Five Wakes and a Wedding

by Karen Ross

  I hear one of the guys shout, ‘There she is.’

  Then they all swarm towards me. In a pack. Pointing cameras.

  ‘Why did you do it, Nina?’ bellows someone I’ve never seen in my life. How come he knows my name?

  ‘Was it just a sick PR stunt? Trying to get your business on the map?’ shouts someone else.

  ‘And what about Kelli Shapiro? Is she in on it too? Trying to get herself back in the spotlight because her career is on the skids?’

  Jesus. Now I get it.

  ‘Kelli had nothing to do with it!’ I sprint the final few yards to the door of Happy Endings. I fumble with the lock – the key wobbles all over the place in my trembling hand – until I’m finally able to let myself in. Then I lock the door from the inside, and flee to the basement.

  Only when I am cuddling Chopper, who is delighted to see me, do I realise I was so flustered that what I just said to the paparazzi could easily be interpreted as an admission of guilt.

  13

  Ten minutes later, I feel brave enough to go back upstairs and into the shop.

  Mistake.

  If anything, there are more journalists and photographers than before. It’s a sunny afternoon and the good weather has tempted twenty or thirty passers-by to join the crowd to see what’s going on.

  I spot several familiar faces, including my roof-obsessed neighbour Mrs Happy, who has cornered a couple of members of the media. She’s standing with them in the road, lips moving as if she’s chewing on a lump of gristle, one hand constantly pointing towards the sky, like a Hitler salute, only higher. I hope she’s treating the hacks to a lecture on tanalised battens or the relative merits of Spanish and Welsh slates.

  Oh, no. Someone’s spotted me through the window.

  ‘Nina! We’re from the BBC! Can we come in and have a word?’ A man whose face I recognise from the television is bending down outside Happy Endings’ front door and yelling through the letterbox.

  He’s soon joined by a crop-haired woman rapping her knuckles on the window. The moment we make eye contact, she presses a sheet of paper against the glass. I take a few steps forward to read what it says. The Sun: Tell us why you killed Kelli Shapiro. Give us the exclusive and we’ll be sympathetic.

  What the— I shake my head in despair. In response, the woman gives me the least sincere smile I’ve ever seen.

  I’m under siege and I don’t know what to do. If I hide at the back of the shop, it’s going to look like further evidence of whatever it is they all think I’m guilty of. Maybe I should Uber myself home. But what if they follow me and find out where I live? I could set Chopper free in the hope he’ll lick them all to death. Or I could— My list of unsatisfactory options is interrupted by the piercing wail of a siren, growing louder and louder.

  A white van pulls up outside the shop and one … two … three … six officers emerge.

  I’m about to be arrested in full sight of the BBC cameras. Will they put me in handcuffs? Will my parents be watching tonight’s news?

  It’s all gone eerily quiet outside, with the exception of Mrs Happy, whose voice is so shrill I can hear it even from inside, saying something about the unsurpassable merits of copper nails.

  A police officer rings the bell. I’m not going to argue or struggle. My reputation is in ruins, but I can try to preserve my dignity.

  I open the door.

  ‘Good afternoon. I’m Sergeant Hartley. And you’re Ms Sherwood?’ The woman is about my age. She’s tall enough to be a catwalk model and her black hair is tied in a bun.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Will someone be able to look after my dog?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  We stare at one another in confusion.

  The officer pivots on her flat heel, shoots a disdainful look at the rubberneckers, then turns back and says, ‘I wanted to reassure you these people will be leaving immediately. All of them.’ Her voice is firm, and several of the locals begin to melt away. But the media is more resilient.

  A man with a camera round his neck taps the officer on her shoulder. ‘You can’t tell us what to do,’ he says. ‘Freedom of assembly.’

  ‘Familiar with the law, are you?’ Before the man can say any more, she continues pleasantly, ‘If so, you’ll know you’ve just assaulted a police officer. I’ll overlook it this time, so long as you round up your mates and leave Ms Sherwood to get on with her day.’

  The photographer doesn’t like being humiliated by a woman young enough to be his second wife. He looks as if he’s about to reply, then thinks better of it and says, ‘Okay everyone, we’ve got our pictures of Mizz Sherwood’ – he says my name sarcastically – ‘and since she doesn’t want to tell us what happened, we’ll draw our own conclusions.’ His words sound like the threat they’re meant to be.

  I wonder if I ought to explain I’ve done nothing wrong, but the policewoman says loudly, ‘I’ll be giving Ms Sherwood details of the Independent Press Standards Organisation. So I suggest you all get your facts straight.’

  Within a couple of minutes everyone has been shepherded away by the policewoman’s colleagues. ‘Thank you so much, Sergeant Hartley,’ I say. ‘I was scared.’

  ‘You were right to call us,’ she tells me. Before I can deny I made any such call, she continues, ‘I’ve worked with lots of undertakers over the years. You’re a decent bunch and I know you’d never pretend someone’s dead when they’re not. I loathe the way the media hound people. Talk about a sense of entitlement. Anyway, there’s no real story to be had, so fingers crossed they’ll all be gossiping about someone else by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘You really think so?’ I explain to her about the phone call that started this whole thing off. ‘Kelli Shapiro was so kind about it,’ I say. ‘Really lovely.’

  ‘I didn’t realise she lived around here. Did you see that film where she played the girl who—’

  The policewoman is interrupted by one of her colleagues. ‘RTA in Tufnell Park,’ he says. ‘Sounds bad. Good to go?’

  The officer is about to get on her way when she is accosted by Mrs Happy. ‘I need to talk to you about a dangerous structure,’ she says in that imperious, cut-glass accent of hers. ‘My roof is—’

  ‘Your roof is a matter for the council rather than the police,’ the officer replies politely. ‘Goodbye Ms Sherwood,’ she adds. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad experience.’ She gets inside the white van which departs, sirens screeching, leaving me and Mrs Happy standing awkwardly together on the pavement.

  My neighbour is drawing breath and I can tell she’s planning another onslaught.

  ‘Got to get on,’ I tell her briskly. And with that, I go inside Happy Endings. I turn the key in the lock in case any journalists decide to return, then join Chopper in the basement and make myself a much-needed cup of tea.

  Sitting in an armchair, I do what I always do when I’m stressed out. I guide myself through a series of visualisation exercises. In my mind’s eye, all the photographers and journalists form an orderly queue and vanish through a set of airport departure doors. Next, I stroll through the streets of Primrose Hill and people nod and smile at me. I picture Mrs Happy, dancing with her husband – I’ve seen him a couple of times, but we’ve never spoken – beneath a watertight roof. And Chopper, gazing at me as if I am a goddess. Licking my hand as if it’s been dipped into a vat of melted cheese. No … Chopper is licking my hand. For real. Twenty minutes have passed and I’ve definitely calmed down.

  A bit later and I’m back at my desk out front, wondering if the policewoman is correct and I will escape being featured on TV or in the papers. The doorbell rings again. I look up from Funeral Director Monthly – an article describing how the Unknown Warrior’s coffin was fashioned from the oak of a tree grown at Hampton Court – fearing Mrs Happy is about to treat me to another of her roofing lectures.

  Instead, it’s the welcome sight of Gloria. I get up from my desk and she rushes in.

  ‘What’s happened to your
phone?’ she greets me. ‘I’ve been calling you over and over. Did the police come? Really unlike you not to pick up.’

  Gloria’s right. A ringing phone often means work, or at least a customer enquiry, so I always divert my business line to my mobile whenever I’m out of the office. But today has been – to say the least – distracting and I’ve forgotten to check for calls. I fish my phone out of my bag. I’d set it to silent mode on my way to Kelli’s home.

  Seven missed calls from Gloria.

  Four missed calls from Edo.

  Thirty-two missed calls from unknown numbers.

  Eight voicemails from unknown numbers.

  I’ve never been so popular. But I doubt any of these are business enquiries. It’s more than I can deal with for now so I keep the phone in silent mode and put it on the desk. Immediately, it begins to vibrate. I feel as if I’m being menaced by a hand grenade that’s lost its pin.

  ‘Yes, the police came and got rid of everyone,’ I finally answer Gloria’s question. ‘But how do you know they were here?’

  ‘I called them.’ Gloria flops down on the couch, where she is joined by Chopper. ‘I popped in to see my mum this morning. We were just having coffee when her cleaning lady came in and told us Kelli Shapiro was, um, dead. Not dead, I mean,’ she adds hastily. ‘And that you were … well, never mind … Anyway, I raced over here and saw the vultures gathering like a bunch of spectators at the French Revolution. Bastards. Your phone kept going straight to voicemail, so I told the cops there was a disturbance that was likely to result in a breach of the peace and that I feared for my safety. I pretended to be you because I thought that would be more effective.’

  ‘Well,’ I mumble, ‘you know what happened, then.’ You and the whole damn world.

  ‘I know exactly what happened.’ Gloria spits out the words and her whole face flushes. Last time I saw her so angry was when Thrice-Wed Fred texted to say he wouldn’t be able to keep their dinner date at the fancy restaurant she’d chosen as a birthday treat because he was scared he’d bump into people he knew and that word would get back to his wife. ‘Gareth Manning. That’s what happened.’

  ‘The estate agent?’

  ‘Him. He was with you when you got the call about Kelli, right?’

  I nod.

  ‘So he went back to the office and phoned a mate of his on the Standard. He’s got some deal going with one of their property hacks. Gets a name-check for his business every time he leaks information about celebrities who are buying, selling or renting in the neighbourhood. Manning tipped off his mate that Kelli’s dead and it all snowballed from there.’

  ‘How did you find out it was Manning?’

  ‘After he called the Standard, he rushed round to Julie in the florist’s. Told her to get ready for a bumper sales day.’

  I wince.

  ‘And after that … well, you know how it goes. When it comes to gossip, Primrose Hill makes EastEnders look like a Trappist monastery.’

  ‘So everyone thinks I’m to blame?’ Even worse than I feared. ‘That I made it all up? What are they saying?’

  ‘I’ve just come from the estate agents. Spoke to Manning himself.’ Gloria’s expression darkens. ‘He said you got a phone call. But once he realised none of it was true, he changed tack and said it was Kelli herself who called you. That the pair of you were in it together.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to find out who made the appointment for him to be there in the first place?’

  ‘The measuring-up business, you mean?’

  I nod.

  ‘He was even more cagey about that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t tell me, either,’ I say. ‘Just gave me some crap about client confidentiality.’

  ‘Oh? He eventually told me he thought it was you who’d called to instruct him. Another lie, obviously. I soon put him right about that. In fact, I took the liberty of telling him he’s never allowed to set foot inside Happy Endings again. Unless he’s no longer breathing. And that my mum’s been expecting a four-figure donation to the Chalcot Square Summer Fair from his mucky business. Payable in advance. I made him write them a cheque on the spot. Look!’ Gloria triumphantly produces it from her purse.

  Despite myself, I smile. I’m about to thank Gloria for being such a wonderful friend – and sharp-witted opportunist – when Chopper barks, anticipating the doorbell by a clear five seconds.

  Gloria gets up to greet our visitor. ‘Hi, Julie,’ she says. ‘You’ve saved me a trip to your shop. Mum needs her flowers for the weekend.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here.’ The woman who’s ignoring Gloria’s amicable greeting is in her mid-forties. Poker-straight blonde hair, burnished with impeccable gold highlights that come from days spent on a Caribbean or Mediterranean beach rather than overnight in a carton from the chemist. Suntan that hasn’t come out of an aerosol nozzle. Flawless complexion. A brightly patterned silk dress with an asymmetrical hemline that screams designer label. And a huge scowl on her pretty, heart-shaped face. She’s waving a large piece of paper in her right hand. ‘I’ve come to see her.’

  By which she means me.

  Before I can say anything, Julie continues, ‘I hope you’ve got business insurance. See this?’ she thrusts the paper towards me. ‘It’s the order I placed with my supplier in Italy.’

  I take the paper. ‘Yes, I can see. But what’s it got to do with business insurance?’ Or me.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to be difficult about this. It’s your fault, after all. I don’t know where you worked before but you’re not going to last five minutes around here if you go round making up malicious stories to promote your so-called business.’

  ‘Now hang on, Julie.’ Gloria stands up. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Gareth Manning comes into my shop and tells me Kelli Shapiro’s dead. So I send over a huge order to the growers in Puglia. To stock up for the funeral. By the time I find out it was a false alarm, the order’s freighted up. At least, that’s what they insisted, although I find it hard to believe. Anyway, it was too late to cancel, and I don’t see why I should have to pay for something she’s responsible for.’ Julie wags a finger in my direction.

  ‘My very good friend Nina Sherwood, you mean.’ Gloria waits until Julie meets her eyes, then treats her to a glacial stare. ‘Who is herself the victim of someone with a very sick mind. As well as an estate agent who ought to know better.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Yes, but nothing. Nina is absolutely not responsible for your business decisions.’

  ‘I’m trying to be nice.’ Julie’s tone of voice is anything but. ‘Zoe Banks said I could sue Nina for the cost of the order but I’d rather settle this pleasantly.’ Chopper picks this moment to rub himself against Julie’s dress and she pushes him roughly away. ‘I presume you’ve got insurance?’

  ‘Look,’ Gloria says. ‘Once you’ve calmed down, I think you’ll realise you owe Nina an apology. You’re both in business, and the traders around here need to work together for the good of us all. If anyone should reimburse you, it’s Gareth Manning. And if you put the flowers out for a sensible price, I’m sure you’ll more than cover your costs.’

  But Julie’s having none of it. ‘No, I want my four thousand pounds,’ she insists. ‘You should count yourself lucky I’m willing to charge you wholesale rather than retail.’

  14

  Gloria spends the next ten minutes telling me Julie’s always been a bit of a firebrand and that once she’s flogged the flowers she’ll calm down and apologise. Even though I know the damn order isn’t my fault, I feel sorry for Julie. As for Zoe Banks, though, encouraging a fellow trader to sue me …

  Chopper’s body clock is telling him – and us – it’s almost time for his second walk of the day, but I’m too timid to show my face outside.

  Gloria fiddles with her phone. ‘I’ve just cancelled Mum’s order with Julie,’ she says. ‘That’ll give her something to think about. My mum’s in and out of the florist’s all the
time.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit mean?’

  ‘Nina, you’re going to have to toughen up. Consider this a baptism of fire. At least now everyone in Primrose Hill knows you’re running a funeral parlour rather than a knocking shop. You know what they say. No publicity’s bad publicity and all that. Give it another day and word will be out that you were simply trying to do your job.’

  I think immediately of another old saying. Mud sticks.

  I’m also beginning to wonder who set me up. One name in particular keeps rising to the top of my mind … Zoe Banks. Would she be capable of this?

  Before I can voice the thought, Gloria looks up from her phone and says, ‘FYI, I’ve just checked the BBC and the Standard. No mention of you. Or Kelli. See, this is just a two-minute wonder. Nothing more.’ She turns to Chopper and adds, ‘Come on, let’s get you outside before you disgrace yourself.’

  ‘I’ll stay here and check my messages.’

  ‘You so won’t! Delete the voicemails without listening then let’s get back to normal.’

  It’s a sensible suggestion and I do as Gloria says.

  Out on the street, I’m convinced everyone’s staring at me, but Gloria insists I’m delusional. ‘No offence, but you’re probably the least well-known person in Primrose Hill,’ she laughs. ‘No-one knows your face in the first place.’

  By the time we reach the park, I feel more relaxed. Such a relief not to be splashed all over the news. But two minutes later, when my phone starts to ring, I feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Just ignore it,’ Gloria says. ‘Enough for one day.’

  I force myself to look at the screen. Ah!

  ‘Where are you?’ Edo’s voice.

  ‘In the park with Gloria. What about you?’

  ‘Outside the shop.’ Edo sounds out of breath. ‘On my way. Meet you at the gate.’

  We retrace our steps. Chopper spots Edo first and lollops ahead to greet him. But Edo sidesteps the dog and runs towards me.

  ‘Nina! I’m so sorry.’ Edo wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he says. ‘I’ll take care of everything, don’t you worry.’