by Karen Ross
What?
I hadn’t realised Mum and Dad were already here. I’d been planning to introduce Barclay to my parents at some stage of the evening. Preferably as they were on their way out of the door and saying goodbye. And definitely without mentioning the B-as-in-boyfriend word … no need to get them excited about the prospect of romance re-entering my life until I’m sure Barclay and I have a future together.
Oh Lord. Across the room, Mum and Dad are watching our every move. That’s not good.
‘I really must congratulate Julie,’ I tell Barclay. ‘Her flowers are spectacular. See you later.’
‘Okay, I promised your father we’d try out the cremation simulator as soon as the queue gets smaller. Oh, and Zoe says she’s going to drop by, so keep an eye out for her.’
Whaaaat?
I try to decide which of those two sentences is more horrifying while I nudge my way to the front of Julie’s stand. Our local florist has created dozens of remembrance tributes – not a traditional wreath among them – chosen with local residents in mind, and tongue firmly in cheek. And she’s done an amazing job.
The centrepiece of her stand is a sleek Aston Martin, crafted from hundreds of black dahlias.
Then there are the items no-one in Primrose Hill can live without: Bollinger Champagne (white wisteria blossoms), Chanel No. 5 (winter marigolds) and Châteauneuf du Pape (wine red geraniums) plus a vintage Rolex with numbers made from tiny bits of hydrangeas, an iPhone whose replica apps are made from mosaics of individual flower petals, and a large recycling bin crafted from rhododendron leaves and featuring three plump floral rats peeping out from the half-open lid – a protest at the council’s recent decision to switch to fortnightly rubbish collections.
Julie herself is deep in conversation with a couple who are commissioning her to do their wedding flowers, so I save my own congratulations for later and head for the small side room where Carol, the professional celebrant, is talking about some recent funerals at which she has officiated.
‘There was a man called Tom who loved greyhounds,’ she’s saying. ‘He rescued and rehomed them once their racing days were over, so he’d made a lot of friends along the way. Tom’s relatives encouraged people to bring their dogs to the ceremony, out in the country, on a natural burial site. We had forty-two greyhounds in all, and the family said it really brought it home to them how many people Tom had helped to make happy by sharing his passion for the dogs. Next …’ Carol presses a button and the screen behind her changes from greyhounds to butterflies. ‘We had a woman who adored butterflies, so we released three thousand of them at the gravesite. As you can see, it was stunning. And here’s one of my personal favourites, for a Harley-Davidson lover.’
Carol’s audience nods its approval at pictures of family, friends, flowers, and biking memorabilia all in Harley orange and black and I slip away, past a bicycle hearse that used to travel between cemeteries in Copenhagen and has been given a new lease of life by an eco-funeral firm in Buckinghamshire.
I’m curious to discover how the exhibition zone that specialises in what the American trade unattractively calls ‘cremains’ is going down. If anything is likely to cause controversy or consternation – other than the cremation simulator and/or Barclay having further unsupervised conversations with my parents – it’s probably going to happen here.
I arrive just in time to eavesdrop on an earnest man in a suit talking to an elderly woman I recognise from the local cafés.
‘There’s so much more you can do with ashes than just scatter them or keep them in an urn,’ he’s telling her. ‘Martin here,’ the man nods to his colleague, ‘all you have to do is send him a few ounces of ashes and he’ll incorporate them into a special pressing of that person’s favourite music. In vinyl and fully playable.’
‘So I could be recreated and have copies sent to my friends? Something like “I Remember You” by Frank Ifield?’
‘Great choice!’ The pair of them break into a song I’ve never heard, all smiles and laughter.
A few metres beyond the stand, a video catches my eye. At first sight, it could be one of David Attenborough’s marine documentaries, but then the picture cuts to a workshop where someone is carefully stirring ashes into concrete. ‘This creates what we call a pearl,’ the voiceover explains. ‘The pearls are taken by boat out into the ocean where they form part of an eternal reef, creating a new habitat for fish and other forms of sea life.’
‘Whatever will they think of next!’ the woman standing to my right asks a lanky teenager who might well be her grandson. ‘I bet it would appeal to some of the people I met when I went on that Baltic cruise last year.’
‘How about this?’ The youngster is eyeing up the next stand. ‘Isn’t that way cool?’ He’s zoned in on a series of pictures showing how tattoo artists can sterilise ashes and mix them into their ink, so you can live on with someone who loved you, beneath their skin.
‘Over my dead body!’ comes the frosty riposte. ‘Although you do have my permission for the one over here.’ A nod towards a neighbouring service that promises to take your ashes and turn them into a box of two hundred pencils. ‘I’ve always wanted to write a book.’
I’m still smiling to myself as I walk to the next set of stands when I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder. I turn round and find myself face to face with Zoe Banks.
‘There you are,’ she says. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’
42
It’s the first time Zoe and I have crossed paths since she chucked me out of The Beauty Spot back in the summer.
‘Hello,’ I say warily. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Barclay said I ought to.’
Zoe’s tone is not unfriendly. I’ve realised she and Barclay are close, talking most days, and I wonder what else he’s been telling her.
‘Have you had a look around?’ I ask.
‘A bit,’ she mumbles. ‘I’m not very good around death. As you know. But I have to admit, some of this stuff is quite interesting.’
It crosses my mind – not for the first time – that Zoe’s line of work and my own have more in common than she might imagine. Botox and embalming, for example, both involve injecting poison into the body. But this doesn’t seem like the ideal moment to exchange professional confidences, so instead I ask Zoe, ‘You’re comfortable with the idea of taking someone’s ashes and turning them into something else?’
‘Surprisingly so.’ Zoe has dressed down for the occasion. Designer jeans, midnight blue velvet top and three-inch heels. Her trademark scarlet banana lips seem more in proportion with the rest of her face than before. In fact, here, on my territory, Zoe looks less poised, more vulnerable.
‘With my mother …’ she continues. ‘All I’ve ever known of her is a gravestone in Paris. That and a few photographs my father hides in a cupboard. No videos. I don’t even know what her voice sounded like. I spent the whole of the year I turned twenty-two thinking I was going to die like she did. That’s how Barclay and I differ from one another. We both know how short life can be. He’s grown into a thrill-seeker who wants to pack in as much as he can, always tempting fate and laughing whenever I beg him to be careful. As for me, you wouldn’t believe how much time I spend thinking about death. Barclay says I let it get in the way of my life, and he’s probably right.’
Zoe shifts her gaze from the floor and looks directly into my eyes. ‘What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. I know I haven’t behaved very well towards you. Your shop really freaks me out, but Barclay’s made me realise that’s down to my own issues. He really wanted me to come tonight. Aversion therapy, he called it. Now I’m here, I’m understanding a bit better that people grieve in different ways. And that there’s nothing wrong with that. Nina, you deserve to succeed.’
‘Thanks, Zoe. What you say means the world to me.’
‘Well, you seem to mean the world to Barclay. I’ve never known him so keen on anyone. He’s even cancelled his plans to go travelling, and that�
��s definitely a first. Can’t say I’m sorry. Barclay’s hugely important to me and that’s why I needed to come here and talk to you.’
Barclay’s said nothing about travelling and I’m about to ask Zoe for details when I realise she’s looking right past me, towards one of the stands.
‘Come and have a look,’ I suggest, and we walk towards what looks like a display of expensive jewellery.
‘Really?’ Zoe looks more fascinated than afraid.
‘It’s becoming more and more popular,’ I say. ‘Remember, the human body contains lots of carbon. Just like diamonds.’
‘And they do say diamonds are forever.’ The woman in charge of the stand joins our conversation with an ice-breaker I’m sure she’s used many times before. ‘We’re based in Geneva. You provide the ashes and we press them into something beautiful. Diamonds in white, green, blue, yellow, red and black. Or larger pieces that look more like a chunk of amber. You can have them set in silver or gold. Would you like to know more? Or may I show you some samples?’
‘Why not?’ Zoe says. Then to me, ‘I’m fine. No need to babysit me. Thanks for the chat.’
I’m still digesting my encounter with Zoe when Dad bounces up. ‘That death and cremation simulator, it’s astonishing!’ he declares. ‘I know it’s only virtual reality, but I swear I started sweating when I was on the conveyor belt that leads to the oven. Definitely the star of the show! Other than you, I mean!’
Dad’s enthusiasm is a big relief. It was Jason Chung who tipped me off about the simulator. At first, I dismissed it as one of his tricks to get me into trouble. But when I investigated, I was intrigued.
‘The original’s in a Chinese theme park,’ I tell Dad. ‘Like a Disney ride with a difference. The cousin of an ex-colleague owns a franchise, so he’s set it up here, hoping for publicity. I’m still a bit worried people will think it’s in bad taste.’
‘No, it’s brilliant. Nearest you can come to dying and live to tell the tale! Just look at that queue.’
Thirty or forty people are waiting patiently in line.
‘Morbid curiosity, if you ask me,’ Dad continues. ‘Nothing wrong with that, and it’s started a big debate about burial versus cremation. I think I’ll stick with the worms and the daisies when my time comes.’ My father speaks with the light-hearted confidence of someone in good health, and my thoughts return to Edo and Dele Dier.
‘Anyway, your young man’s entertaining some TV people over by the funeral foods display. They’re after an interview with you.’
‘He’s not my young man!’
‘That’s not the way he tells it.’ Dad looks pleased. ‘He seems very nice. Invited me to go powerboat racing on the Solent.’
‘Careful he doesn’t talk you into waterskiing while you’re at it.’ I pull a wry face. ‘I’d better catch up with the media people. See you later?’
‘I’ve promised your mother supper in Marylebone, so we’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Great job, Nina. I knew I was right to invest in you. We’ll all be millionaires by Christmas!’
Dad’s Del Boy imitation is pretty good and the way things are going, solvency no longer seems like an impossible dream. I go in search of the TV team but, before I find them, I notice Barclay standing with his back to The Wall of Death.
Until today, The Wall of Death was simply a large white canvas with a bunch of Post-it notes and pens alongside it. At the top of the canvas, Edo has stencilled the words: ‘BEFORE I DIE I WANT TO …’ leaving the rest of the space clear for people to share their ambitions:
Go to Peru
See my grandchildren grow up
Have a tidy house
Learn to tap dance
Stroke a giraffe
Be happy
Delete my internet history
Sleep under the stars
Unaware I’m observing, Barclay slips his Post-it note in among the others. I take two discreet steps forward to see what he’s written:
Wake up every morning with my girlfriend in my arms.
43
The Final Celebration had been due to close at ten o’clock but by the time the last of the exhibitors had finished telling one another what a great time they’d had, it was well past eleven and Barclay was nowhere to be seen.
It’s not until I’m locking the doors of the community centre – doing a rotten job of pretending to myself not to be disappointed – that he reappears, accompanied by Chopper.
‘Gloria’s rushed off to the hospice,’ he explains. ‘Dele’s still holding on but she wants to be there for Edo. And we can’t leave Chopper on his own all night, can we?’
Without further discussion, Barclay and I walk back to Chalcot Square, holding hands all the way.
‘Chopper can sleep in the kitchen,’ Barclay says when we arrive. ‘Nice and warm in there. I’ll go raid the linen cupboard. See what I’ve got to make him comfortable.’ He returns with duvet and pillows, arranging them into a makeshift bed.
But Chopper shows no sign of being ready to turn in for the night. He thinks the bedclothes are props for a game of hide and seek. Every time we swaddle him in the duvet, he stays put for a count of five, then shrugs it off and paces the kitchen in search of a midnight feast. We ply him – and ourselves – with cheese and ham from the fridge, then try again.
‘Do you think he needs a bedtime story?’ Barclay asks. ‘Once upon a time, there was a large, insomniac dog called Chopper.’ Chopper thumps his tail on the floor in recognition of his name.
I’m thankful for the interlude, because I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t nervous.
This isn’t going to be another blame-it-on-the-booze one-night stand.
This is different.
This is important.
This has been worth waiting for.
Thank God I’m wearing decent underwear.
‘I think the best thing is if we leave Chopper to his own devices,’ I say finally. ‘He’ll settle down eventually. There’s nothing in here he can damage. And if we close the door, he can’t get into the basement.’
‘Or upstairs,’ Barclay says softly. ‘Do you want to go ahead of me? I just need to power down my laptop.’
Barclay uses the kitchen as an office and, judging from the pile of folders stacked on the draining board, he’s had a busy day. ‘Don’t want Chopper sending emails in the middle of the night, do we?’
My about-to-be lover is talking nonsense.
I realise he’s nervous too …
Thirty minutes later, Barclay and I are sitting up in bed discussing the events of the evening with an easy familiarity. We’ve waited so long for this moment but now it’s finally here there seems no need to rush.
‘Really? Zoe’s planning to have me turned into a diamond geezer?’ Barclay snorts when I recount my unexpected encounter with his sister. ‘Priceless!’
‘Actually, it’ll set her back about ten grand. Plus the cost of the setting.’ I snuggle a few inches deeper into the crook of his arm.
‘That death ride,’ Barclay says. ‘The virtual reality thing. It’s weird. I’m still thinking about it.’
‘So romantic,’ I tease. ‘Any chance we could talk about something else?’
‘Seriously. It’s made me realise how important it is to get my priorities right.’
‘Are we about to have a deep and meaningful conversation?’
‘Is there something else you’d rather be doing?’
I reply with a deep kiss. Barclay tastes of minty-flavoured goodness. I pull him closer. ‘Not quite so fast.’ He shifts position, then traces my neckline with his lips.
I’m wearing a T-shirt that says, Never Done This Before. Grabbed from the chest of drawers in the corner of the room.
‘So now you’re stealing my lines as well as my clothes!’ Barclay accused when he saw me in it. By way of response, he chose one declaring, This Way Up.
Our conversation peters out, and although I’m enjoying the thrill of Barclay’s inquisitive fingers working the
ir slow way down my backbone, my body’s still playing second fiddle to my brain. There’s so much I don’t yet know. Is he a cuddly sleeper, or will he retreat to his own side of the bed? Which is his side of the bed? Am I in his space? And, dear God, what’s that terrible noise?
‘You hear that?’ Barclay shoots out of bed.
Chopper.
Howling as if he’s being disemboweled.
‘Be careful,’ I yell. If there’s an intruder downstairs, I don’t want Barclay or Chopper getting hurt.
Before I can get properly dressed, Barclay’s back in the bedroom. ‘It’s the basement. On fire. I think it’s serious,’ he gabbles. ‘Too much smoke for me to get down the stairs and put it out. Fire brigade on the way. We need to get the hell out of the house. Right away, in case it spreads.’
I throw on the rest of my clothes and follow Barclay downstairs to the kitchen. Chopper is still howling in terror and the stench of burning is overpowering, but I know we’re all safe, and it could have been so much worse.
I grab Chopper and put him on the lead while Barclay rescues his laptop and the tower of files next to it. Together, the three of us make our way downstairs, and into Chalcot Square.
‘It’s going to be fine.’ Barclay seems to be talking to himself as much as to me. ‘The important thing is that no-one’s hurt. And the fire hasn’t gone beyond the basement.’
The wail of sirens draws closer, and lights appear in several windows nearby.
‘Should I alert the neighbours?’ I ask Barclay.
‘Let’s leave it to the fire brigade. How about you take Chopper and wait in the shop? Or would you prefer to go home?’
‘I’ll go to Happy Endings,’ I say. ‘It’s closer. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.’ Chopper is pawing the pavement and pulling on his lead. Looking intently at us both.
Two fire engines edge their way into the narrow thread of road that surrounds the square.