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Henry is here! I fought my way through the dancing crowd. The band had started up again with an energetic cover of a Bob Marley song. Elbows and hips were blocking me from getting to him. I stopped still and tried to hover on my tiptoes to get a better vantage point. Where had he gone? He was right there a second ago.
‘Grace! Where are you going?’
Mum was still calling after me but I couldn’t stop. I had to get to him.
Henry is here. Henry is here.
My feet were moving without my brain thinking. What was he wearing? He didn’t own a stripy polo shirt; he must have bought it recently.
Annoyingly, he looked good in it. He had always looked good in anything. Questions roared across my mind as I forged forward.
‘Alright, love!’ said a man with cauliflower ears and a receding hairline, smiling a toothy grin at me. ‘You won’t get served standing there.’ He’d spilt some of his pint onto his tan loafers. He wasn’t wearing socks.
‘I’m not trying to get served.’
I craned my neck to see where he’d gone. He couldn’t have just disappeared. He was right there, I was certain of it. I felt funny, not sure if I wanted to vomit or cry at how overwhelming the feeling was.
‘You want us to hoist you up? You might have a better chance of catching the barmaid’s eye then?’ The man nudged me. His equally enormous friends turned round to see who he was talking to.
‘He was just here…’
‘Who? Who was here?’ I could see him pull a face to his mates out of the corner of my eye. A booming laugh and a meaty hand slapping his back. A waft of offensive BO. ‘You alright, love? You’ve gone a bit pale.’
I shook my head.
It wasn’t him.
My eyes had deceived me. Henry’s doppelgänger, who actually didn’t look very much like him after all, was laughing with an older woman at the bar. The hair colour was almost the same but his face was all wrong. That cheeky smile, the cluster of freckles and the confident way he held himself were all missing.
Waves of heat rose to my cheeks. It was much too hot in there with all those writhing bodies jostling around me. Henry wasn’t there, of course he wasn’t. How utterly ridiculous of me to think that after all these years he’d show up in this place. As if he’d be hanging out in a dive of a bar in Ryebrook on a Friday night. What planet was I on? I blinked back the tears threatening to overcome my gritty and tired eyes. I had to get out of there immediately.
‘Hey, come back darlin’, I won’t bite!’
‘Unless you want him to!’
I ignored the looks and irritated tutting from strangers as I pushed past. Jeers of laughter followed by wolf-whistles were drowned out by the terrible music. I fought my way to the doors, inhaling lungfuls of cool air as I tumbled outside.
I scurried past the huddle of smokers flocked under one lonely heater, holding my breath so as not to be permeated by their poisonous fumes. I’d call Mum later and tell her I wasn’t feeling well, apologise for not saying bye. Thanks to the drinks she was putting away, I doubted she’d even remember my dramatic disappearance by the morning. For the first time in a long time I yearned to be anaesthetised by alcohol too.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_3abd5d25-241d-5236-8941-c05783cbdc38)
When you break up with someone it’s normal to ricochet between emotions; all the books told me that. Except this wasn’t a clean cut break-up. He’d just disappeared, and there were still so many things left unsaid. I’d tried. I really had. I hated feeling like that, struggling to pick myself up and get back on track. Usually baking helped, but I couldn’t summon up the energy to give one of Ms Norris’s recipes a go. Cleaning was the next best solution, but even that didn’t seem to be working.
I decided to call Maria. She was the only person who knew about Henry, and I could trust her not to judge me. Others wouldn’t understand. Surely I should feel OK by now. But it was like my head and heart hadn’t read the rulebook which contained the exact date you should move on after a traumatic break-up. As time had passed, I’d forced myself to see less and less of Maria, as seeing her meant being reminded of him. Every time we met, his name wasn’t far from slipping into our conversation. That’s just the way it was.
I dialled her number.
‘Grace? Wow. Long time! How are you doing, hun?’
I let out a breath I’d been holding. Her warmth radiating down the line immediately washed away any of the doubts I’d had at making this call out of the blue.
‘Hi! I know, it’s been a while…’
‘Everything OK?’
I sighed deeply.
‘Stupid question. Of course not. Why else would you be calling me?’ Her light tinkle of a laugh softened the dig.
‘Are you around for a catch-up? I could really do with seeing you… as soon as possible.’
I could hear a rustling of papers in the background. I winced. I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous that she would want to see me, especially after such a long absence.
‘Oh, hun, I’m so sorry but I’m really busy at the moment. Work is manic, you know how it is.’
Of course she was busy, what was I expecting?
‘Maybe I can move things around and give you a call back so we can organise a get-together soon? It would be good to see you again.’
I felt dejected. There was once a time when we were so close that she would have cancelled whatever was in her diary for me. Clearly too much time had passed. I tried to stay positive that she was a woman of her word; once things calmed down for her she’d be in touch. Until then I needed to keep busy and I knew exactly what to do to fill the time.
*
I curled my feet up under me, pulling my laptop closer, and logged in to Facebook. I needed to start my prep on Abbie Anderson.
As a model, she had a significant online presence, so I imagined it would be easy to discover lots of details we could incorporate into her funeral. I typed her name in the search bar and hovered my finger for a second before clicking.
I was soon looking at the life of a dead woman. Her profile picture was a flawless selfie, and luckily her account was not set to private. The last photo she had been tagged in before she died was a group shot. Four smiling faces around a dining table, each holding their wine glass up to the camera. A woman with a selfie stick in her outstretched arm to capture them all.
Shona Fitz nee Limbrick is feeling happy with –Greg Fitz, Abbie Anderson, Callum Anderson. Just found this on my phone! What a great night!! Had to share!!
Callum’s name didn’t come up in bold blue like Abbie or the others, which meant he wasn’t on Facebook. I stared at the photo, imagining their life, being a guest at one of their dinner parties. Owning a selfie stick. The men probably moaning as the women giggled at the effort of drunkenly trying to steady their hand to get everyone in the shot. It had received ninety-four likes.
There was an album from their honeymoon a few years ago. Seychelles, baby! I clicked on it. Abbie wearing a barely-there white one-piece with impractical holes cut out of it, posing effortlessly on a plump cream sun lounger, an idyllic white sandy beach and turquoise clear waters in the background. A shot of her drinking a martini with dramatic bug sunglasses on, looking away from the camera. Callum diving into an infinity pool, beads of water on his tanned torso as he froze mid-air. The two of them, noses pink from the sun, cuddled together, and grinning over a table full of seafood. They looked so utterly happy together. He looked so different from the man I’d met.
I couldn’t help myself, clicking on the photos that she was tagged in. Abbie wearing a burgundy mini dress with what looked like a cape attached to it. Her legs up to her armpits. I tried not to compare the size of my non-existent thigh gap with hers. Abbie in blood-red spike heels and leather-look leggings. Her face painted in white powder with a drop of crimson falling from her bottom lip. Plastic fangs in her mouth. A black velvet choker around her slim neck. Sharp collarbones and jutting ribs.
If looks could kill!! Ready for a hair-raising night to raise money for Princess Power!
Princess Power was a local charity for young women with terminal cancer.
Abbie’s slim, tanned arm wrapped around two attractive men wearing hot pink Hawaiian shirts. Thick gold cuffs on her wrists, her hair slicked back against her skull and a fierce pout at the camera.
Hula night, bitches! – With Owen Driscoll and @ ModelsZone
Her modelling agency, by the looks of it.
The same guy, Owen, the one with the sculptured cheekbones and glossy black hair, appeared a few more times in selfies, arty black and white modelling shoots and goofy backstage candid pics. They looked great together. Abbie had checked them into different places across Europe, probably when they were working on shoots together.
Another shot: Abbie in cargo shorts and a coral vest top, cheering at the camera from the ruins of Macchu Picchu.
We made it! #Blessed #YOLO
Abbie underwater, snorkelling past a shoal of fish, the same bright colours as her bikini.
Trying to Find Nemo! #JustKeepSwimming
Abbie jumping on an enormous plush hotel bed in a cute denim playsuit.
Paris is always a good idea!
There was a short video clip of her bending her lithe body into some impressive shapes on a beach in Turkey, taken by a drone by the looks of the crazy angles. She’d tagged in a yoga retreat company.
The only way to find zen – with @yogawarriors. Can’t wait to return next year!
It was like a car crash on the other side of the motorway. I couldn’t look away. My fingers danced on the cursor wanting to see more and more. Within twenty minutes, I’d inhaled seven years of her life.
Right, I needed to work out ways to incorporate what I’d learnt into a perfect goodbye. I pulled out a notepad and began to jot a few ideas down. She clearly enjoyed yoga and a holistic lifestyle, so maybe we could dot incense sticks around the chapel? Having such a strong online presence, maybe we could create a photo montage as a visual memento? She clearly loved to travel, so maybe this could be something to work with?
I glanced around my bare flat, aware of a strange gnawing feeling in my chest. There wasn’t a photo, personal knick-knack or random bit of clutter in sight. I bet Abbie had lots of interesting trinkets from her exotic adventures dotted around her house, each with a fascinating story. My cleaning to-do list stared back at me forlornly from the coffee table. The budget-but-practical IKEA furniture suddenly seemed impersonal and even the two duck egg cushions that came with the sofa (in the January sales) looked drab. It was as if I was seeing through someone else’s eyes for the first time. I blinked rapidly and told myself to stop overthinking things. These items were chosen for their durability, not their ability to catch dust.
What I couldn’t escape from was that I was the same age as Abbie – we even had the same birthday – yet it was clear to see from her Facebook page that I’d barely led a fraction of the life that she had. I shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I couldn’t compete with her glamorous job, exotic travels, handsome husband and enormous posse of good-looking male and female friends. I shook my head. Two women, the exact same age, living in the same town, but completely worlds apart.
Abbie looked like the type of woman who always had perfectly polished toenails, who wore perfume every day – not just for a special occasion. She clearly had the upper arms of a yogi, volunteered her time for charity, and had seen the world, ticking off country after country that I could only dream of visiting. I bet she could speak at least one foreign language, made fresh healthy juices each morning, and was the person you realised was absent from social events.
Her perfect smile radiated off my laptop screen, eyes crinkled in a genuine laugh at the camera lens. You could tell by looking at her that she was someone you wanted on your team. She seemed so confident with who she was and the life she led. I had to keep reminding myself of the fact that this woman was no longer alive – it seemed impossible to get my head around it, and I hadn’t even known her. What must her husband and family be going through, losing such a vibrant woman with a clear zest for life?
I clicked on my own Facebook profile, using this newfound critical eye for detail to really take a good look at myself. What would someone uncover about me once I was gone? My closest friends were an eighty-three-year-old woman and a forty-something shopkeeper.
I sighed deeply.
This was Henry’s fault. I’d had close friends, a fun and exciting life in London and a promising future planned, before he ruined everything. I couldn’t help but pull at one of the threads on my sleeve at the thought of him, tugging it around my finger, watching it turn the tip an angry purple colour. I shouldn’t go there. I needed to concentrate on myself and what I could control. That was what Doctor Ahmed always said.
I shook my head. This wasn’t about Henry. This was about Abbie Anderson and giving this vivacious, inspirational woman the send-off she deserved. For the first time, I felt overwhelmed with the uncertainty of how exactly I was going to go about this.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_b0668552-e684-5271-95a2-e51ce492233e)
As expected, Linda had been very eager to hear about my Ask a Funeral Arranger event. I’d given a noncommittal, vague answer about how it had been a little quieter than expected, omitting the fact that only two people had turned up, one who already had a funeral plan with us and the other who was much too young to sign up for one.
‘Great. So you did get some sign-ups?’
‘Er…’
She raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t fooling her.
‘Seriously. Not one bit of interest?’
I couldn’t cope with the smugness radiating from her and the way she held her biro to her pursed lips, tapping at the smirk painted on them.
‘Oh, yes, well, I mean there was one man who seemed keen to know more…’ I lied.
‘Really?’
‘I’m just about to give him a call to confirm his appointment actually…’ I trailed out. She refused to take her eyes off me. Why had I said that? Why not admit it had been a total waste of time? I picked up my phone and for a moment thought about calling up the talking clock and pretending, but that was even more pathetic. I scrolled through my contacts list. Who could I call? Who would be receptive to me trying to sell them their own funeral? I settled on a gentleman I’d met a few months ago at a funeral service.
Please don’t pick up, please don’t pick up.
‘Hello?’ A gruff voice answered. My stomach dropped.
‘Hello, is that Mr Baxter?’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh hello, my name is Grace Salmon. I’m calling from Ryebrook Funeral Home and wondered if you had a moment to talk about your funeral?’
‘What? You what? It’s who?’
I couldn’t work out where he was, but there was music and laughter in the background. He was quite an elderly gentleman. I raised my voice.
‘It’s Grace Salmon! Is now a good time?’
I caught Linda sniggering into her raised fist as I shouted down the line.
‘Salmon? What? I can’t hear a bloody thing,’ he muttered. ‘Are you selling me something?’
This was not going well.
‘No. Well, yes. I wanted to speak to you about arrangements for your funeral, to see about making an appointment to discuss plans to lock it in at today’s prices.’ I winced. Linda made this seem so effortless.
‘My funeral? I really can’t hear a thing…’
I was losing him. To be fair I’d never had him in the first place, but I needed to keep him on the line a little longer. I thought of a different tack, one I’d seen Linda use.
‘You want to take the burden of planning your funeral away from your loved ones, don’t you?’
There was a pause. What sounded like the tinkle of a fruit machine and hearty male laughter.
‘Mr Baxter? Are you there?’
‘I don’t know who this is but I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.’
‘No, sir, I’m not –’
‘Wait. Is this Gerald? Ah, you got me there.’ He broke into a loud guffaw. ‘Calling about my funeral, you cheeky git. He set you up to this, didn’t he?’
‘No, I don’t know anyone called Gerald…’
Linda was making spluttering noises, trying to keep her suppressed giggles in. Mr Baxter wasn’t listening to my protestations.
