by Karen Ross
My body stiffens.
Then relaxes.
It’s been so long since anyone has held me.
I feel Edo’s hands through my jacket, stroking my back, then his fingers gliding through my hair. I snuggle deeper into his embrace.
‘I was thinking I should take you away for the weekend,’ he whispers. ‘Get you out of London and stay somewhere nice and quiet till all this blows over. I promise you it’ll be all right,’ he says again.
‘It’s already all right,’ Gloria says crossly. ‘Put her down, Edo. Stop taking advantage.’ Still with an edge to her voice she adds, ‘You’ve heard what happened then.’
I pull myself reluctantly away from Edo. ‘Thank you,’ I say softly.
The three of us walk to a bench and sit down, accompanied by Chopper. The dog makes two attempts to clamber up alongside us before sighing deeply and settles for blocking the path in front of us.
‘So how did you find out?’ Gloria asks Edo.
Edo looks shifty. He fiddles with his trainers, then encourages Chopper to make another futile attempt to mount the bench. Finally he mumbles, ‘It’s on Twitter.’
I’m not much of a social media butterfly. It’s a miracle if I check my Facebook more than once a week – I use it mostly to keep in touch with a few cousins and uni friends – and I vaguely remember setting up a Twitter account a year or so ago although I never got into the habit of actually tweeting. So Gloria is faster on the uptake.
‘How bad?’ she asks Edo.
‘Trending across London.’
I can tell from Gloria’s horrified expression this isn’t a good thing.
‘Show me,’ she demands.
Edo whips out his phone and starts stabbing the screen. ‘There.’ He hands the phone to Gloria, who looks intently.
‘Kelli Shapiro RIP. Primrose Hill. Kelli Shapiro false alarm. Fake funeral.’ Gloria seems reluctant to continue but finally adds, ‘And, um, Nina Sherwood. All hashtagged. Bloody hell!’
Even though the sun’s still out, I shiver. ‘Does hashtag mean what I think?’
‘Probably,’ Edo says. ‘You tag a tweet so other people can search by topic. Then the most tweeted topics rise to the top of the popularity list.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ I brace myself.
‘No!’ Gloria and Edo speak in unison.
‘It’s that bad?’
‘Worse than you can imagine. And spreading like Ebola.’ Edo takes his phone back from Gloria. Keys in a couple of commands, then invites her to take another look.
‘Oh Lord. Nina, when did you set up a Twitter account?’ She turns to me. ‘Do you know your password?’ Then softly to Edo, ‘Have you seen this one? Should we report it to the police? And this. Vile.’
While they are engrossed in the tweets, I take out my own phone. I’m not a baby. I need to see what’s being said. I launch the Twitter app and type in my password. Easy to remember. RYAN28 – his age when we married.
I have two hundred and seventeen notifications, which means a lot of people have been sending messages directly to my account as well as gossiping with one another.
I brace myself, then pull up a fresh screen.
It’s even worse than Gloria made out.
Three people hope I die of cancer. No, four … five … seven. One of whom spells it canser.
I think I’m going to throw up.
Another message expresses the wish that I should be gang-raped by a group of baboons. Followed by another from someone in Norfolk who hopes terrorists will behead me, ‘because you’re not worth the waste of a bullet’.
I spot three more from fellow undertakers saying I have brought shame on our profession.
One from Jason Chung, asking me to call him.
I know I should stop reading …
#itsyourfuneral seems to be pretty popular.
Someone tells me I’m a worthless piece of crap. Here’s a whole bunch of people instructing me to go kill myself.
… But I can’t lift my eyes from the screen.
Four in succession saying I’m a slag.
Oh.
This one’s different.
It says: I am certain none of this is @NinaSherwood’s fault. Get your facts right. #pitifultrollsbeveryashamed. From Edo.
My eyes well up and the screen begins to blur. This is the most horrendous day I’ve ever had. Apart from when Ryan—
‘Nina! I told you not to look.’ Edo tries to grab my mobile, but clumsily I jerk my hand away and it clatters onto the path.
Chopper is quicker than any of us. Surprisingly nimble, he gets to his feet, marches up to the phone, cocks his leg and releases a strong, steady stream of urine.
‘Take that, Twitter!’ Edo says. ‘Exactly what they all deserve. Nina, the internet’s not the real world and tomorrow they’ll spew their vitriol on someone else. Tell you what, I’ve got a hacker friend who can find out who they are. Then we can tweet about their strong desire for kiddie porn. What do you say?’
Through the tears, my laugh, I realise, is the laugh of a hysterical woman.
15
That night, I sleep with Edo. More precisely, I mean simply that we share a bed. I know Gloria thinks Edo fancies me, but she’s barking up the wrong tree. It’s all completely innocent and I’m grateful for the comfort.
The three of us had supper – Chinese takeaway accompanied by medicinal amounts of alcohol – then Gloria went to the cinema with Fred (presumably, there’s less chance of him being spotted by anyone who knows him when he’s sitting in the dark) while Edo watched four episodes of Game of Thrones and I sat with him pretending to understand what was going on, grateful not to be on my own.
So when, at my bedroom door, Edo suggests in a gentlemanly way that he keeps me company, it seems a far better idea than staring at the ceiling all night alone with my thoughts. Also, we have Chopper as a chaperone and he takes up most of the bed, stretched out peacefully between the pair of us.
Edo’s telling me about his meeting with Joshua Kent. ‘This mentoring business,’ he says, ‘it’s not a foregone conclusion. I’ve got three rivals, so I hope I impressed him. He was friendly enough. Quite ordinary really, when you consider his reputation. Wearing a cardigan.’
‘Maybe it was a post-modernist statement?’
Edo takes me seriously for a moment, then gets the joke and says, ‘Joshua Kent described that installation where the guy nailed himself to a car in the middle of Leicester Square as timid. Said he should have had the courage of his convictions and hired a mate with a blow-torch.’
‘And this is the man you want to mentor you?’
‘You bet!’
‘So what did you talk about?’
‘It was pretty informal. He asked me where I was living. Who I was living with. Actually, he seemed pretty interested in you.’
‘Me? Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?’ Despite myself, I giggle. ‘What did the man in the cardigan want to know about me?’
‘Don’t panic. It was more about death and dying, really. And that’s the thing. He’s set me a test. I have to come up with some new ideas. Designs for death, I’m calling it.’
‘Okay.’
‘So I was wondering if I could pick your brains?’
‘What’s left of them!’ Actually, I’m interested in what Edo’s saying. And a bit terrified, in case it’s going to involve blow-torches. Or worse.
‘Well, you’ve said before how funeral services are starting to change.’
It’s been almost four months since I last attended a funeral. The longest gap in my career.
‘You mean with the baby boomers – that’s people over sixty to you – wanting ceremonies that are more about them and less about God? Humanist funerals where family and friends celebrate someone’s life as much as mourn their death.’ Edo nods, and I continue, ‘The industry’s starting to get a lot more family requests, such as burying someone in their favourite football strip. And making sure they take their mobile with t
hem to wherever they’re going. That sort of thing?’
‘Kind of. Joshua Kent told me about some latte lover who was buried in a Costa-Coffee-style coffin. I think it was painted maroon, like their cups. Even had their logo written on the side.’
‘Really?’ I wonder if I’ll ever arrange another funeral.
‘Hope she got them to sponsor it!’ he says.
No-one can fault Edo for his lack of enterprise. I doubt he’ll be an artist slash barman in ten years’ time. ‘So have you made a start on your project?’
‘Still at the ideas stage. Been thinking about a sculpture made up of individual urns in a public space. Or maybe mixing people’s ashes with cement to make bricks for affordable homes. That would be transformative, sustainable, and a great alternative to the woodland burial grounds I’ve been researching. What do you think?’
I think Edo is talking in the matter-of-fact way of someone young who has encountered death only ever as an abstract concept. He has yet to learn what it’s like to lose someone you love …
But it would be unkind to say so, and it’s not my place to dampen his enthusiasm.
‘Okay,’ I say. And you never know, the relatives of a deceased builder might think the brick idea is good. ‘Keep me posted.’
‘I will.’ Edo yawns. ‘Good night,’ he says. ‘Sleep well.’
I’m certain I spent the next five hours listening to the rhythmic snores of the two males in my bed. Although in the morning Edo had the temerity to tell me I snored, too.
Cheeky pup!
Over breakfast, Edo asks me, ‘So what are your plans for the day?’
The same question I’ve been asking myself.
What should I do, now that I am known locally – and quite likely nationally – as The Woman Who Pretended Kelli Shapiro Was Dead in Order to Fool People into Thinking Her Business Is Successful?
I’ve got the beginnings of a plan. ‘Edo,’ I say. ‘I need you to give me a crash course in social media.’
‘Sure.’ He looks pleased. ‘But there’s one condition. You have to go to the shop. We’ll do it there.’
Edo knows me better than I thought. I’d intended to keep my head down and keep Happy Endings closed.
But he’s right. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. So it has to be business as usual, or at least, lack of business as usual. The important thing is to show my face.
‘No problem,’ I say.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ Edo says, ‘I’ve already looked at today’s papers. Nothing. And the Twitter trolls have moved on to abuse that Arsenal player who scored an own goal last night.’ Edo’s a Chelsea fan so he doesn’t look especially dismayed. ‘You’re yesterday’s news, Sherwood. C’mon, let’s grab Chopper and go see the world.’
Our first port of call is the phone shop in Swiss Cottage, where my mobile is declared dead on arrival. I discover I have no insurance, no chance of an early upgrade, and no choice other than to buy a new phone. I do so, wincing at the price.
‘Bad dog,’ I chide Chopper. I know it was an accident, but I’m horrified at the way I’m haemorrhaging money.
We walk to the shop the pretty way, via the top of Primrose Hill. I’m getting to know a few of the dog-owning locals – inevitable when you’re in charge of an unguided canine missile – and several people greet me as usual. And down there. Isn’t that the idiot on the scooter? Barclay. Walking in the direction of the canal. Stopping to talk to a couple of girls who are probably asking him why he’s got a canoe slung casually over his shoulder. He looks good in shorts. Remarkably long legs.
Edo realises my attention has drifted elsewhere and taps me on the shoulder. ‘See, I told you everything would turn out fine,’ he says. He casually winds his arm around my shoulder as we stand there looking at London spread out beneath us.
Equally casually, I move beyond his reach and bend down to pick up a stick. I hurl it into the air, and Chopper sets off in eager pursuit, catching it in his strong jaws before it hits the ground.
If only my life were as uncomplicated as Chopper’s.
16
I start to feel tense once we reach Regent’s Park Road, but no-one takes the slightest notice of me. And by the time we’ve been sitting inside Happy Endings for an hour, I’m so wrapped up in completing the task Edo has set me that I jump at the sound of his voice.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asks.
Blocking the Twitter trolls so they can never contact me again is liberating. Today, their taunts and insults seem merely infantile. And while I’ve been tidying up my account, my brain’s been at work. Old-fashioned newspaper advertising costs an arm and a leg – as I know to my cost – but social media is free.
‘I’m going to make a fresh start with Twitter,’ I tell Edo. ‘Open a new account for Happy Endings. I’ll use Facebook and Instagram, too. And I need to build a website.’
‘Awesome! I can definitely help you with the website.’
‘Then I’ll need to start following local people, so I can get to know them and they can get to know me. I want everyone to get used to the idea that I’m just another local business and that I’m here to stay and become part of the community.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘There’s tons of Londoners on Twitter. Who knew!’ Edo looks at me in a way that suggests I’m an elderly relative who’s extremely late to the party. ‘But first,’ I add, ‘I’m going to fill in the paperwork and sign up for the Traders Association.’ Zoe Banks might not be convinced about my business but the Traders Association can damn well fund their Christmas lights some other way. I’ve always hated bullying and I’m not going to let Zoe or Julie browbeat me into slinking away.
Edo’s nodding his approval. ‘Good move,’ he says.
Before I can make a start, my landline starts to ring. Edo looks at my anxious face and picks up the phone. ‘Hello, Happy Endings,’ he says.
I watch his face while he listens to the person on the other end of the phone. ‘I’ll pass on your message. Yes, and your number,’ he says curtly. Then he slams the handset back on its base and throws his pen on the desk without writing anything down.
‘Another member of my fan club?’ I pull a face.
‘Not sure.’ Edo looks puzzled. ‘Some bloke with a stupid name. Barclay. Sounded more cocky than crazy. Says he wants to take you out to lunch. Who is he?’
The idiot on the scooter.
The good-looking idiot on the scooter.
The good-looking idiot on the scooter who is of no interest to me whatsoever.
‘Oh, just someone I met the other day in the park,’ I say. ‘He probably feels sorry for me about yesterday.’
‘Are you going to go?’
‘What?’
‘To lunch?’
‘Doubt it.’
Edo seems mollified by my answer. Sweet of him to be so protective.
I spend the next twenty minutes locating the online application form for the Traders Association and supplying the details required.
‘There!’ I press the computer keyboard to send the form on its way. This is turning into a good day, after all.
Before I can do anything else, I hear my email ping. That was quick. An almost-instant reply from the Traders Association. Probably an automated acknowledgement. I open the message.
Dear Ms Sherwood,
Thank you for your application to join the Primrose Hill Traders Association. In anticipation of your request, members of the Executive Committee met last week and have made their decision.
As local businesses, we strive to maintain the character and feel of our lovely neighbourhood and to supply our residents with appropriate services and goods. Had you properly done your research before foolishly acquiring the lease on Noggsie’s shop, you would have been aware of this requirement.
What the neighbourhood needs at present, along with an increase in casual and weekend footfall, is, at one end of the spectrum, outlets for discretionary sp
ending in the luxury goods sector, and at the other, high quality artisan outputs. For example, we would very much welcome the arrival of a vintage fashion shop, a stained glass specialist, a craft cider store, or perhaps a lovely, old-fashioned, sugar-free sweet shop.
The Traders Association is the retail guardian of the village and as such, we have entered into a pact of trust with our customers to maintain a quality standard that must not be compromised.
So far as we are aware, the undertaker of choice for any local residents who should be unfortunate enough to experience the end of life is Leverton and Sons. Not only do they date back to 1789, they were also good enough for Margaret Thatcher and the Princess of Wales. Moreover, their presence gives us a valuable opportunity to create employment by outsourcing to Camden Town any occasional requirement we might have for their services.
In conclusion, Ms Sherwood, your wish to peddle death on our charming high street is ill-judged and unwelcome. We therefore have no hesitation whatsoever in rejecting your application to join the Traders Association. Please note that this decision is final and that you have no right of appeal.
Sincerely,
Zoe Banks (Chairman)
‘Wow,’ I say. Zoe must have drafted the email after we met, so she had it ready and waiting to send.
‘Wow what?’
‘Let’s just say I won’t be joining the Primrose Hill Traders Association any time soon.’
I turn my screen so Edo can see. He scans Zoe’s response, then shakes his head. ‘So bad it’s funny. Peddle death on the high street! They’re such a snotty little clique, Zoe and her chums. Think they run the show. You’re so right, Nina,’ he adds. ‘What you were saying last night. People round here need you to help them come to terms with death being part of life.’
‘Thanatophobia. That’s what it is.’ Edo looks blank. ‘Extreme fear of death,’ I explain. ‘It’s not so uncommon, but I never dreamed anything like this would happen.’
Before I can say anything else, Edo groans. ‘Uh-oh.’ He points towards a figure in the street outside.
Julie, the florist. Obscured in part by an elegant bouquet of long-stemmed yellow roses almost as big as she is. I brace myself for the next onslaught in the battle of the misordered flowers for Kelli’s non-funeral. The first thing to hit me, though, is a heavenly scent that wafts in with the summer breeze while Julie successfully negotiates the shop door.
