it’s lovely.” Jen looked at her sister. As far as she could see she wasn’t doing anything. She took a look at her watch. It was nearly five. Touristy things would be closing soon and here they were dawdling. Jen really hoped they weren’t just killing time before Tivoli Gardens opened. The mid-city park and funfair was the thing Lydia seemed most fired up about and while Jen was keen to eat in one of the many restaurants there, she drew a line at the fairground rides. Rollercoasters were beyond her comfort zone. That kind of control relinquishing was impossible. Even for kicks. She wondered if she’d played her “Bridal rights” card too early. With this hen-do being Lydia’s “domain”, she doubted she had any rights of veto.
For want of anything else to do, Jen scrolled through the pictures she’d taken at the Kronegaard museum, especially those of the main building. They made her feel slightly melancholy. She’d once been about start work in a place like that, to be part of that industry. It felt a world away and a lifetime ago. The feeling made her lean back and close her eyes just like her sister.
“Wake up, you lazers,” Alice commanded, giving Jen a light kick to the foot, “hurry up or we’ll be late.” She and Max stood in front of them with two bulging carrier bags. Seriously, thought Jen, this group behaved unlike any tourists she’d experienced before. They weren’t bothered with guidebooks or visiting the obvious sights. They were NOT doing it properly.
Surveying the little GoBoat in front of them, Jen wasn’t convinced. It was like a blue plastic bath toy, except grown-up sized, with a solar-cell motor and a picnic table bang in the middle. She’d seen groups pootling along the canals in these, all having a cheery time with their food and drinks in the sunshine. Seeing other people in them was one thing, actually venturing out in one herself was another thing entirely.
Thankfully, Max was up for driving it. She’d once spent a school trip on a narrow-boat and could at least steer the thing. Meanwhile, Alice and Lydia gleefully unloaded the bags, and suddenly their table was adorned with snacks and beers. Trying a bottle of Mikkeller, Jen was touched they’d sought out local indie beers. They knew her so well, and all of a sudden she realised the joy of a hen-do. It was time away with the women most precious to you, who knew you best and who had your happiness at heart. She swallowed the lump in her throat and whacked her sunglasses over her eyes so the others would be none the wiser.
Their boat was launched from the jetty by a baby-faced attendant and they commenced their route into the canals. Begrudgingly, Jen conceded this was a fine way to see the city, puttering along between the old buildings with beers in hand, hooting and faking echoes as they passed under low bridges. Crossing the harbour got a bit choppy, but they’d necked a couple of bottles by then, so nobody panicked. Instead they cheerily waved at the tourists in the glass-topped tour boats, at the cyclists on the bike bridge and at the commuters on the yellow water buses. And there was singing. Any song they could remember with a water theme was mauled by their astonishing lack of musical talent. Jen couldn’t remember the last time she’d sung. School perhaps. Dreadful as it might be on the ears, she wondered if it wasn’t actually rather good for the soul.
Following the map, Max steered them into the calmer waters of the Christianshavn canal where tall colourfully-painted houses lined the streets on either side and boats of all kinds, from small yachts to hydrangea-laden houseboats, were moored.
“They modelled this part of the city on Amsterdam, you know,” Jen said, dreamily. The warmth of the day and the beer had sloughed the efficiency off Jen’s sightseeing needs. She was feeling quite idle now and more surprisingly, she was rather enjoying it.
“Who’s they?” asked Alice, who was leaning into Max, face to the sun.
“The King. Christian, I think, or Frederik.” She’d seen this on a BBC4 documentary. All Danish kings were alternately called one or the other since the 1500’s, which had struck her as rather tidy. “Duh,” she slapped herself on the forehead, “must have been a Christian, he named it after himself.” But annoyingly she couldn’t remember which one had established this gorgeous part of the city and in her tipsiness, it suddenly seemed imperative to know. She dug out her phone and started swiping to locate her Copenhagen app.
“Put the phone away, Jen,” Lydia murmured, “we can look it up when we get home. Just enjoy it.” She was laid back along the side of the boat, sun bathing. Her prosthetic lay discarded at her side, the socket liner next to it, leaving her scarred skin free to the warm air. She seemed in a state of bliss.
“Won’t take a second,” Jen insisted.
“Seriously, Jen. It’ll keep.” Without opening her eyes, Lydia tried to swat the phone aside but misjudged both her aim and velocity.
The phone flew from Jen’s hand into the canal.
Heads from the surrounding homes and boats turned towards the ensuing squawking. Jen was instantly hanging over the side trying to reach the phone which currently floated on the surface but was beginning to take in water and start its descent into the murky depths. Jen saw her whole life descending before her.
“Nooooooooooo.”
Max thankfully cut the engine, but they were drifting nonetheless, necessitating Jen to stretch further than was comfortable as she willed her fingertips longer. This could not be happening.
Suddenly a small net appeared in her field of vision, deftly scooping the phone up. Thank god. Jen’s eyes followed the attached stick up to the deck of a long black barge moored to the quayside. On the deck, her eyes met with a pair of bare feet, travelled up the blond-haired legs to baggy navy cargo shorts, via the bare torso, to, wow, back to the torso because ripped, and then reluctantly further on to the face.
“Well, hello,” Jen heard Lydia say in a salacious tone entirely inappropriate to the urgency of the moment. “Hottie alert.”
He was clearly a Scandi; straw blond hair, blue eyes and very tall from what Jen could see from her contorted position. There wasn’t time to consider what he made of them … of her. She needed to rescue the phone. Who knew how much water had got in? She stretched for it, but they’d drifted further, and even as he scampered to the end of his boat and hung off it himself, they couldn’t reach. Lydia held onto Jen as she leaned herself out beyond what felt logistically possible or sensible.
“I can meet you further along the quay,” he called. And Jen was about to say yes, that was a marvellous idea, when Max decided to restart the engine. The jolt sent Jen’s momentum forwards, and surprised, Lydia didn’t have a firm enough grip on Jen’s hips. Aided by the high nylon content of her skirt on the smooth plastic, Jen sailed headlong into the water like a liner descending the slipway on her maiden voyage.
Coughing and spluttering Jen surfaced and took a moment to gain her bearings between the barge and her GoBoat – which seemed to be moving away in the opposite direction.
“I don’t know how to reverse, Jen!” Max shouted. Looking around, Jen saw the canal was too narrow for Max to simply circle the boat. A horn blared from behind her as a tour boat made its approach. The man on the barge shouted for her to grab the net. She didn’t need telling twice and she felt herself being pulled towards him. Once she’d grabbed onto the barge, the net was pulled up and a hand grasped hers before she was yanked up to lie like a flapping fish on the hot deck.
The first thing she checked, as her cheek dripped on the tarred felting, was that her phone was safely aboard. Turning her head then to the canal, she saw the GoBoat, with the three other girls watching them. They weren’t looking particularly worried. More amused, in fact.
“Keep her!” Lydia called from the back of the disappearing boat. “She’s staying at the boat hotel.” Looking up, Jen saw him nod, clearly understanding where she meant. “Jen! We’ll be in Tivoli if you want to join us for the rides. Don’t worry, it’s on the itinerary!”
Jen stared aghast as it dawned on her that along with taking the mick, they really weren’t stopping. It appeared, primarily by the enormous grin on Lydia’s face, that her hens were abandoning her, sopping wet in bad clothing, in the hands of a topless