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‘Or a poodlenese,’ Edo suggests.
I take another look at Chopper. Edo let him off the lead when we got to the woods at the back of the ponds, and the dog is celebrating his freedom by enthusiastically turning a fallen branch into a pile of matchsticks. Chopper is about four times the size of any other dog out on a Saturday walk, so all I can say is that the Bernese must be a very big dog indeed.
‘That’s interesting,’ Edo says.
‘What?’ I enquire. ‘A dog chewing a stick?’
‘No. Taking one thing and transforming it into another.’
Before I can say something about dogs doing that every time they sink their teeth into something, Edo continues his thought. ‘Shapeshifting.’
‘Is that what they taught you at art school?’ Gloria’s tone is only faintly mocking.
‘As it happens, I’ve got a postgraduate tutorial with Joshua Kent next week,’ Edo retorts. ‘If I’m lucky, he’ll mentor me on my next project.’
Wow! Edo must be an even better artist than he is a sign writer. Joshua Kent is a real big shot. His art is on display in galleries and private collections all over the world. It’s not my kind of thing – call me a philistine, but I like a painting to look like a painting, with a nice frame and everything – but winning the Turner Prize three times has made Joshua Kent properly famous.
Edo is looking suitably modest. ‘I’ve got a couple of ideas,’ he says, ‘but I think they’re too ordinary. Can we talk about something else, please? I’m terrified. Nina, what do you think Gloria should do about Fred? Dump him, or what? What would you do?’
I’m about to reply to Edo’s penultimate question in the definite affirmative, but Gloria is faster. ‘I’ve told you,’ she says to Edo. ‘Nina doesn’t do relationships.’
The pair of them exchange a glance, and I realise Edo has been briefed about the reason for my lack of a love life. Gloria must have told him about Ryan – his funeral and all that – and my decision to prioritise my career over relationships.
An awkward pause, while we watch Chopper take a breather from his labours, then spit out the final shreds of wood and begin to paw furiously at the ground, digging a hole in which to bury his matchsticks.
‘If anyone needs advice,’ I finally say, ‘it’s me.’
‘The business?’ asks Gloria, and I suspect this is something she has also discussed with Edo.
‘It’s only been a week,’ Edo chimes in. ‘And besides, the weather’s too good for dying.’
Even though he is being facetious, Edo has a point. More people die during winter than summer. But that’s not the issue. Every time I think about my parents, I feel sick. Sticking all their pension money next to the matchsticks in Chopper’s freshly dug hole in the ground is beginning to seem like a far better idea than allowing them to keep their investment in Happy Endings.
I feel Gloria’s hand on my arm. ‘Remember your business plan, sweetie.’ She’s doing her best to reassure me. I’ve estimated thirty funerals in the first year, so with only one week gone, I’m not even behind schedule. But neither have I earned a single penny.
‘My business plan wasn’t much more than guesswork,’ I confess. Guesswork, moreover, that didn’t even include any budget for advertising and marketing. ‘I should have thought things through more thoroughly. Maybe there’s a good reason why the shop was empty for so long after Noggsie’s first stroke left him unable to carry on – and it wasn’t just because the council rejected change-of-use applications from a bunch of hipsters who wanted to turn it into yet another café.’
‘Rubbish!’ Edo jumps in. ‘Remember what Noggsie’s son said.’ The son who lives in Australia and gave me a good deal on the rent. ‘He wanted you to have the lease because he reckoned the high street needs some proper shops again. There’s only so many cupcakes a person can eat.’
Edo’s wrong about that. Especially when they incorporate marshmallow frosting. But his intentions are good.
Enough of this.
I’m behaving like a complete wimp.
All doom and gloom and Poor Little Me just because things aren’t happening as fast as I’d hoped. Yes, when I was an employee, we could more or less guarantee how many funerals we’d handle every week, but the business had been there for decades. My empty shop window has evidently led to misunderstandings about the nature of my business but it’s sorted now: my collection of ceramic urns are modern and tasteful, although from what I’ve seen of Primrose Hill so far, there’s a danger the locals will think I’m running an art gallery.
‘You know what?’ I confess. ‘I was hoping in my heart of hearts that business would just fall into my lap. But I need to make myself known.’ There have to be cheaper ways of advertising than buying space in the local paper, which every undertaker seems to do as a matter of routine. ‘I’ve made a start already.’
I’m telling my friends about the email I sent to Zoe Banks when my phone pings. I look at the screen.
‘Ha!’ I tell them. ‘Talk of the devil, and the devil appears!’
It’s a message from Zoe.
I’m going to meet her on Monday.
Can’t wait!
9 (#ulink_7042ce2c-e012-5f5c-bf12-9d11fe5d9c4a)
Truthfully, Zoe’s email reads more like a summons than an invitation. Yes, we need to discuss what you’re doing. Monday 7.15am. Home not spa.
My own email is repeated underneath. Taking another look, it does seem to ramble a bit. But never mind that Zoe hasn’t replied at length. The important thing is that she has replied at all. Promptly, too, which is good business etiquette. Zoe must be one of those scarily efficient women who has successfully tamed her email mountain by keeping responses – even to warm and friendly messages like mine – to the bare minimum.
That fits in with Gloria’s extended briefing about Zoe and her day spa. The Beauty Spot is part of a chain that also has a presence in other wealthy pockets of London, plus outposts in Zürich, Rome, Dubai and Los Angeles. Our local branch is hidden away inside a beautiful Regency townhouse, just off the high street. I’ve always been too scared to go inside, but I’ve given the website a good going-over in preparation for this meeting.
Turns out the rumours that Zoe sells nothing that costs less than £35 are true. Really? For a bottle of bubble bath that small? And do women honestly pay three figures to have their eyebrows tidied? Especially when the first figure’s not even a one! Back in my student days, I spent less than that on a weekend in Berlin, and my eyebrows always look just fine.
I know I ought to be grateful Zoe has prioritised our meeting, but instead I’m faintly resentful I needed to be up at half past five this morning to make sure I had enough time to dither about what to wear. And redo my eyebrows four times.
I arrive at Zoe’s home – a leafy turning on the far side of the park going towards Swiss Cottage – at ten past seven. Which is just as well, because I squander the next three minutes trying to make the intercom system work. In the end, I resort to punching random numbers on the keypad, and this finally does the trick. A disembodied male voice instructs me, ‘Step AWAY from the gates and state your name.’
‘Nina Sherwood,’ I announce, startled.
‘Correct.’
What is this, an intelligence test?
‘When the gates open, please make your way to the main entrance.’ The voice sounds like Carson out of Downton Abbey, scolding one of the servants for being ungrateful.
At first glance, the gates – sandwiched between high brick walls – could be mistaken for a piece of sculpture, all curves and swirls, with a hint of Art Deco. Then they glide soundlessly open, and I get my first glimpse of Zoe’s home.
So this is how the one per cent of the one per cent lives … As I read online last night – doing my Zoe Banks homework before explaining to Chopper that my bed is not his bed – I am now eyeballing a piece of prime central London real estate worth £14 million. Which buys you (I continued my online research via Zoopla, Google Earth and Vogue) seven bedrooms, a private cinema, a wine cave, staff quarters and one of the largest gardens in North London, complete with its own tropical pagoda. All that, plus a ten-metre infinity pool that incorporates both wave machine and rainforest shower.
‘This way please, Ms Sherwood.’ Carson’s disembodied voice again, sounding even less pleased than before. I’m obviously over-gawping, so I jog the final few metres to the front door, crunching a spray of gravel in my wake. The door opens immediately, even before I can work out where the bell might be located.
I’m almost surprised not to be greeted by Carson. Instead, a man about my own age, dressed in a perfect charcoal suit – I’m guessing it costs more than the average funeral – teamed with white shirt, blue silk tie and black-rimmed round glasses is looking me up and down. The expression on his face is exactly as I had anticipated: disdain underpinned by disapproval.
But maybe I’m just flustered, because his voice is considerably more warm when he tells me, ‘This way, please.’ I follow him across a vast expanse of highly polished wooden flooring. ‘Ms Banks is running late this morning,’ he says. Late? At seven fifteen? Is this code for ‘Ms Banks has overslept?’ Apparently not, because the man continues, ‘A meeting with her architect is taking longer than anticipated. If you wait here’ – I am ushered into a space that is bigger than every room of Happy Endings put together – ‘I’ll fetch you a coffee.’
Carson leaves the room before I have a chance to say, ‘White, please, with three sugars,’ and I’m about to make myself at home on a squishy black leather couch when I hear voices coming from the adjoining room. A man and a woman speaking softly yet distinctly. I find myself heading towards a not-quite-closed door and begin earnestly to study a huge canvas on the wall. Blue splodges placed at indeterminate intervals against a backdrop of what looks like green and yellow electricity pylons, encased in an ornate frame that could easily be proper gold, although I’d have to bite it to be sure.
‘So we should hear back from the planning department in the next four to eight weeks.’ The man’s voice.
‘Why does it take them so long?’ The woman – presumably Zoe Banks – is verging on shrill. I can almost hear her stamping her foot. ‘Can’t we fast-track it? Pay them extra? Anyway, it’s going to be a formality, so might as well get cracking straight away. Right?’ Before the man can reply, Zoe continues, ‘You realise I’m still unhappy with the north-east elevation. If we’re building a neo-classical palace we might as well get it right and have the columns properly hand-carved. Agreed?’ A pause. ‘I’m paying two hundred thousand for this, after all. Plus your fees.’
‘Of course. And you’re happy with the design of the frieze?’
‘Let’s have another look at the plans.’ A rustle of papers. ‘Yes, I like that. Lovely idea to call the extension a small temple in the trees. And our garden’s so big, no-one will ever spot it. You know, life’s too short to wait for the bloody planners, so let’s get the builders in next week and pay the fine for going ahead without permission if we get caught.’
Temple in the trees? I’d assumed the people on the other side of the door were discussing plans for a holiday home. Greece, perhaps. Or Croatia. Surely even someone like Zoe Banks wouldn’t spend two hundred grand on a tree house. Especially someone who, according to my research, doesn’t have children. I’m worried Carson’s going to come back and catch me eavesdropping but I’ve never heard a conversation like this before and I can’t tear myself away.
That’s weird. In one breath, the man is saying something about a multi-level dwelling with geometrically perfect proportions. But now he’s describing a wirelessly controlled fox-proof security system. Surely he means foolproof. And what’s this about an automatic sliding roof above the nesting box suite? Is that what rich people call a bedroom?
I’m wondering if I’m going deaf, and if I dare to push the door open just a tiny crack further, when Zoe says, ‘We’ve had our skirmishes with this project, Marcus, but I’ve always known you were the man to create the Taj Mahal of hen houses.’
‘That’s very kind, but by the time we’re done, I hope it will look more like Le Petit Trianon.’
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 (#ulink_92c974f8-cbb5-5363-8578-d99cd5e000d4)
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.
