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Five Wakes and a Wedding
Five Wakes and a Wedding
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Five Wakes and a Wedding

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Five Wakes and a Wedding
Karen Ross

Undertaker Nina Sherwood is full of good advice. For example, never wear lip gloss when you’re scattering ashes. Nina is your average 30-year-old with a steady job, a nice home – and dead bodies in her basement. As an undertaker, she often prefers the company of the dead to the living – they’re obliging, good listeners and take secrets to the grave.  Nina is on a one-woman mission to persuade her peers that passing on is just another part of life. But the residents of Primrose Hill are adamant that a funeral parlour is the last thing they need… and they will stop at nothing to close down her dearly beloved shop.  When Nina’s ‘big break’ funeral turns out to be a prank, it seems like it’s the final nail in the coffin for her new business. That is, until a (tall, dark and) mysterious investor shows up out of the blue, and she decides to take a leap of faith.  Because, after all, it’s her funeral… The perfect antidote to all those books about weddings, this book will make you laugh until you cry, perfect for fans of Zara Stoneley’s Bridesmaids, Four Weddings and a Funeral and The Good Place.

Five Wakes and a Wedding

KAREN ROSS

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Karen Ross 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock

Bells © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Karen Ross asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008354350

Version: 2019-06-18

For Francesca

Table of Contents

Cover (#u7a660c48-637c-5049-a543-ab4a98759f53)

Title Page (#ubf066b55-4bb7-5e8b-af54-e2a8a4ad02d2)

Copyright (#uc3827f0d-5b50-503e-b04e-cc45974edbad)

Dedication (#u7bc79154-7a37-5ba0-afe5-d187515ec290)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Funeral Number One

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Funeral Number Two

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Funeral Number Three

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Funeral Number Four

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Funeral Number Five

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Acknowledgements

Nine Book Club Questions and a Suggestion

About the Author

About the Publisher

1 (#u72c9106b-a016-5231-93c5-2f50ea8165e8)

‘Nina! One of the fridges is making a weird noise.’ Gloria’s voice is a welcome distraction from my latest attempt at flower arranging. At least, until I realise what I’ve just heard.

Shit.

I abandon the cornflowers, delphiniums and rust-coloured foliage, dash through to the back room, and hurtle down the stairs that lead to the basement storage area. With every step I take, a measured ‘beep, beeep, beeeep’ – like the sound of hospital machinery hooked up to someone in a coma – grows louder.

‘Something must have tripped the alarm! What did you do to the fridge?’ I ask as Gloria comes into sight.

‘Nothing.’

Gloria is unruffled by my accusatory tone. She’s my housemate.

‘I was looking for the cleaning spray,’ she says. ‘To take the whitewash off the window.’

The fridge’s mournful signal of distress continues.

‘Maybe buying my equipment on eBay wasn’t such a good idea,’ I manage. ‘But at least there’s nothing in it yet.’

As if to prove it, I open the door to the beeping fridge.

The noise stops and is immediately replaced by the sound of a wooden object being hit – repeatedly – by a hammer. ‘That must be Edo!’

Gloria hears the relief in my voice. She manoeuvres herself around the fridge, squeezes my shoulder and says, ‘C’mon. Let’s go see.’

My hand is still on the fridge door. Tentatively, I close it.

Beep

Beeep.

Beeeep.