by Karen Ross
Great to hear from you, I cautiously replied. Glad you’re safe. How’s it going?
A day passed. Then another. Until Barclay responded with a photo of himself doing a standing somersault in the middle of a sunny meadow. Life’s still up in the air, he said. I miss you.
‘It’s obvious,’ Gloria said when we analysed his text. ‘He wants you to tell him to come home.’
Something’s stopping me doing that.
It has to be Barclay’s decision.
But at least now we’re communicating every few days via email and text. I’ve learned parkour isn’t as dangerous as Zoe feared. It’s more like a martial art, Barclay reassured me. We try to get through obstacles in the quickest way possible, by jumping, climbing or running. Thinking of setting up a training school when I get back. Either that or buy a football club – been offered one that’s struggling. What do you think?
I think I have never missed someone so much in my life.
I ache for him.
Yet instinctively, I know not to put any pressure on Barclay. More than that, I have no ambition to control him. I just want what’s best for him. And if that turns out to be travelling the world while leaping from one extreme sport to another … with a bit of luck Zoe will order him home some time soon.
At least Barclay’s missing this freezing weather. I snuggle deeper into my coat and pull my scarf tighter as I turn the corner into the high street.
Most of the world seems to be celebrating Christmas, even though it’s only four in the afternoon and there are still ten days to go. There’s a big group spilled out onto the pavement outside the pub, and a couple of people wave at me as I steer a path around them.
I’m part of the neighbourhood, now.
An accepted part of the neighbourhood.
The year seems to have passed so quickly.
I’ll soon be off to Southampton for a family Christmas – Mum reports Dad’s projecting a laser Nativity display onto the front of the house this year – and, having had three funerals this month, I could certainly use a break.
That’s right.
Three funerals.
One came by way of the hospice, the others from families that read about me in the papers. I’ve also been on television three times, talking about what the media is starting to call the modern way of death.
If only Barclay was here to share in my success.
I point my camera at the Christmas lights in the high street and take a photo. Once I’m back inside the shop, I send it to him. Take it you’ll be spending Christmas on the beach?
I spend the next few minutes looking again at the photos Barclay sent me yesterday – flyboarding in a turquoise ocean looks like a lot of fun – then force myself to focus on today’s paperwork. I’ve got business rates to pay, and it feels great to pay them out of cashflow, rather than Dad’s money.
The radio is playing Christmas music in the background when, a few minutes later, I look up from my desk, disturbed by some hullabaloo going on in the street. It seems to involve a huge white van, double-parked on the pavement, and reminds me of that first day in business, when Edo climbed on top of his van to hammer my shop sign into place.
This time, the van in question is being used to move furniture. I sit and watch while two armchairs, packing cases, and a hideous stone statue are loaded up.
Just as I realise the furniture is being decanted from the flat above The Primrose Poppadum, Ned Newman appears in the street. He notices I’m watching, and after a moment’s hesitation, comes into the shop.
‘Ned, how are you?’
‘Stressed out. My first house move in twenty years.’
Ned Newman – Mr Happy – looks anything but stressed. What a transformation! At least two stone lighter, he’s clearly been working out. He’s sporting a winter suntan and has undergone a sartorial transformation, exchanging those buttoned-up tweedy suits he wore when his wife was alive for jeans and a hoodie. The combined effect makes him look ten years younger. I’m so pleased he’s making a fresh start.
‘Where are you off to?’ I enquire.
‘All of five streets away. To Princess Road. Once you live in Primrose Hill, it’s hard to move away.’
I’m wishing Ned luck when we’re interrupted by the driver of his removal van – Rob the Roofer – who opens the shop door and warns, ‘The traffic warden’s threatening to send in the tow truck unless we shift. Chop chop.’
‘See you around,’ Mr Happy says. ‘And Nina, I’m glad your business is doing well. Thanks again for all you did for me when, well, you know, with Sybille.’ Before he can say anything further, Rob beeps the horn from inside the van, and Mr Happy embarks on the next phase of his life.
Christmas Eve.
The days have flown past. The bookies got it right … there’s going to be snow for Christmas.
In fact, there’s heavy snow already, transforming Primrose Hill into an enchanted winter wonderland. At this time in the morning – a few minutes before five a.m. and still dark – I have the whole park to myself, like a huge private garden. And although I thought the temperature couldn’t fall any further, I heard on the news it’s been colder here than in Moscow, with still no sign of a let-up.
I slip Chopper’s lead from his collar. ‘Off you go!’ I coax. Chopper is a wimp. Or maybe in a previous life he lived somewhere sunny. He loathes these Arctic conditions. But he needs to be exercised and I’m hoping to tire him out before we set off on what’s likely to be a slow and torturous journey down the M3 to Southampton, even with an early start that hopefully puts us ahead of the festive traffic.
I work through my mental list of Christmas stuff. Presents for Mum and Dad, gift-wrapped, sitting in the boot of my van. Chew sticks for Chopper, to give him something to do while I’m driving. Extra clothes, in case it gets even colder, although if I’m forced to put them on I really will look like the Michelin Man. Thermos of coffee. Sat nav fully charged. What about—
The snow makes it easy to see what’s happening in the park. Which, I had assumed, was nothing more interesting than Chopper, gingerly relieving himself against the trunk of a tree.
But look.
There’s Father Christmas.
At the top of the hill.
Complete with toboggan.
I turn around to look for the film crew, ready to act nonchalant when I see them.
No cameras.
But plenty of action.
Santa has launched himself into the snow and he’s picking up plenty of speed. He’s heading in my direction. And he’s a moron. I’m no fan of winter sports, but even I know you’re supposed to park your butt in the seat of a sledge. Not stand astride a sliver of plastic while racing down a steep, snow-covered slope.
At least there are no obstacles in the way.
Other than myself.
I’m standing frozen to the spot, and I’m going to get run over unless I move right—
I leap out of the toboggan’s flight path just as Father Christmas abandons his vehicle, performing a perfect backflip as he does so.
He shakes ice crystals from his red robe, looks me up and down and says, ‘You look like a snow princess.’
Then Barclay Banks unbuttons his costume to reveal a T-shirt that’s got an image of a Santa hat and Tell Me What You Really, Really, REALLY Want written underneath.
Before I can say a word, Chopper forgets his hatred of the weather and lumbers joyfully towards Barclay, enveloping him in a shower of ice flakes when he rolls over on his back and wriggles around to make a canine snow angel. Barclay responds by stooping down to pack fresh powder between his hands. He lobs his snowball towards the children’s playground and Chopper gallops off in pursuit.
‘I knew you’d come sooner or later,’ Barclay says. ‘Three days I’ve been waiting in this freezing park.’
‘Really?’ Barclay had texted yesterday to say he was looking forward to Christmas, but hadn’t elaborated. I’d replied with a chirpy – true-but-false – Me too!
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‘In the end I called Gloria and swore her to secrecy. She said you’d be here walking Chopper before you left for Christmas.’
‘So did you take a wrong turning on your way back from the beach?’
‘Are you disappointed?’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘Not in the slightest.’
‘You’ve got to listen to me.’ Barclay is suddenly urgent. ‘I admire you so much. The work you do. The way you make people feel better when they’re going through hell. You’re ethical. You’re amazing. You’re beautiful. And I’m such a coward. But I promise, there’s a decent human being inside me – at least I think there is – and I’m desperate to live up to your high standards. All of my life, I’ve been searching for something. Testing myself with every extreme sport ever invented. But now … I want to be by your side, doing ordinary things. Watching Netflix. Looking at your childhood photographs. Rearranging the furniture. Standing in the park before dawn on Christmas Eve, freezing three-quarters to death.’
Barclay stares into my eyes with the most tender of looks. Without taking his eyes off me, he rummages in the pocket of his red robe, produces a hefty sprig of mistletoe, pulls me close and holds it above our heads.
‘Here’s what I’ve realised,’ he says. ‘I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Nina Sherwood, you are my greatest adventure. And I want – more than anything else on the planet – to be yours. What do you say?’
48
Sixteen months later …
I’ve always hated being the centre of attention. But today, there’s no getting away from it.
‘You definitely need more eye shadow,’ Zoe Banks frowns. If you ask me – and neither Zoe nor Gloria is interested in my opinion – less is more.
‘And perhaps an extra dab of colour to the lips and cheeks,’ Gloria suggests. ‘To make sure there’s enough colour to compensate for the whiteness of the dress.’
Before I can protest that the test run surely featured a far more natural look, Zoe reaches for a fresh selection of brushes and bronzers, moisturisers and mascara, powder and pens.
‘Keep still,’ she scolds. ‘You’ve got fabulous eyelashes, by the way. And the longer hair suits you much better, especially the caramel highlights.’
Finally Zoe seems satisfied. ‘What do you think?’ A question addressed to Gloria rather than me.
‘Fabulous!’
Just as I think I’m going to weep with frustration – and ruin all her hard work – Zoe produces a mirror so I can finally see what she has done to my face.
I stare back at myself in wonder. ‘I look like … I look like an impossibly glamorous version of myself. Thank you so much.’
‘My pleasure. Smile!’
The three of us pose for a Big Day selfie, which Zoe posts immediately on Instagram.
I’m starting to feel nervous. The car taking Dad and me to the ceremony is due to arrive at any moment. In fact, it’s here!
‘Take your time, sweetie,’ Dad’s excited voice crackles through the intercom. ‘The traffic’s not too bad at all.’
Twenty minutes later, when it seems the Euston Road has been turned from one of London’s major roads into a car park, I’m glad we left nothing to chance and built in a margin of error for the journey. In an effort to distract one another, Dad and I sit chatting about business.
‘Have you given any further thought to expansion?’ Dad asks.
‘I’ve thought about it. A lot.’
‘And?’
‘Not yet. Perhaps not even at all.’ I slip my hand into Dad’s. ‘For now, I’d rather stick to what I’m best at. Taking care of people and organising funerals. The moment I open a second branch, let alone a third or fourth, I’ll be forced to do more of the business stuff and less of the funeral stuff. Are you disappointed?’
‘Not in the slightest.’ Dad squeezes my hand. ‘But you’ll keep going with the media work?’
‘Unless they fire me! It’s only once a month so it doesn’t eat up too much time. If you’d told me a year ago that I’d have a regular spot on national television to talk about modern funerals, I’d have thought you were crazy. But it’s fun. It gets the message across that there are as many types of funeral as there are people. And best of all, our Fair Funerals campaign means there’s less chance of customers being ripped off.’
Our car is finally on the move again, and a few minutes later, we arrive at our destination. Gloria, Edo, Zoe and Mum have managed to arrive ahead of us. There they are, sharing a joke with my two guests of honour … Anna Kovaks and her gorgeous baby son, Kazimir, who seems to have had his first ‘grown-up’ haircut since I last saw him, a few weeks ago.
‘Barclay’s inside,’ Gloria says. ‘Waiting for you.’
And with that, she flings wide a pair of oak doors that lead into a gorgeous wood-panelled room.
I take in my surroundings, and with Dad by my side, walk slowly toward Barclay.
‘You’ve never looked more lovely,’ he whispers by way of a greeting. Before he can say anything else, the ceremony begins.
An hour later, I am named Most Promising New Funeral Director.
I forget every word of the speech I was supposed to make.
All I can manage is, ‘I’d like to thank the Good Funeral Awards for this huge honour. The support from my family and friends has been amazing. I’m the luckiest woman in the world.’
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‘Good afternoon everybody and welcome to Kenwood House.’
I’m still the luckiest woman in the world. Sometimes I get scared just because everything’s going so well. ‘Trust the timing of your life.’ That’s what Barclay tells me.
This is such a cool place to get married. The Orangery is a lavishly ornate room with super views of Hampstead Heath through the floor-length windows. Intimate yet spacious. And Julie’s flowers are, as always, amazing.
‘Please rise to meet our happy couple.’
If you’d asked me to put money on it, I’d have guessed Edo would be the groom at the next wedding I attended. Wrong! But what an amazing time he’s having.
From art student – and squatter – to Turner Prize winner – and homeowner – in less than two years. Liquidated Assets was described by the judges as ‘the ultimate selfie’. And by the Daily Mail as ‘a ghoulish example of everything that is wrong with art today and the vainglorious frauds who masquerade as artists’.
Which left Edo laughing all the way to the bank.
His YouTube channel continues to live stream from Dele’s plot in Highgate Cemetery, generating a startling amount in advertising revenue every day, while Edo’s own works already fetch stratospheric prices. He gives ten per cent of everything he earns to the hospice.
‘Please face each other and take each other’s hands. These are the loving hands of your best friend, holding yours on your wedding day, as you promise to love each other for so long as you both shall live.’
Edo and Gloria make such a great couple. She’s a qualified lawyer now, still working at the community law centre. She intends to carry on working when the baby comes, in August. Hopefully, she and Edo will have finished their new home by then.
Zoe and Barclay kept their word. Told their father he was banned from Primrose Hill. Then Barclay sold the house in Chalcot Square – burned-out basement and all – to Edo, who promptly gutted the lower floors and turned them into free workspaces for recently graduated artists, while living upstairs with Gloria.
‘Beloved partner, for so long, we were halves unjoined. Today, I merge my freedom with yours.’
One thing led to another. Barclay and I took out a mortgage on Gloria’s house in Kentish Town and set up home together. Chopper is delighted to have two homes and four people acting as his willing slaves.
Having disentangled himself from the family business, Barclay bought that football club. They’re in one of the lower leagues, not at all gla
morous, saddled with tons of debt. He’s now in the process of raising capital for a new stadium that will double as a Parkour Centre of Excellence for local kids.
Last Christmas, he tried to set up a ski jump competition on Primrose Hill, thrusting the people in charge of the Royal Parks into collective nervous breakdown. He’s agreed to all sorts of health and safety precautions if they let him do it this year,
Mind you, Barclay’s still getting over the shock of coming second in this year’s Go-Kart Derby. Guess who won? I’ll give you a clue … it was me!
‘Please place Robert’s ring on the tip of his ring finger and repeat after me … I, Edward Jeremy Newman …’
As for Happy Endings, on average we’ve been arranging four funerals a week. More than enough to be profitable. I’ve taken on two members of staff, plus an intern who knows almost as much about social media as Edo.
Zoe and I are also working together, planning this year’s Winter Fair. Barclay’s made me swear I’ll never tell her he owns a Father Christmas outfit.
‘I, Robert Redmond Cole, take you Edward Jeremy Newman, joyfully, to be my partner and my husband.’
And here’s Kelli in my head, saying just a bit too loudly, ‘Rob the Roofer and Mr Happy! He definitely looks a lot happier than he used to. They make a great couple. But you must have wondered, Nina. About Mrs Happy. Did she fall, or was she—’
‘Shhush!’ I say sternly. ‘This is neither the time nor the place.’
Kelli was awarded a third – posthumous – Best Actress Oscar for her final film. Keir insisted I accompany him to LA for the ceremony. We both wept buckets, but in between the tears, we had such fun.
‘I now pronounce you married. You may kiss your husband.’
As the wedding reception gets underway, Barclay quietly steers me into a corner of the beautiful room. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he says, ‘I bought us one each.’
Barclay fastens the white strap of a cool-looking watch around my left wrist. I take a good look at the three rows of digital numbers on the display. They definitely don’t tell me the time.
‘What are they for?’ I ask.