Probably the Best Kiss in the World. Pernille Hughes

the city. They might have visited one too many. Not that Jen was going to let a seething hangover stop her. She knocked some paracetamol back with Berocca and ventured out while the others psyched themselves for their shopping with more sleep. Scarfing down a kanelsnegl cinnamon swirl as she beelined through the streets, Jen considered how ridiculous this hen-do was. But then, if it helped Lydia come to terms with things …

      The red-brick brewery building was everything Jen had hoped for. Its location on the wharf was impressive, and while actual beer production had expanded out to the suburbs now, there were still parts of the business running from the majestic old buildings, along with the museum. It was exactly as she’d imagined a nineteenth-century factory to look, but without the smog-billowing chimneys. The cobbles remained, as did the grand wooden gates with their carved Kronegaard crown emblem at the entrance. Walking through them caused her to pause and run a hand across them with a lament for something beyond her reach. She shook off the thoughts, keen for nothing to spoil this, and took a brisk look around to check no one had seen her wobble. Apparently not, and thankfully nobody was batting an eyelid at her attire either. Lydia had packed her a weekend bag of charity shop wonders, including the purple sequined Converse knock-offs on her feet. They garishly complemented the yellow peasant blouse and elastic-waisted orange gypsy skirt. Her office clothes had mysteriously vanished during the night. Copenhageners, who had designer styling nailed and exclusively wore black and grey, were clearly used to all sorts from visitors.

      As she followed the course of the displays with the Chinese tourists and the English stag parties, the story of Kronegaard unfolded, from way back in the 1800s when Henrik Krone started brewing in his home and then expanded to his outbuilding. Jen couldn’t help but feel a link with this man. He’d then started selling to the inn at the end of his street and within fifty years was the biggest exporter of lager on the planet. Hello global domination. And here was the thing that surprised her: disparaging as she might – regularly – be about Kronegaard beer being unexciting blandness for the masses, once, way back, Henrik had been a craftsman. He’d developed a beer people liked and would buy, he’d been a hobbyist like her.

      Jen emerged, having sampled more than she perhaps should have, utterly swept up the story; the humble beginnings, and the drama of the choices that had to be made, the holding onto standards and the compromising of principles. Surely there had to be a TV mini-series there? It had all the ingredients. Not that the family had done badly, not by a long shot. They were the next step to royalty now, and certainly well entrenched in those circles; regular private dinner guests at the palace as friends, not just as captains of industry at the state bashes. The family had become celebrities and icons of how a sound work-ethic could get you places. Jen was sure she detected PR spin in the museum boards, but that was marketing, wasn’t it?

      “All beered out?” Lydia asked as she met them for a late lunch. The restaurant was very old and purported to serve the best smørrebrød open sandwiches in the city. Jen’s was a roast beef on rye bread extravaganza, loaded with yellow remoulade, pickled cucumber and crunchy onions. (Lydia had had a eureka moment at that – “They’re crunions, Jen,” she’d hooted, passing Jen a second schnapps – or snaps as the Danes called it – from the waitress, ready to be downed in one, “you can call the crocheted tampons Crampons!” Jen had ignored her, unwilling to let work taint her weekend of joy.)

      “It was culture, Lyds. And yes thanks. It was unbeerlievable.” Lydia gave her a flick for that one. “You should have come. You could smell centuries of hops and malt.”

      Initially on reaching the others, sitting at the pavement table, Jen had resumed her slightly braced stance. She’d expected them to crack open the nightmare hen accessories any second, but nothing had happened – not even willy-straws in their drinks. In fact, her mad clothes aside, the four of them were having a lovely time, chatting and continuing their normal banter. No one mentioned the wedding (which was turning out to be the norm as nothing had happened on that front in the last week, given both she and Robert had been madly busy.) The general consensus was also that it was a bloody good thing Ava and Zara hadn’t been able to make this trip either. Lydia was still stubbornly insisting she’d already booked the tickets by the time Jen had given her the dates memo and Jen conveniently chose not to call bullshit. In the interest of not hurting feelings, by which Jen meant not raising two she-devils, they all readily agreed to keep this trip secret.

      “What happens in ‘hagen, stays in ‘hagen,” Lydia tried with a smutty wink, but the others were adamant it didn’t work as well as Vegas. Jen prayed there wouldn’t be any strip clubs involved later. And that was another thing; she had no idea what the plan for later was and that never sat well with her. The others didn’t appear as concerned by this as she did. Thankfully their Copenhagen Card travel passes came with an app, and she started paging madly through the screens, the snaps now making her feel slightly light-headed.

      “Put the app away, Attison,” Max growled, “we’re in Lydia’s capable hands.”

      “What? Really?” Jen couldn’t hide her dismay. There were things she wanted to see and only two days in which to see them. She’d cobbled together an emergency list on her phone during the flight, but she had a full Copenhagen plan on her laptop at home. Other people did that, didn’t they, devising fantasy trip itineraries? Sort of mood-boarding, but in words and lists.

      Lydia disregarded the dismay. “My hands are very capable, Jen,” she insisted, slurring slightly. Clearly beer and snaps in the sunshine was having its effect. “I can give you a list of guys who can vouch for that.”

      “Sometimes, Lydia, you say things I’d instantly like to unhear. That was one of them.” The bill being paid, Jen figured it was time to move on. “What’s next?” At her best in a proactive role, Jen concluded if she couldn’t be the one deciding what they saw, at least she could take a role in making sure they got there.

      “Seriously, where are we going?” Jen asked again, after thirty minutes of seemingly aimless wandering through the streets. Her own itinerary, had Lydia only asked her for it, had everything for a weekend break broken down hour by hour. There was a glass-topped boat tour around the canals, trips up spiralling church towers, dinner in Tivoli Gardens which had inspired Walt Disney to start his theme parks.

      “Somewhere.” Lydia was being annoyingly obtuse in answering her questions.

      “I’m sure we just passed the Round Tower. That was on my list.” Jen waved her phone at Lydia. “No stairs all the way up, just a winding ramp, so the king could stay on his horse to the observatory at the top.”

      “Lazy arse,” Alice said, still walking, “we’re not encouraging that sort of thing.”

      Jen threw a small hissy-fit insisting she had “Bridal rights”, until the others relented.

      Never had the seventeenth century tower been scaled so quickly, nor the view of the city’s rooftops, towers and entwined-dragon-tail’ed spires admired so briefly. To be fair, the height wasn’t conducive to the amount of booze in her belly. Hoofing back down, getting dizzy with the perpetual turn, the others acknowledged the lack of stairs as a boon. Alice reckoned all olde worlde towers show be retro-fitted with no stairs. The snaps was definitely having its moment.

      Back on the street, Jen was keen to know the next port of call. “Is it something on my list?” she asked, brandishing the screen in Max’s face. Max would give her a sensible answer.

      “Relax, Jen. You’ll see.” Well, how was that helpful?

      At the next corner Alice and Max ducked into a grocers while Jen sat with Lydia on a bench in the shade.

      “Leg all right?”

      “S’fine,” Lydia answered, head thrown back, eyes closed, enjoying the sun on her face.

      “We can stop more often if you need to.” Lydia had her everyday leg on – a micro-prosthetic; a far more robotic looking piece of kit, its shiny metal pylon connecting the socket and foot. While she wore her cosmesis – her “fake leg” cosmetic prosthesis – on dates and if wearing skirts