by Karen Ross
‘Glad to know I’m having a good influence on you,’ I deadpan.
‘I’m guessing you haven’t changed your mind about accepting investment in Happy Endings?’ Barclay counters.
‘Not going to happen.’ Behind my back, I cross my fingers. ‘But you know how you like to mix business with pleasure?’
The moment I start telling Barclay about the solicitors who wrote to say Happy Endings is devaluing property prices, I have his full attention.
He looks furious.
‘Do you have the letter?’
I fish it out from my bag and Barclay speedreads.
‘Ridiculous,’ he says. ‘Leave this with me.’ He puts the letter to one side. ‘I promise you don’t need to worry about it.’
‘You mean they haven’t got a case?’
‘Let’s just say they’d be foolish to try it on in court. Don’t waste another second worrying.’
‘If anything, it makes me even more determined to make a go of things,’ I say. ‘I don’t understand why people are so hostile.’
Barclay considers. ‘The sort of people who live round here. They just don’t do death. Happy Endings makes them uncomfortable. Dead bodies on the high street – even when they’re out of sight – they remind them there’s some things money just can’t buy.’
‘All the more reason for me to get on with the Funeral Expo,’ I say. ‘Clear up some misconceptions. Not the one about death itself, obviously. But if I can help even one person to accept death is part of life, make it a tiny bit easier for them to deal with future losses by planning ahead and knowing what their loved ones want, then I’m in the right business.’
I see Barclay’s smile reflected in the glass top. ‘You’re really quite something,’ he says.
Ryan was never so interested in my work, not even in the early days.
Barclay stands up. ‘End of consultation?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘So about payment …’ He’s standing behind my chair. ‘I’m thinking a few more kisses. Followed by—’
I tilt the chair and look up at him. ‘Didn’t realise you were that cheap!’ I tease.
‘I’m thinking I might persuade you to put me on a retainer.’ Now Barclay’s hand is stroking the back of my neck in a way that sends shivers down my spine. ‘But seriously … I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. You’re far too—’
This isn’t sounding good. But before Barclay can let me down gently, I am saved by the bell.
Inside my bag, which is lying on the floor, my phone is ringing.
I check my watch.
Almost two o’clock in the morning.
An unknown phone number.
Which can mean only one thing.
‘Guess someone’s died,’ I say. ‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to go to work.’
‘No need to sound quite so pleased about it,’ Barclay says ruefully.
I press the reply button on the phone screen and say, ‘Hello, Happy Endings. This is Nina Sherwood. How may I help you?’
The woman on the other end of the phone is sobbing.
Eventually, she calms down enough to blurt out, ‘Nina, it’s me. Gloria. I’m at Kentish Town police station. I’ve been arrested.’
39
Luck had been on our side, that night. When we’d arrived at Kentish Town police station, a familiar face had happened to be in the reception area.
‘You two again.’ A weary greeting. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Sergeant Hartley.’ Impressively, Barclay remembered her name, and was rewarded with a cautious smile. ‘One of our friends called. I believe she’s been banged up in one of your cells.’ He made it sound as if a dinner party host had just learned the guest of honour was allergic to food – regrettable, but not insurmountable.
‘Name?’
‘Gloria O’Sullivan,’ I supplied.
A police officer loomed up from his computer. ‘Arrested in Regent’s Park. Broke into the Garden Festival area. Criminal damage.’
‘Oh.’ Sergeant Hartley considered. ‘Has she been charged?’
‘Not yet,’ the other officer said. ‘Busy night. And the girl keeps insisting her lawyer’s on the way.’
Barclay took a step forward. ‘And indeed, here I am,’ he announced. ‘So sorry for the delay. Please may I see my client?’
‘I’ll deal with this,’ Sergeant Hartley decided. ‘This way. Not you,’ she added to me, ‘just the lawyer.’
I sat there in reception for forty-five minutes before Barclay emerged with Gloria.
‘We’re out of here,’ was all he said.
So it wasn’t until we were back home – Barclay dropped us off in a cab – that I got the full story. Just after midnight, Gloria and her guerrilla gardening chums had snuck into the park, hauling the components of their protest installation through a strategically placed gap in the festival fencing. Everything was fine until a security guard turned up and raised the alarm. At which point, Gloria started a diversion – she told the guard that being Albanian he, better than most, should sympathise with the plight of migrants – to give her friends time to escape.
In the back of a police car, she’d managed to exchange a string of texts with Fred. Who, to put it mildly, couldn’t have been less interested.
In bed with his wife, he said. Gloria knew the rules, and served her right for getting into trouble.
‘Then he turned off his phone.’ I’d never seen Gloria so furious. Or so hurt.
By the time she’d been formally arrested and offered a phone call, Gloria realised she was in deep trouble. ‘Even if I managed to get away with a caution, my law career would be over before it began,’ she said. ‘That was why I was so upset when I called you. I’d forgotten you were going out with Barclay. Thank God the date went well!’ Gloria had sounded a little more cheerful.
Barclay had been nothing short of magnificent, she insisted. ‘When the cop reappeared, he said that yes, I was unquestionably guilty of criminal damage, along with unlawful entry, conspiracy, and most likely theft of materials, too. I wanted to kill him! But then he went into this long spiel about my good works at the law centre – although how he knew about that I have no idea – and how I was saving the police a lot of time, effort and money by giving out sensible advice on a voluntary basis. And that the world needed more lawyers like me, and less lawyers like him. Nina, I thought he was never going to shut up! In the end the policewoman told me I was fortunate to have such an eloquent friend and that she hoped I would treat this serious matter as a learning experience. Then she wished me all the best with my career, and we legged it.’
In the three weeks since that night, Gloria had broken up with Fred.
Meanwhile, my relationship with Barclay had begun. We’re officially an item, and there are moments when I think I’m going to burst with happiness.
Barclay Banks might like to pretend to himself that he’s a ruthless business type, but he’s actually very sweet.
After the night of Gloria’s arrest, he told me that since I was only just free of Ryan, I was vulnerable. Said we should take things slowly. Get to know one another properly. I asked if that meant he didn’t fancy me and just wanted to be friends.
‘Absolutely not.’ He was shocked. ‘I mean, of course I want to be friends. But since I come with a bit of a … how can I put it … a bit of a playboy reputation’ – that teasing smile I am already growing to love – ‘I want you to know you can trust me. There’s no-one else in my life, Nina. Only you. Well, you and forty-five builders, all of them giving me the bloody runaround.’
Barclay has set up headquarters in the kitchen in Chalcot Square, which means most days he pops into Happy Endings for a coffee. Sometimes, if I’ve got Chopper with me, we go for a stroll at lunch. And tonight – in fact, any moment now – he’s coming round for supper.
Can’t wait to see him.
Mostly because I can’t wait to see him, but also because I have good news to share. Oh, and b
ecause this evening, Barclay is cooking for us all, to make up for cancelling on me at the eleventh hour last week, after promising dinner at the Shard.
‘Hurry up, Nina,’ Edo shouts from downstairs. ‘I’m opening the wine. I need a drink before lover boy arrives.’
Despite the fighting talk, Edo is no longer hostile to Barclay. They bonded over Sky Sports. Chelsea versus Manchester United. Both of them letting the barriers down enough to confess they missed the old manager – the one who’s always so well dressed – and thought he’d had a raw deal.
The doorbell rings and I go bounding down the stairs to answer, pipped at the post by Chopper.
Barclay is not alone. ‘This is Kenji,’ he says. The smiling man next to Barclay is carrying an assortment of carriers and cool boxes. ‘He’s going to teach us how to make sushi. You’ll like that, won’t you?’ he adds to Chopper. ‘Seaweed’s good for your coat. Salmon, too. And,’ he whispers conspiratorially, ‘I’ve bought you a pig’s ear. Shall we stuff it with rice?’
I’m not sure about Chopper, but sushi is Gloria’s favourite food. An inspired choice, particularly as I mentioned to Barclay the other day that she’s been too upset even to eat a Chocolate Orange from our emergency supply.
Thirty minutes later, Kenji has us set up with aprons, boards and knives, and is teaching us the correct way to cut cucumber for the shikai maki.
‘Imagine it’s Fred you’re slicing and dicing,’ Barclay encourages Gloria. It’s the first time in three weeks I’ve seen her smile like she means it, and I want to kiss him.
‘See the marbling on that salmon?’ Kenji points to the peachy orange flesh with a chopstick. He has a strong – and incongruous – Scottish accent that reminds me of Lin. ‘That’s what makes it melt in your mouth like butter.’ He cuts it with such precision, he could double as a surgeon.
While we are put to work washing the rice – it needs to be rinsed five times – Kenji produces two bottles of saké. And several more as the evening progresses.
Little by little, we learn not to overstuff our sushi rolls. Or press too hard when we roll using the bamboo mats. There’s a method to make paper-thin omelettes that involves sieving the eggs and adding potato starch. Who knew! And the secret ingredient of perfect sushi vinegar? Kelp.
By the time we’re finished, colourful platters of delicious fresh food abound. And Chopper’s breath smells strongly of fish.
Kenji inspects our handiwork. ‘Not bad for one night,’ he says. ‘Especially considering you need at least seven years of training to become an expert sushi chef. Well done everybody. I’m going to leave you to enjoy, then come back later to clear away.’
We demolish our feast in a lot less time than it took to create.
‘Delicious!’ Gloria says. ‘I could get used to this.’ She and Barclay start talking law to one another – Gloria is trying to radicalise Barclay into joining a protest march against cuts in legal aid – and Edo chimes in with a story about Dele Dier spending two full days closeted with an intellectual property lawyer, discussing his artistic legacy. I can tell Edo’s miffed because Joshua Kent was invited to the marathon meeting, and he wasn’t.
‘How’s Dele doing?’ I ask.
Edo considers. ‘Mrs Happy’s death seems to have given him a whole new lease of life.’
‘That happens more than you’d imagine,’ I say gently. ‘People with a limited lifespan finding the energy they need to sort out their affairs.’ Edo’s already told me Dele’s got very firm ideas about his funeral and I’ve agreed to act as undertaker when the time comes. I ask, ‘What about your Design for Death project?’ Edo hasn’t mentioned it lately. ‘Has Dele been a source of inspiration?’
‘We’ve come up with an idea that meets Joshua Kent’s approval,’ Edo says cautiously. ‘But I’m not sure we’ll be able to pull it off. I’ll be able to pull it off,’ he corrects himself. ‘Anyway, for the moment, Dele’s talking about a weekend in Amsterdam with Joshua. Wants to get some decent weed to help himself through the pain barrier. More wine anybody?’
After Edo’s topped up our glasses, I say, ‘I’ve got good news to share.’ Three faces turn towards me. ‘My Funeral Expo. I’ve finally found a place to hold it. The community centre’s given me permission.’ My friends know I’ve already been turned down by the local church, the library and three schools. ‘So it’s all systems go!’
‘When’s it happening?’ Barclay looks impressed.
‘Sooner than I expected. They’ve given me a slot in six weeks’ time.’
‘Can you pull it together that fast?’ Gloria says.
‘I’m going to have to. Otherwise I have to wait till next April and that’s too far away. I need a big PR blast this side of Christmas.’
I sound more confident than I am. I didn’t want to approach any exhibitors until I was sure I had a venue so there’s a ton of work ahead to pull off a decent event in such a short space of time.
‘If you need any of my builders to knock up some stands or whatever, just say the word,’ Barclay offers.
The sound of clattering from the kitchen announces Kenji’s return.
Barclay stands up and stretches. ‘I’ll help him clear away, then I’ll be off,’ he says.
I wonder if Barclay and I will ever spend the night together. He seems content to take things very slowly indeed. It’s a puzzle I’m still thinking about when I eventually fall asleep.
And it’s Barclay I’m dreaming about – he’s trying to persuade me to ski up a mountain – in the middle of the night, when my phone begins to ring.
Funeral Number Four
††††
In Memoriam
KELLI JULIETTE SHAPIRO
1961–2019
††††
‘So first, the tragic death of Kelli Shapiro … ten days ago … on honeymoon in the Philippines. And now today … these extraordinary arrangements for her funeral.’ Nina noticed the Sky News reporter kept interrupting his own words with frequent – scripted – pauses and inflections, as if to increase the gravity of his words. Kelli, she suspected, would have accused him of overacting.
‘We’ll be bringing the entire funeral service to you and an audience of millions across the globe … live … here from Osea Island,’ the reporter continued. ‘But next, we go to Chelmsford … where a crowd of at least twenty thousand people … fans of Kelli Shapiro who have travelled from all over Europe … awaits a glimpse of the funeral cortege as it arrives from North London en route to the causeway that links this beautiful little island to the mainland of Essex.’
The reporter turned his back on the camera and started discussing cricket with a colleague.
This must be what it was like to be on a film set, Nina thought. Bursts of tightly focused energy and activity punctuated by lengthy interludes of waiting while everything that needed to happen behind the scenes was taken care of. And none of it seemed real, even though she herself was the person who had organised every tiny detail.
Darling! I can’t wait to see you. My husband and I (oh, how I love sounding like Her Majesty The Queen!) will be home in ten days. We’re about to fly north to an amazing place called Luzon for our honeymoon. Keir’s arranged everything. You’re going to love him! Kxxx
Nina knew Kelli’s final email to her off by heart. She had read it for the first time twelve nights ago, only a few hours before she was woken from her sleep by the shell-shocked voice of Keir Mahoney who had related – almost trancelike – the facts of his wife’s death.
A freak accident in the ocean, Keir had said. The two of them frolicking in warm, waveless waters. Kelli had cried out in pain when she bumped against the monstrous creature for just a single second. A sea wasp, the locals called it. Officially, the box jellyfish, which looked no more menacing than a white plastic bag, discarded in the sea.
Even before Keir could help her back to shore, a vicious red rash was spreading along Kelli’s arm and by the time the ambulance arrived she was unconscious although th
e red rash continued to feast on her skin. At the hospital, Kelli was declared dead. A doctor confessed that twenty to forty people died every year in the Philippines from jellyfish stings, although it was very unusual for the time of year. As though that might be some consolation. The British Embassy in Manila had explained Keir would need an undertaker back in England and Kelli had spoken about Nina a lot. Please, he’d asked on the phone, would she be able to help?
After the call, in the darkness – equally trancelike – Nina had dressed, left the house and driven to Happy Endings. There, she opened and printed off the computer documents with Kelli’s name on them.
To whom it may concern. I, Kelli Shapiro, place on record that in the event of my death, the arrangements for my funeral shall be as specified below.
That was as far as Nina was able to read before the words blurred. Through her Niagara of tears, she saw herself, only a few weeks ago, sitting in Kelli’s comfortable kitchen. The pair of them giggling their way through Kelli’s instructions. Toasting the success of ‘Know Before You Go’ with vodka tonics. And after they’d had three each, working out how to use Nina’s iPhone to shoot video while Kelli gave an improvised performance.
‘Much better than doing it in a studio,’ Kelli insisted. ‘Someone would be bound to leak it online and that would ruin everything.’
Afterwards, the pair of them, heads close together, squinting at the screen, reviewing Kelli’s mini movie.
‘It’s not me you’d need for this!’ Nina protested when Kelli was finally done. ‘It’s more of a job for David Copperfield!’
‘How about David Blaine? I’ve got his number right here,’ Kelli had offered. Then, ‘But seriously, Nina. This is hugely important to me. Can I rely on you to make it happen?’
Now it was about to happen.
Nina had set her own grief to one side. Like anyone else who’d been freshly bereaved, a frenzy of displacement activity cushioned the hammer blow. The first job had been to arrange Kelli’s repatriation, which took a mountain of paperwork and long-distance phone calls to achieve. While she waited for the necessary permits to arrive, Nina faxed Kelli’s wishes to Keir. He agreed immediately. Cost was absolutely not an issue, he added. ‘Do whatever it takes. Hire whatever you need. Tell me what I can do help.’