Five Wakes and a Wedding

Two smug laughs, followed by packing-up sounds. I retreat to the sofa, bewildered. What is this I’ve stumbled into? It feels like the set of The Good Life mashed with Grand Designs. Don’t get me wrong, I love chickens, especially when roasted to a golden crispness, accompanied by Mum’s silky gravy and fluffy potatoes, and I have no doubt the hens that are destined to roost legally or illegally in Zoe’s extension will truly appreciate the clean lines and the modern aesthetics. Come on, though. Admittedly two hundred thousand won’t buy you a garage in London. But a hen house? A hen house?

When I think how hard my dad worked, and how proud he was to be able to lend me the fifty thousand pounds I needed – more than half his life savings – to open Happy Endings … I wonder what it must be like to be able to buy whatever you want … anything you want … everything you want … without stopping to think how much it costs.

Zoe Banks enters the room with a face that suggests all the cash in the world can’t buy you happiness, and I feel a little bit better about my current credit card balance.

‘Marcus, I’ll expect your confirmation that the builders will be on site by Monday latest,’ she says before disappearing into the hallway. With that, the architect is dismissed. He fails to acknowledge me, and sidesteps Carson, who has arrived carrying a tray with my promised coffee and a plate of fancy biscuits. Silver icing! I follow him past the blue-splodged painting and into Zoe’s office, which turns out to be a surprisingly austere space, dominated by a metal and glass desk as big as a ping-pong table. Behind it, there’s a chair that reminds me of the Iron Throne, softened only by the addition of a scarlet cushion – Zoe’s presumably – and on the other side, a considerably less impressive ladder-back chair. Carson gestures towards it, then gathers a bunch of envelopes from the desk and leaves the room.

I’m still taking in my surroundings – half a dozen floor-to-ceiling free-standing metal shelves in a geometric pattern that would make them almost sculpture were it not for the dozens of aluminium box files they hold – when Zoe returns. Instinctively, I stand up and take a few steps towards her.

Zoe Banks towers over me. I’m five six and she’s at least three inches taller, even before you take into account her skyscraper heels. We exchange a firm handshake – I notice Zoe gives my home-manicured nails a beady once-over – then retreat to our respective sides of the giant desk.

‘So you’re Nina.’ She looks square at me, pronouncing my name as though she’s just captured something nasty on the tip of her tongue. ‘One moment.’

Zoe busies herself with some papers, which gives me a chance to get the measure of her. She’s actually rather beautiful. Model-slender and impeccably dressed in a grey linen dress that accentuates long legs, bronzed in a shade that didn’t come out of a spray can. She’s got one of those Julia Robert mouths – you know, the length of a pillar-box slit – and impeccable white teeth. But she’s overdone the Botox or the collagen or whatever it is she’s had someone squirt into her glistening lips. Unfortunately, they look like a pair of scarlet bananas. No, I’m just being mean. Zoe Banks is as high-end and glossy as everything else in this perfect house. Everything except me.

Before I can berate myself any further, the scarlet bananas begin to speak. ‘Thank you for popping by,’ they say. ‘So, tell me about your little shop.’

And I’m off! Explaining that although the undertaker I used to work for mostly organised traditional funerals – black clothes, white lilies, newspaper notices, Bible readings, etc. – the funeral industry is starting to change.

‘Relatives want something more personal,’ I say. ‘Services as individual as the person who has died.’ I recall a photo emailed to me last week by Anna Kovaks. Grigor’s family cycling through woods on the outskirts of Budapest, following one of his favourite off-road treks on their way to a river where they scattered the ashes Anna had repatriated. Zoe continues to stare at her papers, which is a bit rude, but undaunted, I persevere.

‘It definitely helps families to grieve when they’re able to do something that properly reflects the person they loved. Say, putting a favourite book inside the coffin. Or a cigar. Or notes from the grandchildren. I mean, you only have to think about the way weddings have changed in the past few years, with services on the beach, or at the top of the London Eye …’

Zoe has picked up a gold fountain pen and is writing something down, so I trail into silence. Once she’s finished, I’ll ask her to guess some of the most popular music tracks that are played at crematorium services. Start a dialogue instead of lecturing the poor woman.

I watch Zoe’s elbows move in, out and back in as she signs her name, cutting a Z into the paper. Then she leans forward on her throne thing and moves her perfectly made-up face closer to mine.

‘It all sounds very undignified,’ she says. ‘If you have to have a funeral, much better to get it over and done with as quickly as possible, then get back to normal life. But that’s hardly the point. The thing is.’ Zoe purses her banana lips and pauses for emphasis. ‘The thing is, Nina, we don’t do death in Primrose Hill. Michelin-starred restaurants, yes. Designer handbags, absolutely. Health and beauty … well of course, that’s my job. We have a huge local demand for ethical foie gras, even though those smelly protestors were out on the streets demonstrating against the butcher and the fur shop last weekend. Which reminds me, I need to speak to the police commissioner to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Look,’ Zoe tries – and fails – to smile, ‘we even sell chocolate and perfume. Everyday essentials the local community can’t manage without. We give people what they want. And there’s just no demand for death, I assure you. I can’t imagine what possessed my father to encourage you. A clear error of judgement if you ask me.’

Wow!

And without further ado, Zoe’s on her feet, her arm under my elbow, walking me to the door. I want to retort with a bold statement, explaining Happy Endings is here to do a job, to cater for a need, just like the chocolate shop. Or, indeed, the spa. But my cheeks are burning as if I’ve been slapped in the face and I know I’ll struggle to speak without crumpling. Which means Zoe has the last word.

‘If you like, I’ll do what I can to help you get out of the lease,’ she offers. ‘Otherwise, you’ll be gone by Christmas. I bet on it. In fact, I already have. We’re running a sweepstake to guess the date you’ll close. We all thought it was a great way to help fund the Christmas lights.’

10

Thank goodness for Chopper! If it weren’t for him, I’d find it hard to get out of bed in the morning. After my humiliating meeting with Zoe Banks, I just wanted to lock myself away and hide. But Chopper’s having none of it. He expects to be in the park at eight o’clock, wreaking havoc, so I’ve got into the habit of walking him before I open the shop, although walking is hardly the right word. Chopper is a force of nature – as soon as I slip his lead, he’s away! Eager and surprisingly elegant for such a huge creature. Paws pounding like hooves, at least until he comes across some delicious distraction, such as rearranging the flowerbeds with his paws, chasing a wheelchair, or joyfully demonstrating his superpowers by turning a flock of pigeons into fifty black specks in the sky merely by lumbering towards them.

I’m now on ‘Good-morning-how-are-you?’ terms with a whole bunch of other dog owners, which is something to cheer me up first thing. In fact, it’s often as much conversation as I get during the entire working day … because it’s still ‘No Business as Usual’ at Happy Endings, and I don’t know what to do, short of entering Zoe Bloody Banks’s sweepstake in the hope of winning back the fifty grand I owe my dad for foolishly investing in me and my stillborn business.

It’s been a month. Time enough to stop kidding myself that all I have to do is raise awareness.

I’ve put leaflets through every door in Primrose Hill announcing my arrival. Then, when I called the local paper to see if they’d run an article about Happy Endings, they put me through to someone who insisted I could transform the fortunes of my business simply by spending two hundred and fifty pounds a week on advertising until I foolishly surrendered my credit card details.

Response? Zero.

I’ve also introduced myself to most of the other shopkeepers – none of whom went out of their way to be friendly, not even the florist, who’s usually an undertaker’s closest business ally – and confirmed my worst fears by reading the latest edition of our trade paper, whose front page declared Britain now has an ‘over-supply’ of funeral directors. By which I strongly suspect they mean me.

Perhaps I should look for a part-time job. Evenings in a pub or restaurant. At least that would keep some cash trickling in. I was talking to Edo last night about the possibility of—

What the hell!

Someone on a scooter is racing down Primrose Hill. Far too fast. Directly towards Chopper.

‘Mind my dog!’ I yell, as I run towards the accident that’s about to happen.

Chopper, unaware of the danger, is on the main path at the bottom of the hill, head deep inside a carrier bag that’s been abandoned next to a rubbish bin. The idiot on the scooter, meanwhile, responds to my anguished cry by taking one hand off his handlebars and waving at me. What am I supposed to do? Move Chopper out of the way?

Much too late to do anything at all.

Chopper is lumbering up the hill, greeting the scooter as if it’s another dog out to play. I can hardly bear to look … a millisecond before impact, the idiot dodges Chopper with the insouciant panache of a slalom skier, only to careen head-first into a tree trunk on the other side of the path.

I sprint towards his body. ‘Are you okay?’ I yell.

Serves him right if he’s not.

The scooter has come to rest on the grass, wheels still spinning. Its owner is picking himself up off the ground, and brushing grass from his skinny jeans. He runs an index finger along one of his cheekbones to wipe away a trail of dirt, then rotates his shoulder blades, as if to check nothing’s broken. He looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t imagine why.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he says. ‘Just a bit winded. Sorry if I scared you.’

The idiot’s pleasantly deep voice and immediate contrition catches me off-guard. I’d been all set to tell him off for dangerous driving. But that was when I’d assumed he was a teenage boy, rather than the man of about my own age who is now stroking Chopper.

‘She’s right,’ he tells the dog. ‘I was going much too fast. But it’s such a wonderful feeling. Like flying.’ Then he looks up at me. ‘Buy you a quick coffee, by way of apology?’

I mean to say no. But the idiot is in possession of a mischievous smile, sparkling grey eyes, and a T-shirt that says, Honk if You’re About to Run Me Over.

It’s not as if I need to get to work on time to begin another soul-destroying day of no clients, so thirty minutes later we’re still sitting outside at one of the cafés on the high street, across the road from Happy Endings. Chopper is refuelling on ice-cold water from a bucket-sized bowl. I’m on my second latte, wishing I’d followed suit when the idiot ordered himself a breakfast butty that overflows with dripping butter, bacon and HP sauce. It smells delicious.

‘Okay if I give some to Chopper?’ The idiot breaks off a generous portion of his breakfast and lobs it in Chopper’s direction. The dog rises with gravity-defying grace, captures the snack before it hits the ground, and proceeds to chew daintily.

I sit and salivate, trying – and failing – to look elsewhere as the final sliver of buttery bacon disappears. He’s got nice hands, the idiot. It’s one of the things I always notice about a man. Assessing their suitability to carry a coffin. These are strong, capable hands. Well-manicured, too.

The idiot evidently cares about his appearance and if I’m not mistaken he’s even wearing a splash of cologne, fresh and spicy, with a hint of fir. Doesn’t smell as good as the bacon, but not a bad second.

‘So do you live around here?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Professional dog walker?’

‘Still no.’ I’m not meaning to be unfriendly so I say it with a smile. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh, my dad’s got a house up the road, and I was just popping in. I work for the family business. Property management mostly, and boring stuff involving corporate law. We’ve been doing a lot of insolvencies lately.’

He says this as though it’s a good thing and I can’t help but think of Gloria. If she were with us now, she’d say, ‘You’re the type of lawyer who makes rich people richer. The type of lawyer I never want to be.’

Disloyally, I realise the idiot would most likely scrub up pretty well if he swapped his jeans and T-shirt for a business suit.

‘Do you like it?’ he’s asking me.

‘Pardon?’

‘My T-shirt. You were staring at it.’ Before I can apologise he continues, ‘I got a brilliant one yesterday. Going paintballing next week, and I came across one in Camden Market that says, Why Should You Date a Paintballer?’

He leaves the question hanging.

‘Go on, then,’ I encourage him. ‘Tell me why I should date a paintballer?’

‘Because we’ve got a lot of balls. That’s what’s written on the back. Convincing, huh?’

There’s something about the guileless way he says it that makes me laugh. His company is an unexpected treat on what’s bound to turn out to be another lonely day.

‘I’m in desperate need of another bacon butty and more coffee. Say yes this time?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes please.’

Just as our refills arrive, something slots into place. ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ I ask.

‘Is that the best you’ve got?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re flirting with me, right?’

‘Me? No! Of course not. I have seen you before. On rollerblades. Going past my shop.’

‘Which shop would that be?’

‘Over there.’ I point towards Happy Endings, sit back and wait for the inevitable response.

But the idiot proves the exception to the rule. ‘Noggsie’s old shop, right?’ he says pleasantly. ‘So how’s business?’

‘Okay.’ I’m not about to confess it’s non-existent. I pause for a strategic mouthful of bacon butty, while I attempt to swallow the accusation of flirting. He’s sort of right. I’m definitely enjoying his company. Since that night with Jason, I’ve started noticing men again. There’ve been one or two who I – admit it, Nina – actually fancied.

And the idiot makes three.

‘I’d better go to work,’ I say.

‘Why? Are there some dead people I don’t know about? Did I miss the news story about the avalanche in Tufnell Park last night?’

‘You’re a very bad man.’ It’s the sort of remark I’d expect from a colleague rather than a civilian, and the mock shock-horror way he says it is actually quite funny.

‘I try not to be. Stay a while.’ The idiot brushes my wrist with his fingers. ‘More coffee?’

Last time I drank four lattes for breakfast I was still awake at two o’clock the following morning.

‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘And why don’t you tell me about the paintballing?’

He needs no second invitation. ‘There’s this huge woodland site between Edinburgh and Glasgow,’ he begins. ‘All sorts of scenarios. The village hostage rescue looks the most fun. That’s where you get to use the paint thrower.’ He sees my puzzled expression and clarifies, ‘It’s basically a huge water cannon filled with paint. The ordinary paintballs are a mixture of oil, gelatine and dye, and we fire them through nitrogen-powered compressed air.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘I have no idea.’ The idiot looks puzzled. ‘No-one’s ever marked me. I always win.’

‘You do this a lot, then?’

‘Once before. When I was seven. If it works out I’m going to sign up for this place in Oklahoma where you spend a week recreating the D-Day battles. With paint. If you pay a bit extra, you can lead the French Resistance.’

By the time the idiot has finished telling me about battle packs, paint pods, flag capturing, defensive bunker play, ravine negotiation and a legendary character called The Paint Punk, I’m thinking I’d love to go paintballing. With him.

And then I realise what’s really going on.

All this military talk … well, for a few minutes, it was just like old times.

Old times with Ryan.

My husband.

Captain Ryan Sherwood.

That day I watched him being presented with his Afghanistan Operational Service Medal was one of the proudest of my life.

And now?

I’m ashamed to realise that instead of thinking about Ryan’s funeral, I’ve been imagining myself on a date with a man who knows absolutely nothing about the savage realities of military life.

The idiot has stopped talking and for the first time in more than an hour the silence between us feels awkward.

‘You’re not how I imagined a corporate lawyer,’ I blurt out.

‘Says the lady undertaker. Sorry … there’s nothing I’d rather do than sit and talk to you for the rest of the day. But it looks like you’ve got a customer.’

I turn to see a man peering through the window of Happy Endings, then rattling on the door.

Business at last!

And a timely reminder that my priority is work.

Not relationships.

‘I’d better dash. Come on, Chopper. Thanks for breakfast. Good luck with the paintballing, and drive that thing,’ I point at his scooter, ‘more safely in future.’

‘Bye for now.’ He hesitates. Then, ‘Look, let me give you my number. Perhaps we can have dinner.’

I punch his details into my phone. Rude not to. Not as if I’m ever going to call him. But as I walk briskly across the street, rubbing the finger that used to wear a wedding ring, I acknowledge the idiot is charismatic in a man-child kind of way. Far too old to be riding a child’s toy, but at least he has good manners.

And Barclay is a pretty cool name.

11

‘Ah, there you are.’ The man who’s been looking into my shop hears me approaching and turns round at the sound of my footsteps.

I recognise him. Gareth Manning. Runs one of our neighbourhood’s abundance of estate agencies. I’ve overheard him several times in the street, braying with his colleagues about soaring house prices, boasting that if he learns a few phrases of Japanese he’ll be able to add a further thirty thousand to the price tag of a studio flat. He looks from me to his watch.

‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ he says.

‘So sorry I’m late.’ I quickly unlock and usher Gareth in through the door. Chopper and I follow. ‘Just give me a few moments,’ I say. I walk Chopper down to the basement and settle him onto his day bed, next to the fridges – which have been behaving themselves perfectly, although gobbling vast amounts of electricity since they have yet to accommodate anyone – and then retrace my steps.

‘Gareth, isn’t it?’ I say. We shake hands. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘I’ve come to measure up. And take pictures.’

‘For what?’ I’m bewildered because Gareth has the look of someone who’s made an appointment to see me.

‘The shop.’ Gareth flicks open the catches on his briefcase and produces a camera plus some gadget that shoots out a laser of light when he points it at the wall.

‘For what? Why?’ I’m baffled.

‘You know.’ Gareth sounds embarrassed, whereas before he was merely impatient to get on with his work. ‘The lease, and that.’

‘What about the lease?’

Now Gareth looks shifty. ‘Well, aren’t you surrendering it at the end of the month?’ He keeps his eyes studiously to the floor, then mutters, ‘Personally, I think you’ve made a good decision. No call for your kind of business around here, is there?’

If I weren’t so shocked, I’d tell Gareth that more people will die in our neighbourhood this year than will buy homes. And that we have only one undertaker, as opposed to half a dozen estate agents, all of whom seem to make a handsome living.

At least, that’s what I wish I’d said when I rerun this scene in my mind hours later. But for now, I’m dumbfounded. I can feel my face turning the colour of a pillar box. ‘Who told you that? About the lease?’

Before I can discover the source of Gareth’s misinformation, we are both startled by the sound of a ringing phone.

‘Excuse me,’ I mutter. Then, ‘Hello, Happy Endings. This is Nina speaking.’

Probably yet another cold caller trying to convince me I’m owed a fortune for payment protection insurance I know I never had in the first place.

But there’s nothing brash about the voice on the other end of the line. It’s female, shaky, and a bit muffled. ‘Is that … the undertaker?’

‘Yes, you’re through to Happy Endings,’ I repeat. ‘May I help you?’ My heart is racing. This is the call I have been waiting for. Gareth is fiddling with his laser pointy thing, and I’d like to order him to leave, but I don’t want to break off from this important phone call to speak to someone else, so I turn my back on him and listen.

‘I need to arrange a funeral.’

‘Of course. Might I have the name of the deceased, please?’

‘Kelli Shapiro.’

‘Kelli Shapiro?’ The Kelli Shapiro? The famous Kelli Shapiro? The woman who declared her two Oscars make splendid bookends, at least according to what I once read in Grazia. I’m relieved I’ve managed to keep the shock from my voice. ‘Let me just check the spelling on that,’ I say. ‘Kelli with a double l? And S-h-a-p-i-r-o.’

‘That’s right.’ A whisper.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you. If I give you the address, would you be able to come round to make the arrangements?’

‘Of course.’ I scribble it down. The big blue house facing the park. ‘What time would be convenient for you?’

‘Could you come now?’

‘Of course.’ I put down the phone.

Gavin has been packing up his briefcase. ‘Kelli Shapiro, eh?’ he says, trying and failing to quell his excitement. ‘Suicide? Drugs?’

Coldly, I escort him the few steps to the front door and seize the advantage. ‘Who told you to come here today?’

‘Can’t tell you that. Client confidentiality. You know how it is.’ Gareth hesitates, then adds, ‘Tell you what. Get me an introduction to sell Kelli’s house, and I’ll cut you in on my commission.’

I shut the door in his face.

12

Kelli Shapiro’s home is only a few minutes away. I force myself to walk slowly, although my mind is racing and my heart is hammering. Kelli’s next-of-kin must have seen my advert in the local paper, so it turns out I wasn’t squandering my start-up funds, after all.

Kelli Shapiro! Growing up, Mum was always teasing my dad about Kelli Shapiro. He had an enormous crush on her. ‘It’s just that she’s got magnificent comic timing,’ he’d protest. ‘Britain’s answer to Meg Ryan.’

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