by Karen Ross
But I’m still being mistaken for a bookshop and every time I explain I’m an undertaker, the outcome is more or less the same. I get an, ‘Oh, what a shame, dear!’ as though I’ve missed out on tickets for Glastonbury or the Latitude Festival. And that’s on a good day. There have been two or three others who, like Mrs Happy, have made no secret of the fact they believe my business has no business being here.
‘How dare you give your shop such a misleading name?’ The woman who berated me for that didn’t hang around long enough to let me explain my conviction that the best funerals are those that honour someone’s life and give a true sense of who that person really was – and are far from morbid or mysterious affairs – which is why I think ‘Happy Endings’ is such a great choice.
Not, of course, that anyone’s showing any signs of choosing me. I still have no idea when I’ll be called to action. I firmly remind myself this is par for the course. In my line of work, there’s mostly no lead time.
Obviously, I feel sorry in advance for the person who’s going to be my first customer, because organising a funeral is a distress purchase. But at least when it happens, I’ll know how to help them and the people they leave behind. It’s what I’m best at.
In the meantime, there’s no point drooping around an empty shop like one of my wilting delphiniums. I’ve got plenty to do. The cremation urns are still down in the basement. I’m incorporating them into my inaugural window display – the empty window has turned out to be a mistake rather than the minimalist statement I had been aiming for – to eliminate any further misunderstandings about the nature of my business.
Edo promised to help me haul everything out front this afternoon, but there’s still no sign of him, so I might as well get on with the admin instead of wallowing in procrastination.
In particular, I need to compose an email to Zoe Banks.
Zoe is not only Eddie Banks’s daughter but also a fellow retailer – her shop is called The Beauty Spot – and she’s the driving force behind the Primrose Hill Traders Association. I really want to get to know my fellow shopkeepers, and I need to get cracking. I activate my computer with a flick of the mouse and begin.
Dear Zoe Banks,
My name is Nina Sherwood and I am the new kid on the block. As you may know, my shop is called Happy Endings, and in many ways, it is thanks to your father that it is here at all. My friend Gloria was present at Noggsie’s funeral, and afterwards, when she was talking to Mr Banks, my name came into the conversation.
There goes that man on the rollerblades again, whizzing past the shop. On the pavement this time. Close enough to flash me a smile. And for me to grin at his T-shirt, which declares, Always be yourself. Unless you can be Batman. I’m probably imagining his smile, but he’s certainly around a lot. Training for some sporting event, perhaps. Anyway, back to my message …
Mr Banks generously used his powers of persuasion to ensure I could get the lease, and without this initial help, my business would never have got beyond the dreaming stage. In case you’re wondering, I previously worked for an established funeral director in Queen’s Park but this is my first solo venture and I am hugely excited about it all.
Gloria says The Beauty Spot is one of Primrose Hill’s most successful shops, so Zoe must have inherited her father’s business acumen along with an appetite for hard work and the ability to be both popular and profitable. I hope that as we get to know one another, she might teach me some of the secrets of maximising income without ripping anyone off.
I hope you will wish me well and I look forward to meeting you in the near future. I am also very keen to participate in the activities of the Primrose Hill Traders Association. Could you please advise me of the procedure for joining? Is there a meeting coming up some time soon that I could attend? Finally, I am sure you are very busy, but if you fancy a break, then I would love to have a chat with you. Shall we meet in the wine bar? Drinks on me!
Best wishes,
Nina Sherwood, Happy Endings
I send the email and try to convince myself I’m having a good day at work. Now for those cremation urns …
8
The next morning, I wake to discover two significant additions to our household.
First off, I hear footsteps crashing up and down a flight of stairs so I get out of bed, shrug into my dressing gown, nudge my bedroom door and realise Edo is here. On his way to the little room at the top of the house. He’s juggling an assortment of bin bags and holdalls plus a red and white ‘NO ENTRY’ sign that is still attached to the mid-section of a lamp-post.
By the time I am decently dressed he’s on another trek, this time laden with a bunch of canvases. I observe that Edo’s favourite colour is purple. And that he has at some stage persuaded at least four different women to pose for him while naked. One of them – a curvy redhead with spectacular breasts – has her cellulite-free thighs teasingly splayed around the ‘NO ENTRY’ sign.
‘Morning,’ I say. ‘Are you storing your stuff in the attic?’
Edo looks puzzled. ‘Didn’t Gloria tell you I was moving in? That’s why I didn’t get to the shop in time to help you yesterday. Sorry about that.’
Um, no. Gloria’s said nothing. ‘Want some coffee?’
‘Awesome!’
I get my head around Edo’s news as I make my way to the kitchen. He did say the place he found after he moved out of Happy Endings was a bit too dirty and a touch too noisy for his liking. Typical Gloria to say he could stay – she’s both generous and impulsive, and it’s her house, of course – but I’m surprised she didn’t at least discuss it with me first.
An even bigger surprise awaits me in the kitchen.
A dog.
Eating breakfast.
Actually, he appears to be on his third breakfast.
The creature is almost the size of a Shetland pony. It looks as if it’s been dreamed up by Disney, but is acting out a script from Tarantino – working title The Andrex Puppy on Drugs.
The pristine kitchen I remember from last night is a wreck. Two chairs have been overturned. The floor is covered in a collage of broken breakfast bowls, with several million breadcrumbs and a gooey patch of what looks like blood but is hopefully nothing more sinister than strawberry jam added for texture. A steady trickle of milk is dripping onto the floor from an overturned carton on the table. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, the roll of paper towel we keep on the kitchen table in lieu of napkins has three Shetland-pony-sized chunks bitten out of it.
The dog gives me a cursory glance then shamelessly returns to the plate of ham, cheese and salami that’s occupying his attention. In fairness, his table manners seem to be improving with every chomp. He’s figured out he’s the perfect height so that his head – and jaws – can get to the food without the need even to flex his paws, let alone knock food to the floor. Perhaps he’s cleverer than he looks.
A split second later, just as the dog’s inhaling the final scrap of meat, Edo arrives in the kitchen. ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘Maybe this was a mistake.’
I give him a look.
‘There was this bloke in the pub last night.’ Edo has got himself a part-time job pulling pints. ‘Said he and his partner had come to the conclusion their place was too small for Chopper. That’s his name, Chopper. They took him to Battersea, but the people there admitted that if they couldn’t rehome him, he’d be put down. The guy was literally sobbing into his beer, so I called Gloria and she said it would be okay. Then today, I wanted to get off to a good start and be a good housemate, so I put breakfast together before I moved my stuff in. Which turned out to be a mistake. Do you know anything about dogs?’
‘Only that they appear to enjoy granola and salami. But I guess I’ll learn.’ The truth is, I’ve always wanted a dog.
‘He’ll be my responsibility. I promise this will never happen again. I’ll clear up all the mess. And he’ll sleep in my room. I’m going to make him a bed out of wooden crates. And then I thought I might paint him.’
‘Purple?’ I enquire.
Edo’s enthusiasm is somehow infectious. Even though Chopper has wrecked our kitchen, he is trying earnestly to make amends by hoovering the floor with his tongue, which is the size of a rump steak.
‘How old is he, anyway?’
‘The guy said he’s a year old. And fully grown.’ Even as he says it, Edo sounds doubtful. He looks at me, then back to the dog. ‘I’m really grateful to you and Gloria for agreeing I can move in, you know. I’ve promised to help out around the house, with odd jobs and that. And I’m going to be paying rent, of course.’
Immediately, I feel guilty. Gloria insisted I should only pay half-rent until Happy Endings is on its feet – an offer I gratefully accepted. She’s probably delighted Edo needs a place to live, and can help make up the shortfall.
‘I’ll clean up the mess,’ I offer. ‘Then maybe, once we’ve had breakfast, we can take Chopper out for a walk.’
After breakfast, during which I observe Gloria sneaking morsels of still-warm croissant under the table to our new dog, the four of us – Edo, Gloria, Chopper and I – head for Highgate Ponds.
It’s beautiful late spring weather, and Gloria is excited to see the lilacs in full bloom. Edo keeps Chopper on a stout leash, offering him no further opportunities for misbehaviour.
‘So what sort of dog is he?’ Gloria asks. She’s spent the past ten minutes complaining she’s fed up with having her social life dictated by the schedule of Thrice-Wed Fred’s wife, whose latest crime is to surprise her cheating husband with a weekend jaunt to Berlin.
‘Half-Bernese half-poodle,’ Edo says.
I can see the poodle in Chopper. Woolly coat in shades of black, brown and white, with a head of hair that reminds me of those long wigs worn by the old codgers who populate the House of Lords. But Bernese? Isn’t that a type of sauce?
‘So that makes him a Bernedoodle!’ Gloria is amused by the thought.
‘Or a poodlenese,’ Edo suggests.
I take another look at Chopper. Edo let him off the lead when we got to the woods at the back of the ponds, and the dog is celebrating his freedom by enthusiastically turning a fallen branch into a pile of matchsticks. Chopper is about four times the size of any other dog out on a Saturday walk, so all I can say is that the Bernese must be a very big dog indeed.
‘That’s interesting,’ Edo says.
‘What?’ I enquire. ‘A dog chewing a stick?’
‘No. Taking one thing and transforming it into another.’
Before I can say something about dogs doing that every time they sink their teeth into something, Edo continues his thought. ‘Shapeshifting.’
‘Is that what they taught you at art school?’ Gloria’s tone is only faintly mocking.
‘As it happens, I’ve got a postgraduate tutorial with Joshua Kent next week,’ Edo retorts. ‘If I’m lucky, he’ll mentor me on my next project.’
Wow! Edo must be an even better artist than he is a sign writer. Joshua Kent is a real big shot. His art is on display in galleries and private collections all over the world. It’s not my kind of thing – call me a philistine, but I like a painting to look like a painting, with a nice frame and everything – but winning the Turner Prize three times has made Joshua Kent properly famous.
Edo is looking suitably modest. ‘I’ve got a couple of ideas,’ he says, ‘but I think they’re too ordinary. Can we talk about something else, please? I’m terrified. Nina, what do you think Gloria should do about Fred? Dump him, or what? What would you do?’
I’m about to reply to Edo’s penultimate question in the definite affirmative, but Gloria is faster. ‘I’ve told you,’ she says to Edo. ‘Nina doesn’t do relationships.’
The pair of them exchange a glance, and I realise Edo has been briefed about the reason for my lack of a love life. Gloria must have told him about Ryan – his funeral and all that – and my decision to prioritise my career over relationships.
An awkward pause, while we watch Chopper take a breather from his labours, then spit out the final shreds of wood and begin to paw furiously at the ground, digging a hole in which to bury his matchsticks.
‘If anyone needs advice,’ I finally say, ‘it’s me.’
‘The business?’ asks Gloria, and I suspect this is something she has also discussed with Edo.
‘It’s only been a week,’ Edo chimes in. ‘And besides, the weather’s too good for dying.’
Even though he is being facetious, Edo has a point. More people die during winter than summer. But that’s not the issue. Every time I think about my parents, I feel sick. Sticking all their pension money next to the matchsticks in Chopper’s freshly dug hole in the ground is beginning to seem like a far better idea than allowing them to keep their investment in Happy Endings.
I feel Gloria’s hand on my arm. ‘Remember your business plan, sweetie.’ She’s doing her best to reassure me. I’ve estimated thirty funerals in the first year, so with only one week gone, I’m not even behind schedule. But neither have I earned a single penny.
‘My business plan wasn’t much more than guesswork,’ I confess. Guesswork, moreover, that didn’t even include any budget for advertising and marketing. ‘I should have thought things through more thoroughly. Maybe there’s a good reason why the shop was empty for so long after Noggsie’s first stroke left him unable to carry on – and it wasn’t just because the council rejected change-of-use applications from a bunch of hipsters who wanted to turn it into yet another café.’
‘Rubbish!’ Edo jumps in. ‘Remember what Noggsie’s son said.’ The son who lives in Australia and gave me a good deal on the rent. ‘He wanted you to have the lease because he reckoned the high street needs some proper shops again. There’s only so many cupcakes a person can eat.’
Edo’s wrong about that. Especially when they incorporate marshmallow frosting. But his intentions are good.
Enough of this.
I’m behaving like a complete wimp.
All doom and gloom and Poor Little Me just because things aren’t happening as fast as I’d hoped. Yes, when I was an employee, we could more or less guarantee how many funerals we’d handle every week, but the business had been there for decades. My empty shop window has evidently led to misunderstandings about the nature of my business but it’s sorted now: my collection of ceramic urns are modern and tasteful, although from what I’ve seen of Primrose Hill so far, there’s a danger the locals will think I’m running an art gallery.
‘You know what?’ I confess. ‘I was hoping in my heart of hearts that business would just fall into my lap. But I need to make myself known.’ There have to be cheaper ways of advertising than buying space in the local paper, which every undertaker seems to do as a matter of routine. ‘I’ve made a start already.’
I’m telling my friends about the email I sent to Zoe Banks when my phone pings. I look at the screen.
‘Ha!’ I tell them. ‘Talk of the devil, and the devil appears!’
It’s a message from Zoe.
I’m going to meet her on Monday.
Can’t wait!
9
Truthfully, Zoe’s email reads more like a summons than an invitation. Yes, we need to discuss what you’re doing. Monday 7.15am. Home not spa.
My own email is repeated underneath. Taking another look, it does seem to ramble a bit. But never mind that Zoe hasn’t replied at length. The important thing is that she has replied at all. Promptly, too, which is good business etiquette. Zoe must be one of those scarily efficient women who has successfully tamed her email mountain by keeping responses – even to warm and friendly messages like mine – to the bare minimum.
That fits in with Gloria’s extended briefing about Zoe and her day spa. The Beauty Spot is part of a chain that also has a presence in other wealthy pockets of London, plus outposts in Zürich, Rome, Dubai and Los Angeles. Our local branch is hidden away inside a beautiful Regency townhouse, just off the high street. I’ve always been too scared to go inside
, but I’ve given the website a good going-over in preparation for this meeting.
Turns out the rumours that Zoe sells nothing that costs less than £35 are true. Really? For a bottle of bubble bath that small? And do women honestly pay three figures to have their eyebrows tidied? Especially when the first figure’s not even a one! Back in my student days, I spent less than that on a weekend in Berlin, and my eyebrows always look just fine.
I know I ought to be grateful Zoe has prioritised our meeting, but instead I’m faintly resentful I needed to be up at half past five this morning to make sure I had enough time to dither about what to wear. And redo my eyebrows four times.
I arrive at Zoe’s home – a leafy turning on the far side of the park going towards Swiss Cottage – at ten past seven. Which is just as well, because I squander the next three minutes trying to make the intercom system work. In the end, I resort to punching random numbers on the keypad, and this finally does the trick. A disembodied male voice instructs me, ‘Step AWAY from the gates and state your name.’
‘Nina Sherwood,’ I announce, startled.
‘Correct.’
What is this, an intelligence test?
‘When the gates open, please make your way to the main entrance.’ The voice sounds like Carson out of Downton Abbey, scolding one of the servants for being ungrateful.
At first glance, the gates – sandwiched between high brick walls – could be mistaken for a piece of sculpture, all curves and swirls, with a hint of Art Deco. Then they glide soundlessly open, and I get my first glimpse of Zoe’s home.
So this is how the one per cent of the one per cent lives … As I read online last night – doing my Zoe Banks homework before explaining to Chopper that my bed is not his bed – I am now eyeballing a piece of prime central London real estate worth £14 million. Which buys you (I continued my online research via Zoopla, Google Earth and Vogue) seven bedrooms, a private cinema, a wine cave, staff quarters and one of the largest gardens in North London, complete with its own tropical pagoda. All that, plus a ten-metre infinity pool that incorporates both wave machine and rainforest shower.
