Copyright © Julie Caplin 2018 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018 Julie Caplin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008259747 Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008259730 Version: 2018-10-26

Dedication For the Copenhagen Crew, Alison Cyster-White & Jan Lee-Kelly, my dearest friends, partners in crime and thoroughly wonderful travel elves. #highlyreco‌mmendedtra‌vellingcompanions

Part One: London PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Part Two: Copenhagen

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part Three: London

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

Coming Soon From Julie Caplin

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

For the Copenhagen Crew, Alison Cyster-White & Jan Lee-Kelly, my dearest friends, partners in crime and thoroughly wonderful travel elves. #highlyreco‌mmendedtra‌vellingcompanions

‘See you later.’ I dropped a quick kiss on Josh’s lips and we exchanged a knowing smile. He pulled me towards him and went back for a second lingering kiss, his hands finding their way inside my coat to slide down my bottom and then start inching up my dress.

‘Sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?’ His voice held a note of husky suggestion.

‘No. I can’t. You’re going to be late, and,’ I glanced over my shoulder, ‘Dan might walk in at any second.’ His flatmate had the unerring ability of a Labrador sniffing a crotch to interrupt at precisely the wrong moment. My flatmate, Connie, had much greater diplomacy; in fact she had social skills.

He let go of me and picked up his cereal bowl, leaning against the kitchen counter, lazily eating as if he had all the time in the world.

‘See you later.’ He winked.

I picked up my laptop case and closed the front door of his, far nicer than mine, flat, and hurried down the road to the tube station mentally reviewing all that I needed to get done that day.

After two years of seamless travel to work, albeit sweaty, stuffy and crowded with the regular frustration of delays and hold ups, I missed my stop. The first time ever. This travel hiccough should have registered. In London, you have to be on the ball all the time. Checking your emails, phone messages, social media threads, it was endless. I missed my stop, simply because I was too absorbed in thinking what a load of bollocks as I read an article on some latest lifestyle fad over someone’s shoulder. Hygge . My flat mate Connie had been muttering about it the other night, waving some book about and lighting candles left right and centre in a woeful attempt to make our dismal flat homelier. As far I was concerned a couple of candles were never going to compensate for our landlord’s hideous taste and before I knew it the doors had closed on Oxford Circus.

Having to get off at the next stop and go back down the line didn’t make me late, only later than usual. I’m always at work super-early. Showing my commitment. How serious I am about my job. Not that I mind or I’m trying to score brownie-points, well maybe just a few. I just can’t wait to get there. Oh, God that sounds real eager, arse-licker, beaver. It’s not like that at all. I love my job, as a public relations Account Director. I work for one of the top PR agencies in London. I say I love my job, I do most of the time. The office politics and promotion manoeuvring I could do without and the pay could be an awful lot better. But hopefully that was about to change, I was overdue a long-promised promotion. Then I’d be earning a bit more and I could afford to move to somewhere where there isn’t a ten-inch Mohican fringe of blue mould growing down the living room wall.

Tube stop fiasco aside, there was time to treat myself to a Butterscotch Brulée Latte and it was only when I was in the queue that I saw a text from my boss, Megan, asking if I could pop in and see her first thing.

With a quick smile, I shoved my mobile back in my bag. There wasn’t going to be time to see her before heading up to the boardroom where every other Friday all fifty-five people in the agency met for our bi-monthly staff internal comms briefing, where new business wins and general big news – like promotions – were announced. I had a pretty good idea why she wanted to speak to me. I’d been waiting long enough for this day. Two weeks ago, following my shining, yes you are the dog’s bollocks appraisal, I’d made my case for the vacant position of Senior Account Director, which I was reasonably, no very, confident had been well-received. Megan had been hinting there might be some good news soon.