by Karen Ross
Nina summoned the UK’s premier entertainment event management company. A team of fifteen people was assembled and – under Nina’s meticulous stewardship – took control of everything, including the all-important media agenda.
It didn’t matter that so many of the headlines and talking heads were critical; in fact, the more the better.
Kelli had been branded a diva. A spendthrift. The worst sort of movie star. A very poor example. And – Nina’s favourite – ‘the Queen of Excess’. The object of the PR exercise was to ensure that Kelli Shapiro, tragic Kelli Shapiro, was the only show in town for ten consecutive days.
Now the show was about to reach its final curtain.
‘Darling! Go out there and enjoy every moment.’ Kelli’s voice and her wonderful throaty chuckle rattled inside Nina’s head.
‘Are you ready?’ The production assistant’s question brought Nina back to the job in hand.
‘Absolutely.’ She allowed herself to be placed in the line of camera fire and the Sky News reporter began.
‘I’m joined now by the funeral director, Nina Sherwood,’ he said. ‘Is it fair to say this is the biggest funeral we’ve seen in the United Kingdom since that of Princess Diana?’
‘There have been comparisons, yes.’
‘But equally … how do you respond to those who say this is a vulgar demonstration of ostentatious wealth? People who are saying … no matter how tragically Kelli Shapiro died, this funeral demonstrates … she had … more money than sense. Or taste.’
‘First of all, I’d say Kelli is to be congratulated for having planned ahead, and making sure her funeral is a true reflection of who she was. I’d also suggest people shouldn’t be quite so quick to judge.’
‘One moment …’ The reporter paused theatrically. ‘Here are the first pictures of the funeral cortege approaching the causeway.’
Nina could see what was happening on a small monitor to the left of the camera. She assumed the images were now being shown on live TV.
‘Are you able to confirm … that the mourners in these cars following the hearse include Brad Pitt, Helen Mirren, Madonna … David Beckham, Sir Elton John, Meryl Streep, Benedict Cumberbatch and Dame Emma Thompson? Yes … look,’ the reporter began to answer his own question, ‘that is indeed Sir Elton John we can see in the limousine. Join us after this very quick break … when we will see a galaxy of celebrity mourners walk the red carpet that leads to the incredible graveside of Kelli Shapiro.’
Nina’s interview was over. A member of the event team was waiting at the wheel of a Jeep to drive her the short distance to the graveside.
‘Everything’s in place,’ the young man reassured her.
‘And still no-one knows what’s really going to happen?’
‘You can count on it.’
Twenty minutes later, Nina was staring out at the sea of celebrities from her vantage point high in the control booth.
A hush of expectation.
Until the silence was broken by ‘Spirit in the Sky’, performed by a one-time-only supergroup consisting of Elton John, members of Coldplay, Justin Timberlake, and fifty per cent of Simon & Garfunkel. Followed by debatably inappropriate whistles and cheers.
An impromptu burst of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ by way of an encore while the starriest of the star-studded cast of mourners arrived finally to claim their front-row cinema-style seats, then the funeral of Kelli Shapiro began.
A large outdoor screen – the type used at football matches to replay goals and other highlights – flickered into life.
Followed by a collective gasp, when everyone realised what they were seeing and hearing.
‘Hi. Yes. It’s me!’ Kelli had been staring directly into the camera lens of Nina’s phone that day in the kitchen. What was lacking in Hollywood production standards was made up for in shock value. ‘And I’m dead.’ She sounded remarkably – disturbingly – cheerful about it. ‘As you’ve probably heard, I’m going to be buried in my car. My very expensive car.’
Eyes dropped from the screen to the deep hole that had been dug underneath it at centre stage in front of the assembled congregation and at the huge pile of dirt alongside it. All against the backdrop of a huge golden curtain.
A gasp as the curtain lifted to reveal the car that Kelli had specified as her final resting place. An electric blue Rolls-Royce Ghost.
‘And there you have it,’ the Sky News reporter was telling his global audience. ‘List price just under a quarter of a million pounds. And this at a time when funeral poverty in the United Kingdom – people who can’t afford to give their loved ones a decent funeral – is approaching record heights.’ He might just as well have been saying Kelli Shapiro was a spoiled, wicked woman.
An elaborate stainless-steel coffin expertly shouldered by six of Nina’s most trusted pallbearers was slowly making its way along the red carpet that divided the sea of mourners. Even at a glance, you could see it was the funereal equivalent of Kelli’s Rolls-Royce.
At the graveside, the pallbearers gently placed their precious cargo onto a makeshift altar made of natural rock.
Then silence.
Those present began to exchange glances, their unanswered questions hanging uneasily in the air.
Would Kelli’s coffin actually fit inside the car?
Did they plan to rest it in the back seat?
In the boot?
Were there going to be prayers?
More live music?
Traditional hymns?
What about a eulogy?
And presumably it was going to take a crane to manoeuvre the Rolls-Royce into the grave?
Just when the mood was shifting from uncomfortable to unbearable, Kelli’s home movie resumed.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not actually inside the coffin.’ Nina sobbed into her handkerchief as Kelli’s glorious throaty chuckle filled the outdoor auditorium. ‘And I’m not so daft as to bury a car. Especially one we’ve borrowed from the lovely people at Rolls-Royce. No. Here’s the thing. A while ago, I was diagnosed with kidney disease. When they told me, I did exactly what you’d have done. I got straight onto the internet!’
Ever the accomplished professional, Kelli paused to allow a ripple of nervous laughter.
‘And that was when I realised that what’s far more absurd than burying yourself in a car is burying – or burning – your organs just when you have the opportunity to save someone else’s life, instead. Sorry to mislead you. But I bet the media’s have been having field day talking about how rich and spoiled I am, and hopefully, that’s given my funeral more publicity than it would otherwise have got. Which has given me a platform to beg for your help.’
Kelli’s beautiful face dissolved on the screen, replaced with a montage of hospital shots, children on dialysis machines and ordinary men and women, who appeared with a subtitle that declared: ‘Kidney Donor’. Meanwhile, her voice continued on the soundtrack.
‘Over six thousand men, women and children are waiting for a kidney transplant,’ Kelli said. ‘One-third will be on the waiting list for two years, which means their whole life goes on hold while their families pray for a match. They are the lucky ones. Because one person in every ten will die before a suitable match comes up. So here’s what I want you to do. I beg you to recycle yourself. Become an organ donor. You can do that right now.’ A website address filled the screen. ‘Get yourself on the national register. Sixty per cent of kidney transplants go ahead because someone volunteered to become an organ donor before they died. I’m here to tell you … there is life after death. Please help.’
The screen faded to black and the golden curtain silently closed.
Kelli’s widower stood in front of the audience. ‘My name is Keir Mahoney,’ he said, ‘and I had the great privilege to be married to Kelli for nine days.’ His voice was strong and his trembling hands were buried deep inside his jacket pockets. ‘My wife was an incredible woman who believed passionately that more of us would volunteer to donate their
organs if we knew it was as easy as going online and filling in a form. I hope you’ll do that today, no matter where you are in the world, in memory of my wife, Kelli Shapiro.’ Keir’s voice faltered. ‘We also have a stack of donation cards right here and I’m hoping some of you will be generous enough to fill them in. And please, if you can, lobby your government, so that organ donation becomes the norm. We can save thousands of additional lives if we switch to a global opt-out system, and that’s exactly what we should do. For now, though, it’s essential to opt in.’
David and Victoria Beckham were first to reach Kier Mahoney. Followed by Meryl Steep and Sir Elton John. Sky News continued its live broadcast for ninety minutes longer than scheduled, its reporter and studio pundits naming and chit-chatting about the celebrities who stood patiently in line, most of them experiencing the novelty of queuing for the first time in years, while they waited to complete and autograph an organ donation card.
‘And finally it is my turn to honour the life of the brilliant Oscar-winning actress, Kelli Shapiro.’ The Sky News reporter signed his name with a flourish. ‘Now back to the studio.’
40
‘Nina, where’s the coffin-making workshop going to happen? Main hall or side room?’ Gloria’s voice drags me back to the land of the living. Which is to say real life, rather than the imaginary world where I spend so much time holding long – usually angry – conversations with myself about Kelli.
Yes, being an undertaker means you learn how to compartmentalise. But no amount of professionalism can protect you from the agony of losing a friend. Death sucks.
The grief comes in waves and, at first, I felt I was drowning. I couldn’t bear to walk past the Blueberry Café. Vodka burned like acid in my mouth. Even the news that eighty thousand people had joined the organ donor register in the thirty-six hours following Kelli’s funeral left me feeling … empty.
One month on, it’s more as if I’ve survived a shipwreck. The waves aren’t so high and there are interludes of calm. But the ocean is a lonely place and treading water is the best I can manage for now. Every day, I do my best to join in with life’s basic requirements and, occasionally, I succeed.
Like now, when I drag myself into the moment and answer Gloria’s question with one of my own. ‘How many sign-ups have we had for the workshop?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Then let’s put the workshop at the end of the main hall. To entice people past the photos. And that man with his collection of miniature tombstones for aquarium owners who want to commemorate their dead fish.’
‘My favourite exhibitor,’ Gloria says. ‘Did I ever mention that when I was seven, I was a goldfish serial killer? I’d have been that guy’s best customer, for sure. Do you think that’s why the smell of cod always makes me feel like I’m going to throw up?’
I don’t know what I’d do without Gloria. Or Edo.
After we got back from Kelli’s funeral, my only ambition was to cancel the Funeral Expo and stay in bed for the rest of my life. Gloria and Edo had to work hard to convince me that wasn’t an option.
‘But I’ve been prancing about like Pollyanna,’ I mumbled. ‘Making out funerals can be joyful. They’re not. Kelli didn’t deserve to die.’
I paused to blow my nose again, and Edo leapt in. ‘Only one part of that’s true,’ he insisted. ‘Yes, Kelli was so unlucky. But you honoured her wishes to the letter. I’m so proud of you, Nina. And I know Kelli would be, too. As for cancelling the exhibition, that’s just bollocks.’
Gloria chimed in. ‘He’s right,’ she said. Then to Edo, ‘When did you get to be so wise?’
‘And eloquent.’ I felt the glimmer of a smile twitching on my lips. ‘But you know what? I just can’t. I’m going to postpone until next year.’
‘You’re not!’ My friends spoke in unison. ‘We’re going to help you.’
I could tell Edo and Gloria had already discussed this and sensed it would take less energy to agree than it would to fight them.
Instead, I steadied the life raft by immersing myself in hard work. Sixteen-hour days interspersed with interludes of patchy, restless sleep have become the new normal.
And the expo – now branded ‘The Final Celebration’ – is about to happen, which means there’s still far too much to do before the first of the exhibitors arrive tonight to set up their stands. Thirty separate displays, which is double the number I had hoped for, and largely thanks to Edo.
In the first few days after Kelli’s funeral while I either sat in a shell-shocked haze, refused to get out of bed, or took Chopper on aimless walks through the streets of Camden, Edo worked office hours at Happy Endings. It was just as well, because after six months of silence my business line was finally starting to ring.
Journalists, mostly, wanting to talk to me about Kelli. Instead of telling them to bugger off, as I almost certainly would have done, Edo said I was too busy to be interviewed because I was organising a – what did he call it? – a unique event to help everyone be the star of their own funeral. Not exactly how I’d have put it, but the journalists lapped it up, and everything snowballed from there.
When I learned Edo had charged two exhibitors four-figure sums to participate – accountants keen to drum up business with a seminar about inheritance tax, and solicitors offering will writing and power of attorney services – I didn’t know whether to be horrified or delighted, although the arrival of the shop’s electricity bill helped me climb off the fence.
‘I’m going to make a start on The Wall of Death,’ I tell Gloria now. ‘It’s going next to Funeral Foods, right?’
Gloria nods. ‘Have you spoken to Edo?’ she asks.
‘No, why?’
‘He had a call from the hospice yesterday. Dele’s taken another turn for the worse. I think Edo stayed there overnight.’
Sad news that comes as no surprise. Two weeks ago, Dele paid me a professional call, and I could tell he didn’t have much time left. I’d helped him choose a coffin – large, traditional, mahogany – and when I broke the news that a plot in Highgate Cemetery was going to set him back more than twenty thousand pounds, he wrote a cheque on the spot.
‘You might want to tell them that in a year from now, this cheque will be worth at least five times more than the amount it’s made out for. Death isn’t going to be the end of me, I promise.’
It was comforting to know the flame of Dele’s artistic self-worth was still burning brightly, although I was concerned by the sheen of perspiration across his face and neck, and the nasal cannula attached to his portable oxygen supply.
‘I’ve left my funeral instructions with Edo,’ Dele had added. ‘Things might get a little rough for him when I’m gone. You’ll take care of him, you and Gloria, right?’
‘Of course,’ I promised.
‘I’m looking forward to your exhibition,’ Dele continued. ‘Edo’s been telling me all about it. I love the banner that’s going by the entrance.’
The one that declares: ‘It’s not that I’m afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.’ A quote from Woody Allen.
I look at it now, hammered into position to greet people as they come through the door.
‘Bloody hell!’ Gloria looks up from her laptop. ‘We’ve had another two hundred and thirty registrations since nine o’clock alone. That makes seventeen hundred. It’s a good job you decided to go for a three-day event.’
Originally, I’d have been thrilled if three or four hundred people had signed up for ‘The Final Celebration’.
‘It’s all thanks to you,’ I say quietly to Kelli. ‘You’re the reason for all the publicity. And I still can’t believe you won’t be here to see it.’
A throaty laugh of appreciation, heard only by me. ‘I’ll be watching all right,’ says Kelli in my head. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. But Nina, I’m worried. What about Barclay? Is he actually going to be there?’
Barclay.
I’m pretty sure it’s my fault, but Barclay has
become somewhat elusive. Immediately after Kelli’s funeral, when I told him I needed time alone, he took me at my word and disappeared for a week. On business to see his father in Monaco, he said. When he returned, we managed a trip to the cinema, then he was off again, doing something called horseboarding, which apparently involves standing on a fancy skateboard while being towed by a thoroughbred that gallops across the sand at thirty miles an hour. Although we talk or text most days, it’s as though there’s frosted glass between us and I’m not the only one who needs their space.
But surely Barclay wouldn’t miss the opening night of my show?
41
In any event, it turns out that Edo rather than Barclay is missing the first night of The Final Celebration. He got a phone call two hours ago. The hospice …
‘I’m scared,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen … well, I’ve never seen anyone die before. Not in real life.’
I assured Edo it was normal to be apprehensive. ‘One of the most helpful things will be talk to Dele,’ I advised. ‘Even if you think he’s unconscious, it’s quite likely he’ll still recognise voices.’
‘And just for once, he won’t be able to contradict me.’ Edo did his best to summon a smile but his chin continued to tremble. I gave him a big hug, while silently chiding myself for feeling envious that – unlike Kelli’s – Dele’s death wasn’t going to come as a colossal shock to anyone who knew him.
I’m still thinking about Dele while I stand here in a corner of the hall, trying to work out how many people have already arrived. At least two hundred. Some I recognise as locals but most have been attracted by social media and all the press coverage. I startle to the touch of fingertips brushing against my shoulder.
‘Here you go, gorgeous.’ Barclay slides a glass of Prosecco into my hand. ‘You’ve achieved so much in such a short time, it’s absolutely amazing and I’m very proud of you. And your mother and father are lovely.’