Praise for
SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR
“[A] winning debut novel . . . Roper illuminates Andrew’s interior life to reveal not what an odd duck he is, but what odd ducks we all are—lonely, confused, misguided, bumbling and, as we learn in the book’s powerhouse ending, profoundly bereft. Roper’s unbridled compassion for his characters is the book’s greatest strength.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“A perfect, quirky summer page-turner. A life-affirming debut.”
—The Times (UK)
“Just the kind of book I wanted to read in these times. Charming, empathetic, witty, emotional, and hopeful, Roper’s cast of quirky, vulnerable characters makes for a truly warm and affecting debut.”
—J. Ryan Stradal, author of Kitchens of the Great Midwest and The Lager Queen of Minnesota
“This darkly humorous debut centers on a cynical man who’s been lying to his officemates about having a family for years. But when he falls hard for a new employee, he’s forced to confront his lie.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Wryly funny and quirkily charming—perfect for fans of A Man Called Ove and Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine.”
—Eleanor Brown, author of The Weird Sisters
“Richard Roper uplifts the human spirit and shows us how to embrace life and hope in his wickedly witty debut.”
—Phaedra Patrick, author of The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper
“Off-beat and winning . . . Something to Live For earns its pathos. Even more to its credit, it gives resiliency and the triumph of the human spirit a good name.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“[A] charming debut . . . An overall enjoyable read, Something to Live For tackles a painful subject with goodhearted characters easy to root for.”
—USA Today
“The pleasure in Roper’s winning, good-hearted tale is seeing this lonely sad sack cautiously rejoin the world.”
—People
“Roper’s delightful debut is as funny as it is touching. . . . This story of a neurotic, tenderhearted man struggling to learn how not to be alone is irresistible.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Funny, tender, and all-the-feels.”
—Red (UK)
“Simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking, Roper’s endearing debut novel is a wonderful exploration of loneliness and the universal desire for connection. Darkly funny and uplifting, Something to Live For will leave you wanting to seize the day as you cheer the protagonist on.”
—Bianca Marais, author of Hum If You Don’t Know the Words
“Quirky and heartfelt . . . Andrew’s past traumas are revealed gradually, and the reasons behind his isolation are heartbreaking and poignant. A moving and funny look at grief, hope, and the power of human connections.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Eleanor Oliphant for men.”
—Evening Standard (UK)
“Funny, moving, and thought-provoking—I loved this.”
—Clare Mackintosh, author of After the End
“A lively blend of humor and earnest emotion . . . As Andrew slowly comes to grips with being his true self, without pretense, readers will root for him to find liberation and love. A wry, humorous story.”
—Shelf Awareness
“Tragic, sweet, and hopeful . . . This novel will appeal to fans of Gail Honeyman’s Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine.”
—Booklist
“I loved the compassion and humor of this story and its main character, whose journey back to embracing human connection is profoundly satisfying to witness. Heartbreaking and funny, full of both grief and joy, this novel is a delight to read.”
—Leah Stewart, author of What You Don’t Know About Charlie Outlaw
“A heart-warming, funny yet poignant debut novel. Exploring loneliness and family breakdown, Richard Roper has created a cast of colorful and weirdly wonderful characters. An uplifting and life-affirming read.”
—Daily Express (UK)
“Life-affirming . . . moments of hilarity while conveying a message about stepping out of comfort zones.”
—Good Housekeeping (UK)
“A beautiful, heart-warming laugh out loud story.”
—Dinah Jefferies, author of The Missing Sister
“A delightful read—filled with quirky and loveable characters, a compelling storyline and a perfect ending. I couldn’t put the book down! . . . Richard Roper has written the most warm-hearted book about loneliness I’ve read.”
—Miriam Parker, author of The Shortest Way Home
“I completely fell under its spell. It pulls you in, makes you laugh, and breaks your heart—in short, does everything that you want a novel to do. Every character is round and real—from dear old Andrew, through the wonderful Peggy—oh, Peggy!—to the anonymous woman in the cloud of perfume who lives downstairs. While it is very much in the David Nicholls tradition of sympathetic quirk and comedy, it is, at the same time, so fresh and different. I loved the voice, the people, the world . . . Who couldn’t? What an extraordinary debut.”
—Gill Hornby, author of All Together Now
“Funny, moving, and uplifting . . . I loved it.”
—Libby Page, author of The Lido
“The story Roper tells is a charming, humorous and life-affirming tale about human kindness that strikes a chord in a world where loneliness is a growing problem.”
—BBC News, Best Fiction of 2019 (UK)
“A magnificent read. Tender, funny, compelling—this wonderful book deserves to be huge!”
—Lucy Foley, author of The Hunting Party
“Endearing and delightful.”
—Prima, A Book of the Month (UK)
“Oh, what a lovely book—a soap bubble, really: beautifully shaped, totally clear, light enough to float but with enough heft to stick. As a reader, I savored each character, each joke, each winning word.”
—A. J. Finn, author of The Woman in the Window
“Dark, hopeful, humorous . . . For readers who like to root for a flawed but likable protagonist.”
—Library Journal
“A charming and poignant read.”
—B&N Reads blog
“If you loved Eleanor Oliphant, try this brilliant new read. We completely fell in love with this funny, uplifting debut.”
—Fabulous magazine (UK)
“Richard Roper’s debut is heart-breaking, uplifting, funny and brimming with human kindness.”
—Sunday Herald (UK)
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2019 by Richard Roper
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
The Library of Congress has catalogued the G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition as follows:
Names: Roper, Richard, author.
Title: How not to die alone / Richard Roper.
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018049551 | ISBN 9780525539889 (hardcover) |
ISBN 9780525539902 (epub)
Classification: LCC PR6118.O643 H69 2019 | DDC 823 / .92—dc23
; LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018049551
p. cm.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593328323
Originally published as How Not to Die Alone
First G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition / May 2019
First G. P. Putnam’s Sons trade paperback edition / July 2020
G. P. Putnam’s Sons trade paperback ISBN: 9780525539896
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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— CONTENTS —
Cover
Praise for Something to Live For
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
A Conversation with Richard Roper
Discussion Guide
For Mum and Dad
Public Health (Control of Disease) Act 1984, section 46: (1) It shall be the duty of a local authority to cause to be buried or cremated the body of any person who has died or been found dead in their area, in any case where it appears to the authority that no suitable arrangements for the disposal of the body have been or are being made otherwise than by the authority.
— CHAPTER 1 —
Andrew looked at the coffin and tried to remember who was inside it. It was a man—he was sure of that. But, horrifyingly, the name escaped him. He thought he’d narrowed it down to either John or James, but Jake had just made a late bid for consideration. It was inevitable, he supposed, that this had happened. He’d been to so many of these funerals it was bound to at some point, but that didn’t stop him from feeling an angry stab of self-loathing.
If he could just remember the name before the vicar said it, that would be something. There was no order of service, but maybe he could check his work phone. Would that be cheating? Probably. Besides, it would have been a tricky enough maneuver to get away with in a church full of mourners, but it was nearly impossible when the only other person there apart from him was the vicar. Ordinarily, the funeral director would have been there as well, but he had e-mailed earlier to say he was too ill to make it.
Unnervingly, the vicar, who was only a few feet away from Andrew, had barely broken eye contact since he’d started the service. Andrew hadn’t dealt with him before. He was boyish and spoke with a nervous tremor that was amplified unforgivingly by the echoey church. Andrew couldn’t tell if this was down to nerves. He tried out a reassuring smile, but it didn’t seem to help. Would a thumbs-up be inappropriate? He decided against it.
He looked over at the coffin again. Maybe he was a Jake, though the man had been seventy-eight when he died, and you didn’t really get many septuagenarian Jakes. At least not yet. It was going to be strange in fifty years’ time when all the nursing homes would be full of Jakes and Waynes, Tinkerbells and Appletisers, with faded tribal tattoos that roughly translated as “Roadworks for next fifty yards” faded on their lower backs.
Jesus, concentrate, he admonished himself. The whole point of his being there was to bear respectful witness to the poor soul departing on their final journey, to provide some company in lieu of any family or friends. Dignity—that was his watchword.
Unfortunately, dignity was something that had been in short supply for the John or James or Jake. According to the coroner’s report, he had died on the toilet while reading a book about buzzards. To add insult to injury, Andrew later discovered firsthand that it wasn’t even a very good book about buzzards. Admittedly he was no expert, but he wasn’t sure the author—who even from the few passages Andrew had read came across as remarkably grumpy—should have dedicated a whole page to badmouthing kestrels. The deceased had folded the corner of this particular page down as a crude placeholder, so perhaps he’d been in agreement. As Andrew had peeled off his latex gloves he’d made a mental note to insult a kestrel—or indeed any member of the falcon family—the next time he saw one, as a tribute of sorts.
Other than a few more bird books, the house was devoid of anything that gave clues to the man’s personality. There were no records or films to be found, nor pictures on the walls or photographs on the windowsills. The only idiosyncrasy was the bafflingly large number of Fruit ’n Fibre boxes in the kitchen cupboards. So aside from the fact that he was a keen ornithologist with a top-notch digestive system, it was impossible to guess what sort of person John or James or Jake had been.
Andrew had been as diligent as ever with the property inspection. He’d searched the house (a curious mock-Tudor bungalow that sat defiantly as an incongruous interlude on the terraced street) until he was sure he’d not missed something that suggested the man had any family he was still in touch with. He’d knocked on the neighbors’ doors but they’d been either indifferent to or unaware of the man’s existence, or the fact it was over.
The vicar segued unsurely into a bit of Jesus-y material, and Andrew knew from experience that the service was coming to a close. He had to remember this person’s name, as a point of principle. He really tried his best, even when there was no one else there, to be a model mourner—to be as respectful as if there were hundreds of devastated family members in attendance. He’d even started removing his watch before entering the church because it felt like the deceased’s final journey should be exempt from the indifference of a ticking second hand.
The vicar was definitely on the home stretch now. Andrew was just going to have to make a decision.
John, he decided. He was definitely John.
“And while we believe that John—”
Yes!
“—struggled to some extent in his final years, and sadly departed the world without family or friends by his side, we can take comfort that, with God waiting with open arms, full of love and kindness, this journey shall be the last he makes alone.”
* * *
—
Andrew tended not to stick around after the funerals. On the few occasions he had, he’d ended up having to make awkward conversation with funeral directors or last-minute rubberneckers. It was remarkable how many of the latter you would get, hanging around outside, farting out inane platitudes. Andrew was well practiced at slipping away so as to avoid such encounters, but today he’d briefly been distracted by a sign on the church noticeboard advertising the troublingly jaunty “Midsummer Madness Fete!” when he felt someone tapping him on the shoulder with the insistence of an impatient woodpecker. It was the vicar. He looked even younger close up, with his baby-blue eyes and blond curtains parted neatly in the middle, as if his mum might have done it for him.
“Hey, it’s Andrew, isn’t it? You’re from the council, right?”
“That’s right,” And
rew said.
“No luck finding any family then?”
Andrew shook his head.
“Shame, that. Real shame.”
The vicar seemed agitated, as if he were holding on to a secret that he desperately wanted to impart.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Yes,” Andrew said, quickly deciding on an excuse for why he couldn’t attend “Midsummer Madness!”
“How did you find that?” the vicar said.
“Do you mean . . . the funeral?” Andrew said, pulling at a bit of loose thread on his coat.
“Yeah. Well, more specifically my part in it all. Because, full disclosure, it was my first. I was quite relieved to be starting with this one, to be honest, because there wasn’t anybody here so it sort of felt like a bit of a practice run. Hopefully now I’m fully prepared for when there’s a proper one with a church full of friends and family, not just a guy from the council. No offense,” he added, putting a hand on Andrew’s arm. Andrew did his best not to recoil. He hated it when people did that. He wished he had some sort of squidlike defense that meant he could shoot ink into their eyes.
“So yeah,” the vicar said. “How’d you think I did?”
What do you want me to say? Andrew thought. Well, you didn’t knock the coffin over or accidentally call the deceased “Mr. Hitler,” so ten out of ten I’d say.
“You did very well,” he said.
“Ah, great, thanks, mate,” the vicar said, looking at him with renewed intensity. “I really appreciate that.”
He held out his hand. Andrew shook it and went to let go, but the vicar carried on.
“Anyway, I better be off,” Andrew said.
“Yes, yes of course,” said the vicar, finally letting go.
Andrew started off down the path, breathing a sigh of relief at escaping without further interrogation.
“See you soon I hope,” the vicar called after him.
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