Chapter 3

      I was having second thoughts. It was the day of the pitch. The biggest pitch of my career and my one chance to show Josh and the board exactly what I was capable of. So why was I placing a hell of a lot of faith in a few candles, some birch twigs, an expensive lamp and the combined efforts of the studio team’s furniture removal talents? When Megan promised to sign off my expenses, I’m not sure a two-hundred-pound lamp was quite what she had in mind, but the effect of its gentle pool of golden light was exactly like the picture in Connie’s book.

      I couldn’t afford to think about how tired I was. Last night I hadn’t got home until gone ten, after trawling Oxford Street, then staying up until the small hours perfecting my traditional Danish oat biscuits that Connie had sworn were so hygge.

      Yesterday’s preparation for my big pitch involved reading Connie’s book from cover to cover, studying images on the internet of socks, candles, cashmere blankets draped around loved up couples and mitten covered hands clutching steaming cups of chocolate, followed by a shopping marathon.

      Apparently, the Danish love affair with candles extended to the work place which was the principal starting point for my campaign to win Lars’ business. I’d arrived at the office at seven this morning with the sole goal of hyggifying, a new verb in my vocabulary, the smallest meeting room in the building. Making it cosy was going to be a tall order, but I had every faith in candles and expensive lamps.

      There was also tea, two brightly coloured mugs bought from Anthropologie, with an L and K on them, and the plate of my home-made cookies. Even though they looked very wonky and that was the third attempt, I’d had quite a job keeping the rest of the office in check around them.

      The scene was set or as much as I could hope for. I’d arranged two chairs, which didn’t match but they were the most comfortable I could find, after a Goldilocks’ style tour of every room in the building, around a rather lovely birch table, a forgotten sample from Ercol which had been used for a photo shoot. On a bookshelf that I’d commandeered from another floor, I’d removed all the books and then scouted round to find ones with colourful spines that looked pretty together.

      I’d not gone overboard with the candles, sticking to five; a tasteful group of three on the table and two on top of the bookshelf where I’d also put the kettle, a coffee pot, tea pot and milk and sugar etc. Apparently, it’s a Danish thing. Making a thing of making the tea and the coffee.

      I fiddled with the birch twigs which I’d arranged in a cheerful sunshine yellow pot until the call came from reception that he’d arrived. They didn’t look the least bit homey, no matter what I did they looked like some twigs with a ribbon tied round them shoved in a pot.

      Blonde, of course, and charming, Lars Wilder, CEO of Danish department store Hjem, was tall and exuded that outdoor healthy look that you associate with northern Europeans. Or at least I did after all the reading and researching I’d done yesterday. At over six foot, he had a definite Viking look about him.

      ‘Good morning, I’m Kate Sinclair.’ I held out my hand, reading his body language which oozed relaxed and at ease, unlike me who had a box of frogs leaping about in my stomach.

      ‘Good morning, Kate. I’m Lars. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me this morning.’ I examined his face for any irony. Clients who paid our kind of fees usually expected you to jump through hoops for them.

      The subtle lighting contrasted with the bright lights of the corridors outside and I noticed Lars shoot an approving glance around the room.

      ‘Please take a seat.’ I ushered him towards a cracked leather tub chair, with a throw tucked over one arm, opposite a trendy 80s leather slung on metal contraption which was far more comfortable than it looked.

      I busied myself making tea. Strangely the task of making the tea made the small talk somewhat easier as I asked him how he’d found the journey.

      Eventually we sat down, although it felt as if I’d wasted a good ten minutes of the meeting waiting for the kettle to boil.

      ‘Great biscuits,’ said Lars reaching for a second one from the plate, his head still nodding approval.

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘You made them?’

      I lifted my hands palm upwards as if to say it was no big deal, while thinking of the state of the kitchen this morning and the plastic Tupperware of reject cookies stacked up on the side. Connie and I would be eating them for weeks.

      He took a bite. ‘Very good.’

      ‘Family recipe,’ I lied. My mother made a mean Victoria Sponge but she’d never made an oat cookie in her life.

      ‘Ah, family,’ he gave me a broad smile, stretching his hands expansively out to the side to emphasize his words. ‘It is so important … and family recipes. My mother is famous for her kanelsnegle.’

      I tilted my head and smiled back as if I had the first clue what a kanelsnegle was when it was at home.

      ‘She thinks every problem can be solved with a pastry.’

      She sounded a bit odd to me but I held his gaze as if it were quite normal, he was clearly very fond of her. ‘She runs a café, Varme, it means warmth in Danish. It’s a very special place. My mother loves to look after people.’

      I almost sighed out loud. But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to look after you? For the last few years I felt like I’d been completely on my own, swimming hard against the tide.

      ‘It’s that warmth and homeliness I want to bring to the UK.’

      Lars cleared his throat and I realised with a start, I’d drifted away. ‘My mother would approve of this, it’s,’ he looked around the room, ‘very hygglich. You’ve done well. Very imaginative and perceptive. It’s very Danish. I can see you have an understanding of hygge already. I like the mugs.’

      ‘Thank you. And thank you for coming today and for giving me the chance to talk to you.’ My formal words dried on my tongue when Lars let out a bark of laughter.

      ‘No, you’re not. You’re cursing me for the short notice and the sparsity of information.’ The clipped Danish accent sounded charming and robbed the words of their bluntness.

      Diplomacy warred with honesty for a moment.

      I smiled at him. ‘Well, it isn’t the most orthodox approach but we were intrigued.’

      ‘So intrigued that your company wheeled out the big guns.’

      Maybe that accent didn’t quite disguise the bluntness. I might not be a big