“One night when I got to work, the manager of the restaurant assigned me to work the banquet room. A group had booked the room for a bachelor party. A group of twenty-two people was coming for dinner, and I was to be their waiter. That was fine. I was good at the job, so I could easily handle an event like that on my own. The guys arrived at around eight thirty. They had already been drinking and were in a good mood. One of the hostesses seated them in the separate banquet room, away from the other diners, and I got to work placing bottles of wine on the table while they took their seats. I welcomed them and presented the evening’s menu.”

She paused for a moment, thinking back. Heloise was about to ask her to continue when she began again.

“They all looked up at me, and I started describing the menu: dry-cured scallops, rib eye steaks and mash, buttermilk pudding with cookies for dessert. I stood there with my hands folded over my apron and peered invitingly around at the group.” She paused for a moment. “And then our eyes met.”

“Who?” Heloise asked. “Whose eyes met?”

“The boy from the closet. It was him. He had grown up, as had I, and he looked a little different—or maybe he just looked older. He had broader shoulders, was taller, and he had a few wrinkles and dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. But it was him. It was definitely him. I practically threw up when I saw him. I started shaking. I was so scared that he would recognize me.”

“Did he?”

“Not to begin with, no. I don’t actually think he did. He ignored me while I gave my little talk. You know the way wealthy people treat waitstaff and housekeepers and serving people, like they don’t really see them? You can serve a whole dinner to a party from Hellerup and do a tap dance on the table in front of them, but five minutes later they wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a lineup. They simply don’t see people like me.”

Heloise nodded. Anna had a point.

“At some point later in the night, he came up to me. He wanted to find out if they could have a specific brand of cognac with their coffee. The one I had set out apparently wasn’t good enough. But I told him that we only had the brands we had. Then he pulled out his wallet, took out his card, and tucked it into the pocket on my apron. ‘Just pop over to the restaurant across the street,’ he said. ‘Get a couple bottles of Rémy Martin Louis XIII. Show them my card and say they’re for Christoffer Mossing. They know me over there. Just have them send me the bill.’ ”