The Little Café in Copenhagen. Julie Caplin
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complete waste of time.’
Conrad looked at me and made no move. I suddenly realised that I was expected to pay for breakfast. Of course, I was. I looked around at the party realising that was what everyone was waiting for and Sophie caught my eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. The perfect ally. I pulled out my purse which bulged with English cash and Danish Kroner.
‘Sophie, would you mind doing the honours for me?’ I pushed a couple of notes into her hands. ‘Can you pay for the coffees and give me the receipt?’
‘No problem.’ She winked and took the money. ‘Come on then troops.’ She turned and led the way falling into step with Fiona and David while Conrad and Avril followed up the rear. As they walked away down the airport concourse, I felt a sense of premonition; I had a horrible feeling that was how the group split was going to be for the whole trip.
I looked at my watch again. At least my case had gone on the plane, they wouldn’t leave without me. Not to start with anyway. There was another fifteen minutes before the check-in desk closed. Should I call Benedict?
As part of my preparation, I’d asked for everyone’s mobile number and being super-efficient, I’d pre-programmed everyone’s numbers into my contacts the other evening.
I paced up and down in a small circle around the check-in desk. When I called Benedict’s number, my heart sank as I listened to, ‘This mobile is currently switched off.’ Did that mean he was on the tube, on his way? Still asleep with his phone switched off for the night?
Impatiently I called again in case he’d been in a bad signal area, or he’d just got off the tube and was on his way up, as I kept an eye out for a vaguely quiff haired bandit, which was all I could glean from Benedict’s fuzzy photocopy of his passport picture. Every time I looked up at the overhead digital clock another two minutes had elapsed. It was like some horrible magical trick where time sped up in direct proportion to my increasing stress level.
I looked at the check-in desk. Still seven minutes to go. Only three people left in the queue. One desk had already closed up. I looked at my mobile. No messages. Fifty-three minutes until the flight left. I looked down the concourse. Was he coming? The familiar burning sensation low in my stomach made me stop pacing. I took a deep breath. I needed a coffee and something to eat.
At what point did I give up? Once the check-in desks closed? What would I do if he turned up after then? Book another flight? My stomach knotted itself tighter.
Two minutes and counting. I looked at my phone. Still no word. This was ridiculous. I should be with the rest of the group; they were my responsibility. Benedict Johnson was now over three quarters of an hour late. I’d more than given him the benefit of the doubt.
With one last look at the check-in desk, catching the eye of the supervisor there, who looked suitably pitying at my dejected appearance, I turned to walk down towards passport control.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something like a tornado in the distance, a man running pell mell down the concourse, dragging a case.
The man behind the desk had stood up.
‘Wait,’ I called rushing over to him. ‘I think my colleague’s here.’
The man pursed his lips.
‘Here you can start with this, can’t you?’ I pushed over the paperwork and the copy of Benedict’s passport.
The man in a leather jacket and jeans came flying to the front of the queue and slammed up against the desk, passport in hand.
‘Benedict Johnson, I presume,’ I snarled less than charitably given the poor chap was bent double trying to catch his breath, almost prostrate at my feet, and hiding the fact I was bloody relieved to see him.
His passport picture didn’t do him justice, not that I could see much but the back of his head. His dull fuzzy passport picture suggested stoned serial killer, not this man whirling in, leather jacket flying and zinging with energy.
‘I’ve just … made it … from … the tube in ninety … seven seconds,’ he puffed as the man on the desk tried to peer sideways to look at his face.
I had an impression of thick hair, well cut and an unusual shade … oh shit … of dark auburn hair.
I had a moment of flight or fight panic as he slowly straightened. At least I had the tiniest advantage of realising before he did as I schooled my face into polite indifference, while inside my heart banged with all the merry inappropriate joy of a big bass drum.
‘Cinders!’ he said, ‘What are you doing here?’ He hauled his case onto the conveyor belt as the man snapped on a label and handed back his passport. ‘Benedict Johnson. Ben.’
My eyes met his and for a second we stared at each other until his sharpened with sudden quizzical intelligence.
‘Oh shit, you’re her. PR woman.’ His groaned words were all I needed to calm the silliness inside.
‘Oh shit, yes I am.’ Suddenly it was much easier to remember Mad Fox and not the brief connection at the awards do. Clearly, I had drunk far too much champagne that night. ‘And you’re late. We need to go now.’ I turned, hauling my laptop bag onto my shoulder.
His face tightened. ‘Bossy much? You should be grateful I’m here at all because quite frankly there are other places I’d rather be right now.’
‘You’re doing that barking mad fox thing again.’ Now I’d seen the colour of his hair, I was delighted with the original quip.
‘I reserve it especially for bossy manipulative PRs.’
I pushed my tongue against my cheek and sighed. ‘The flight’s in fifty minutes. We need to get through security and meet up with the other five people who got here on time.’
This was his moment for effusive apology and excuses. Instead he shrugged and picked up his canvas satchel and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Come on then.’ We marched along keeping a good couple of metres between us like an invisible wall of enmity, although I had a hard time keeping up with his long-legged lope which I was fairly sure was deliberate on his part. Inside I was absolutely gutted. My fairytale moment with the most delicious Prince Charming had been well and truly stomped on. How could he and Benedict Johnson possibly be the same person?
By the time we fought our way through passport control and made our way to Café Nero, our flight had been called and it was time to go straight to the gate. At our arrival everyone started gathering their bags. I quickly introduced Benedict. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Ben.
‘Hi everyone, sorry I’m late. Slight domestic emergency.’
Funny he could manage an apology to them.
‘Where’s Avril?’ I asked, noticing a lone coffee cup on the table and realising I was missing one. God it was like trying to herd cats. Was it going to be like this all week? No sooner had I got one journalist I lost another.
Sophie frowned and looked at her watch. ‘She must be still in duty free. Do you want me to go and look for her? Oh, here’s your receipt, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’ I took it from her with a distracted smile. I’d have to go and look for Avril myself. I was supposedly in charge; I couldn’t keep asking Sophie to help. ‘Why don’t you all go down to the gate and I’ll go and find Avril.’ I wanted to add, and please for the love of God can you stay together?
Thankfully Avril was in the queue at duty free. I looked at my watch. We had ten minutes before they officially started boarding, although she had more in her basket than my entire make-up stock. I hoped the check-out girl was on it today.
‘Just letting you know the others have gone down to the gate.’
‘Oh,