The buildings in Copenhagen are a kaleidoscope of different colors: the façades are white and brown and peach and brick red, the roofs green and orange and blue and black. Gammelholm, the prestigious downtown area where the offices ofPolitikenare located, is bustling at nine in the morning.
Businesspeople going to work, tourists meandering toward the nearby art museum, a stream of teens who rush into what can only be a school next door.
Sucking in a deep breath, I look through the viewfinder of my camera at the building that housesPolitiken’s offices. I snap a couple of photos; I’ve been taking photos all morning, documenting my first morning in Denmark.
I love taking photos. I love the symmetry that can be found in a perfect picture of an everyday object. I love the pungent smell of the chemicals used to develop film. I’m definitely a nerd about photography.
As I stare up at the ancient cream-colored stone of the building, Pippa gently elbows me in the ribs.
“We’re already late,” she says, grabbing me by the arm. “Come on.”
Everything inside appears to be marble. Eschewing the ancient elevators as she tows me up the stairs, Pippa jogs down a marble hallway until we reach the doors.
Politiken, the glass of one of the doors reads.Nyheden kommer først.
Pippa swings the door open and pulls me inside a big room with high ceilings and about thirty people working in cubicles. A standard newsroom, it wouldn’t be out of place at any paper anywhere in the world. No one even looks up at us when we rush in; the reporters are too busy typing manically or talking quietly on the phone. Against the back wall are the glass-walled offices of people in positions of power here at the newspaper as well as a well-appointed conference room.
A tall blonde woman in her fifties stands across the office, watching us with an annoyed expression. Pippa curses under her breath and tugs at her pale pink dress.
“That’s Anna,” she says, picking up her pace as she makes a beeline toward the woman. I do a quick scan of Anna’s person and take stock of her wrinkled light gray pants suit and the stain on her white dress shirt.
A woman after my own heart. I’m wearing one of three pairs of black dress pants I own and a black Violent Femmes t-shirt paired with an oversize yellow cardigan. Seeing Anna’s disregard for dressing up bolsters my confidence.
Two seconds later, I stand in front of her and rethink my opinions.
“You two are quite late,” Anna says, looking down her nose at us both. She looks at me, at the Nikon camera on its strap around my neck, and she rolls her eyes.
Pippa jumps in.
“Yes. Sorry. We had some trouble trying to leave the house.” Pippa bites her lower lip, sliding her gaze to me. “But I brought Margot to you like you asked!”
Anna’s gaze tightens on my face. “Yes. So you did.” She spins, heading toward the back of the room. “Come to my office, both of you.”
We head back to Anna’s spacious office, sitting down in the chairs in front of her sleek chrome desk. She frowns as she types something into the computer at her side, then slides a drawer out.
“Margot!” she barks. I sit up, wide eyed.
“Ma’am?” I say.
She gives me a hard look before she hands over an employee badge. “This will get you in and out of the building. You’ll need to fill out some tax paperwork at some point… Max will get you settled with that.” She pushes back in her office chair, looking at Pippa and me. “We should talk about the story you will be covering.”
I tilt my head. “Well… I came prepared with several ideas to pitch to you?— “
“Enough,” Anna says, cutting me off. “Your assignment has already been chosen for you.”
I send Pippa a questioning glance. She shrugs and makes a quickI don’t know anythingface. Anna starts drumming her fingers on her desktop.
“You weren’t aware of this already?” she asks.
It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking from her expression. Should I already know something?
Shaking my head, I feel my cheeks warm. “No.”
Anna grunts, but I still don’t have the slightest idea what she means by it. “I got the call late last night. You have been selected to work on a cover piece about Prince Stellan and his life.”
My jaw drops.
No.
