Make Me Believe Page 2

  Seeing as I’m late, I only give the owner of the small pub -- or bodega, as the Danes call it -- on the other side of the road to my building a small wave, and I yell, “Sorry, Camilla, can’t talk! I’m late for work!”

  She waves back at me, laughing a bit, “No worries, honey, we’ll talk later!” She turns back to the task at hand: trying to get the resident homeless guy to eat a sandwich. His name’s Fred, and he’s probably got his own sad story to tell. I don’t know him, exactly, but we always exchange greetings when we’re at the pub, and he’s a quiet man. Harmless. I’m pretty sure, however, that he’s never entirely sober. I know that Camilla makes sure he gets some food in his belly every morning, and I admire her for it.

  The bus driver waits for me, and I smile in thanks as I jump in and pick a seat. As I sit down, I pull out my iPod from my clutch and press shuffle. The first song that starts is “Give Me Love” by Ed Sheeran, and I snort – not very ladylike, I know – and I immediately hit forward. “Supermassive Black Hole” by Muse blares out, and I nod in satisfaction. I blame Suzanne for meddling with my playlists: she’s quite the romantic and completely fanatical about Ed Sheeran. Me? Well, not so much. If you met me on the street, you’d probably give me a wide berth because of my heavy makeup and visible piercings.

  You see, I tend to wear lots of dark eye shadow, and I never step foot outside my flat without a heavy dose of either that or eyeliner. And I mustn’t forget to mention mascara: that is essential to any woman. As for my style? Well, it’s . . . different, I suppose. Honestly, I usually just put on a pair of jeans and a shirt, and I don’t get what all the fuss is about. I mean, sure, the jeans usually have a bit of glitter or sparkle on them . . . and so does the blouse or cardigan you’ll find me wearing. Who cares? It may not fit with my wild, curly hair, the makeup or the piercings -- one in the middle of my bottom lip, the other in my right eyebrow -- but come on! Every girl needs a bit of glitter in her life . . . even one like me.

  Today, though, I’ve put on a cute, flowy, red skirt with a wide black belt, and I’m wearing a loose-fitted yellow T-shirt. On my feet are a pair of my most comfortable, yet stylish, peep-toed black sandals. And yes, they do have a bit of glitter on them.

  The bus stops at the train station and I quickly run up to the platform. The trains leave every few minutes, but I really don’t want to miss the one that’s about to shut its doors; I run faster and just manage to squeeze in, and I sigh in relief. My inner control freak nods her head, and I smile spontaneously to an elderly woman sitting to the right of the entrance. She doesn’t smile back, though, so I ignore her sour stare and move further inside. I don’t bother with finding a seat because I’ll only be going a few stops.

  “The Fighter” by Gym Class Heroes plays loudly in my ears, and I’m looking out the window at the landscape passing me by when I feel someone grabbing onto my arm. I startle, lost in my own thoughts, and turn around to see a somewhat cute but also disheveled bloke lying flat on his back in front of me.

  I pull out the headphones and am just about to speak when he yells in Danish, “Oh, for shite’s sake!” He struggles to get on his feet so I reach out to him and ask, “Are you alright?”

  He grabs my outstretched hand and sighs irritably before he struggles to his feet. “Thanks,” he says, and now that he’s up, he towers over me, so I quickly take a step back. “I’m fine, just a bit . . . clumsy,” he continues, and he’s got quite the blush going for him.

  I try to suppress my laugh by coughing, but I don’t think I pull it off, and he looks embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I reassure him. “Everybody’s clumsy sometimes.” I look down at his feet to avoid his eyes. “It seems like one of your shoelaces is the culprit.”

  As he quickly reaches down to tie it, his backpack slides over his head, and he curses under his breath. Now that he’s preoccupied, I try to get a proper look at him: he has very dark hair, almost black, and he’s a bit gangly. When he looks up at me, still blushing, I notice that he has green eyes but they are hidden behind some pretty awful horn-rimmed glasses. When he straightens again, I smile politely, and he looks more closely at me. His penetrating stare unnerves me, and I feel uneasy. I’m not in the mood for small talk, and, as if some higher being is listening in, the movements of the train slows down, and I look out the window.

  I turn back to him and say brightly, “Well, this is the end of my journey.”

  I rush out the doors before he can stop me. I faintly hear him shout “Wait” behind me, but I ignore him and walk quickly away, heading for my workplace. Yes, he was cute, in some sort of nerdy way, but unnerving at the same time. Something about him tugged at a hidden place inside me -- and I don’t mean my lady bits, thank you very much -- and I don’t have the time or the desire to examine it further.

  “Get a grip, Emma,” I mutter to myself, “You don’t need that kind of distraction in your life right now. In fact, you won’t ever need it.”

  Satisfied with my talking-to, I force the geek out of my head and I quickly become lost in the throng of people surrounding me. Like me, they are busy with getting to their own destinations.

  One of the things I love about Copenhagen is that the people you see on the streets don’t shy away if you catch their eye. Instead they either smile politely, or curse, or perhaps even laugh as you walk past them. True, some people will ignore you, too, and most of them will be lost in their own thoughts, a vacant look in their eyes, but I like that the Danes have this no-nonsense kind of vibe around them. I can’t explain it properly. All I know is that it seems they have an ingrained confidence, as if they don’t give a toss about how the rest of the world perceives them.

  I’m probably wrong about that last part, though . . . Most of these men and women are probably just as insecure or as scared of failure as I am.

  Nevertheless, perception is key here: where do you think I learned how to make people believe that I’m this really confident, cool chick who does not give a damn about what anyone else thinks?

  Yep, I’m such a liar, but the rest of the world doesn’t have to know that.

  As I walk the final couple of hundred meters to “Andersen’s Books”, I hear a ping from my phone, and I’m guessing that it’s a text from Suzanne.

  I take it out of my clutch and swipe the screen. Yep, I’m right. Frowning, I contemplate ignoring her, but only for a split second. Not the reaction you’d expect when getting a text from your best friend, I know, but I can imagine the contents of it. Still, she is my BFF, so I really can’t ignore her. No, scratch that: I shouldn’t ignore her. There’s a difference.

  Suzy: You, missy, are in deep trouble!

  I cringe, and quickly type a vague response to her.

  Me: What do you mean???

  I walk more swiftly, and a few seconds pass before I hear another ping:

  Suzy: You KNOW what I mean, Emma!!!

  Ouch. Shouty capitals, exclamation points, and she’s using my name? Oh dear, she must be so pissed at me right now.

  I stop a few steps short of the entrance to the bookshop and text her back.

  Me: You’re right, and I’m sorry. Listen, I’m about to head in for work, can I ring you later? <3

  I can’t help but stare at the phone in my hand, chewing and biting my lip ring -- a nervous habit of mine that I’ve never been able to get rid of -- and anxiously wait for her reply

  Suzy: Don’t ring me, dummy. Just come on by -- AND bring pizza! AND fries! AND Diet Coke! I’m so hungover that I need all the greasy food I can handle, and I’m thinking I’ll get to that point in about 5 hours or so. ;-)

  I sigh in relief.

  Me: You’ve got it, honey. Love you! xxx

  Finally, I open the door and step inside the shop. Peace at last. I paste a smile on my face, ready to face the day.

  Chapter 3

  “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Andersen,” I shout as I shut the door behind me and head to the staff room in the back. We have our own small drawers w
ith a personal key where we can put our belongings when we’re at work.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says from behind me, and I turn around. “But you’re usually on time, so I was starting to get a bit worried about you, Emma.”

  Mr. Andersen is this quiet, older man, probably in his fifties, and his thinning hair is almost completely white. He tends to wear clothes that would have been better suited for a 19th century English lord. Today, he’s wearing pale, almost white, trousers, a white shirt and a cream-coloured pullover as well as a black tie. He has brown loafers on his feet. It’s an outfit that looks a lot like cricket attire to me, actually. Not that I play cricket, of course, but it is considered the English national sport, apart from football, so I can’t help but know a lot about it. Plus, my dad watches it on the telly all the time when it’s the season.

  “I had a late night and overslept,” I explain, and it’s a total lie, of course. After having nursed my coffee and getting lost in my gloomy thoughts while listening to the birds chirping about outside on my balcony this morning, I tried to distract myself by cleaning my entire flat. “It won’t happen again, I promise,” I vow to Mr. Andersen.

  “Now, it’s perfectly alright, Emma. And when will you stop calling me Mr. Andersen, by the way?” His eyes always hold amusement when he asks me this, and today’s no different. “I’ve asked you countless times to simply call me by my birth name, Andreas.”

  He asks me this very frequently, and my answer is always the same.

  I shrug. “I suppose it’s the Brit in me: you don’t really call your employer by their birth name. Besides, that’s not how I was brought up, so I guess it won’t ever happen . . . Mr. Andersen.” I smile at him.

  He shakes his head, smiling wryly. “We had a new delivery come in after you left yesterday. Mind getting these new books sorted and settled in? I know you enjoy that particular part of the job.” He turns to go out into the shop and I quickly follow him.

  “Of course.” I nod even though he can’t see me. “I’d love to. And yes, you’re right, I love opening the crates, seeing what hidden gems lie in wait for the world to discover.” Excitement bubbles inside me, popping wildly in my tummy. “I mean, it feels like it’s either my birthday or Christmas when new books arrive!”

  I know I sound nuts, but what can I say? I’m a bookaholic.

  Mr. Andersen laughs and pulls out his pipe from his pocket -- it’s not lit, of course, but you never see him without it. “Good.” He turns away. “I’ll be at the front desk if you need to ask me anything.”

  I nod, satisfied with the task before me, and I head to the storage room.

  I don’t know that much about Mr. Andersen even though I’ve worked at his shop for almost a year. I’m not even sure if he’s married or not. I know that his favourite author is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle -- the man who invented Sherlock Holmes -- and I also know that he used to be an English professor at the university.

  But I don’t know the story of how he came to be a bookshop owner. I once tentatively asked him about it, but only received a cryptic answer from him: “Life tends to offer a person certain opportunities he never even contemplated on pursuing. And sometimes you’re forced to reinvent yourself and take a different path than the one you had in mind.”

  See? A quiet and cryptic man indeed.

  When I open the first box of books in front of me, the memory of the day I applied for a job here suddenly pops into my head. I was really nervous because I thought he would simply take one look at me and show me to the door.

  I didn’t speak much Danish at the time, so when I haltingly asked if he was looking for an employee, he stared at me for longer than is considered polite.

  Finally, he asked me, “Do you like to read books? I mean, real books, and not simply graphic novels?” and I nodded. Then he said, “I need someone who loves to get lost in the world of a great novel; one who appreciates the words an author has poured out of his soul in order to write his story; and one who likes to help other people come to the same conclusion: that books are everything. Are you that person?” He looked at me as if he wished he could read my mind.

  I was a bit puzzled by Mr. Andersen’s way of thinking, but I needed money in my pocket, so I replied with confidence. “Absolutely. I promise that my Danish will improve over time, too. I’ve just recently moved here from the UK, but I’m a quick learner and can be a great employee, Sir.”

  He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, really. Actually, most of the books I sell are in English, and I have many customers who aren’t Danish. The question is, plain and simple, if you are passionate about books?”

  Again, I nodded.

  He looked lost in thought for a moment, and then the biggest smile lit up his face as he clapped his hands. “Good!” he exclaimed. “When would you like to start?”

  I began working for him the next day, and I have loved the job ever since.

  The bookshop isn’t big, but it’s not small, either. It has a square floor plan, and all the surrounding walls are covered with rows and rows of books. In the middle of the room, there are a couple of old leather armchairs as well as two coffee tables. To me, it gives the customer the idea that you’re almost in a library and that you can sit down and relax for a while before getting on your way. We even have a small vending machine offering hot chocolate, coffee, or tea.

  I think the front desk is an older antique: it’s huge, made of mahogany, and the most fascinating twirls and shapes can be seen on all four sides of it as well as on the legs. Even to my untrained eye, it shows great craftsmanship, and I’d love to know who the artist is. Mr. Andersen doesn’t seem to have any idea about him or her, either, so I suppose we’ll always be left in the dark. And maybe it doesn’t really matter, in the large scheme of things, who built it.

  The storage room is situated at the end of the wall to the right that’s closest to the entrance. There’s a door separating it from the shop, of course, and Mr. Andersen and I are the only ones who have a key.

  That’s where I am now, opening boxes and pulling out these beautiful books that are all waiting to find new homes. I’m pretty excited about seeing the latest book by Deborah Harkness here. “The Book Of Life” has been on the top of my reading list for a long time now, and I wonder if Mr. Andersen will let me buy a copy.

  Another reason why I’m so happy to be working here is the fact that Mr. Andersen usually doesn’t want me to pay for a book I take a fancy to. I mean, how many employers are that kind to their staff? Well, I do try to convince him to at least deduct the costs of the books from my wages, but he won’t hear of it. His usual response is: “Now, please don’t reject a gift, Emma. It shows poor manners.” And that always makes me laugh so I give in. Can’t object to that kind of reasoning, can you?

  Mr. Andersen pokes his head inside the room. “It’s almost lunch time so I’m just going to pop around the corner and buy a sandwich. Do you want one?”

  My stomach growls loudly, answering for me, and I smile. “Yes, please. Just no . . . ”

  “No ham, I know,” he interrupts me, laughter in his voice.

  I give him the thumps-up. “Exactly.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who objects so much to a piece of pork,” he says and shakes his head. “Mind the desk, okay?”

  “Sure.” I leave the storage room, locking it behind me, before heading to the desk. There’s a lull in the shop, but I know we’ll be busy in an hour or so.

  I go to the coffee tables and clear it. Someone doesn’t like Mr. George W. Bush, I think to myself as I pick up a biography about him. Well, can’t say I disagree.

  As I head to the Autobiography section, the bell above the door rings, and I call out, “Be with you in a moment!” I quickly find the correct spot for the former American president and head back to the desk.

  “Hello, how may I help . . . ?” My voice falters, and I come to an abrupt standstill when I see the customer who just walked in.

  Geek guy from the train? O
f all the luck . . .

  My defense mechanism kicks in, and I smile brightly at him as I say, “Well, hello again. Tripped over your feet some more since we last saw each other?” Oh god, I did not just say that, did I? Heat burns my cheeks as if I’d stood close to the fire.

  I hurry to apologise. “I’m so sorry, that was really rude of me. Please forget I said that. How may I help you?”

  The guy blushes – again! It’s pretty adorable, really, but it must be so annoying for him if that happens all the time.

  “Err . . . hi,” he stammers. “I’ve managed to stay vertical since the train, actually. It’s quite a feat for me, not having fallen flat on my face more than once today, I mean.” He smirks at me, still blushing, and I snort.

  “I’m really sorry,” I repeat cheerfully. “Happens to me all the time, too,” I try to reassure him, and I move closer to him.

  “Really?” he asks hopefully.

  I can’t contain my mask, and I laugh. “No, not really. How would I be able to wear high heels if that were the case?” I lift my foot and twist it a bit so that he can see my sandals.

  He sighs, and you can almost see the way his whole body seems to deflate. I take pity on him and quickly add, “But I used to be a real klutz when I was a child.”

  He scratches his neck and looks down at his feet, mumbling, “Not really helping me overcome my embarrassment here.”

  “Oh.” I sober a bit, clearing my throat. I can tell how uncomfortable he is and I mentally berate myself for putting my big, shiny stiletto foot in my mouth. “Of course not. Let’s try this again, shall we?” I move closer to the front desk where he’s standing. “Hello. Can I help you find something in particular?”

  Geek Guy puffs a little, running a hand through his hair. “Is the Professor here?”