Five Wakes and a Wedding

by Karen Ross

  ‘Is this what we’re celebrating?’

  Gloria’s looking exceptionally pleased with herself. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ll come to that.’

  My friend’s fork is poised over a mountain of banana pancakes laced with maple syrup. I’ve gone for a plate of smoked salmon and scrambled egg, sacrificing the toast in an almost certainly vain hope that high protein will succeed where general willpower – let alone a diet of butternut squash and eggs – consistently fails to help keep me trim.

  ‘So,’ Gloria asks. ‘What are you up to this week?’

  Before I can answer her question, my phone rings. Every time I get a call I’m ready to spring into business mode. But as always, it’s a name already on my contacts list that pops up on the screen – Dad. I’m not about to launch into a fresh series of reassuring lies about the success of my business while Gloria’s listening so I switch the phone to vibrate and slip it into my pocket.

  ‘Supper with Kelli Shapiro,’ I tell Gloria. And lunch with Barclay on Friday, although I keep this to myself.

  ‘Sounds like fun. Make sure you come home with tons of celebrity gossip. Now then.’ Gloria pauses. ‘Let me get the bad news out of the way first. About the roof.’

  When I got home last night, I showed Gloria the nasty letter from Mrs Happy and her husband, Ned. Basically, they took seven single-spaced pages to tell me that under the terms of my lease, I am responsible for fifty per cent of the cost of maintenance and repairs to the ‘common parts’ of our two adjacent buildings – in other words, the roof – that complete replacement is urgently required, and could I kindly let them have a cheque for twenty-two thousand pounds at my earliest convenience. Surely, my neighbours are just plain crazy. In which case, why is Gloria looking so suddenly serious?

  ‘I read the lease,’ she tells me. ‘I’m afraid they’ve got a point.’

  ‘What? The guy who works for Eddie Banks told me it was a standard document. And don’t you remember, I only had twenty-four hours to sign it because someone else was after the shop? You were in Milan for the weekend, where Fred was speaking at that conference, so I didn’t think there was any need to bother you. I’m sure I told you that.’

  Gloria puts my lease down on the table and leafs through the pages until she gets to a paragraph she’s highlighted in yellow.

  ‘Here,’ she points. ‘It says you’ve got a repairing lease, which means it’s your job rather than the landlord’s to keep the whole building in good order. It’s a bit complicated because it involves the freehold, as well. Nothing unusual, although I really don’t understand why your solicitor didn’t take a pen to the clause and tell them where to stick it.’ A pause. ‘But it’s worse than that.’ Gloria seems reluctant to go on, and when I glance down at my plate, I realise I’ve completely lost my appetite.

  ‘Tell me the worst.’

  ‘It’s pretty bloody bad, sweets. The flat above the shop is unoccupied, right?’

  ‘Yes. It’s kept empty in case Noggsie’s son ever wants to come back to visit.’

  ‘Hmm. In that case we might be able to argue the son still has some responsibility and get your liability reduced to twenty-five per cent. But as things stand according to this,’ Gloria scowls at the lease, ‘you’re going to have to pay up.’

  ‘But … Twenty-two thousand pounds …’ The words coming from my mouth are somewhere between a whisper and a groan. ‘That’s just not fair. If the roof needs replacing, it must have been falling to bits for years.’

  ‘Your solicitor didn’t point this out to you?’ Gloria asks. ‘We could always go after him.’

  ‘He’s a friend of Dad’s. Retired. Did us a favour. Basically, we trusted Eddie Banks’s team to sort out a legal agreement that was in everyone’s interests.’

  Gloria tries unsuccessfully to hide her disapproval. ‘Well look, you’ve only got their word that a new roof’s required. And that estimate from Sheet Hot Roofing,’ Gloria manages a wry smile, which I am unable to reciprocate, ‘seems pretty steep. But the fact that The Primrose Poppadum people have agreed to pay their share suggests Mr and Mrs Happy aren’t making a fuss about nothing. I think your best bet is to tell her for now that you’re going to get a second opinion. String things out a bit. See what happens.’

  Am I imagining it, or is Gloria implying that she thinks my business is going to fail? I’ve been so full of hope these past few days. The window display is a huge success. Half a dozen people have taken the trouble to come inside the shop to tell me how much they like it – ‘irreverent yet relevant,’ as one of the locals put it – and I’ve been convinced my first funeral will happen soon.

  Now this.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else.’ I say. ‘What’s your good news?’

  Gloria tactfully removes my lease from the table and tucks it into her bag. ‘Double good news, actually. Remember the Regent’s Park Garden Festival?’

  ‘Isn’t that soon?’

  ‘Three weeks’ time. They’ve priced the tickets at thirty quid each, which is a bloody disgrace. Not to mention the thousands of pounds they’re charging exhibitors. All in a public park, too! So we’ve decided to do more than just plant an illicit hedge made of edible fruits.’

  Oh Lord. Is Gloria planning to lead a bunch of demonstrators and picket the festival-goers? I wouldn’t put it past her. ‘So tell me. Is that where the seed bombs come in handy?’

  ‘We’re going to do something far more high profile. Our very own display. One of the park workers is going to sneak a few of us in the night before, to build a full-scale pop-up. Something that really stands out and makes people think about the migrant crisis. We’re going to ring a plot with razor wire and dying plants that have been deliberately starved of water. On the inside, there’s a flourishing wildflower garden with lots of non-native plants, representing hope and dignity. On the other side of the wire – beyond the checkpoint – we’ll dig a moat, strewn with little wooden rafts. England’s Green and Pleasant Land, we’re calling it.’

  Gloria’s exuberance is impossible to fault, but I’m worried she’ll make more enemies than friends with this new venture. The Regent’s Park Garden Festival is a big deal, and I can’t see the organisers taking kindly to an unauthorised contribution, no matter how well intentioned. Equally, I know from experience that Gloria will take no notice if I query the wisdom of her idea, so I nod and smile, then promptly change the subject.

  ‘Is it true what I heard about Chalcot Square? That security guards armed with Tasers delivered forty square metres of gold sheeting to Eddie Banks’s basement last week?’

  ‘That’s the least of it.’ Gloria’s happy to switch topics, too. ‘My parents say people are staking out his house day and night, hoping for builders’ offcuts. And Banks has gone back to the council to extend his planning permission. Everyone’s furious. I mean, you can understand the need for a music room. An underground bike store, even. But a meditation room …’

  ‘Eddie Banks doesn’t sound like the type to sit in quiet contemplation.’

  ‘And that’s before you get to the cigar room. But what really takes the biscuit is the salt grotto.’

  We stare at one another in a moment’s silent contemplation, then descend into howls of laughter.

  ‘So the real good news,’ Gloria manages to get a grip, ‘is that I think there’s going to be an addition to our house, as well.’

  ‘Are you … You’re not—?’

  Gloria looks affronted. ‘Call me old fashioned, but when and if that happens, I’d prefer to be married. To which end, Fred’s going to leave his wife.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘I think you mean, “That’s wonderful news, Gloria.” Well, maybe not so much for his wife, although Fred’s sure she’ll be delighted to be shot of him. But the two of us couldn’t be happier.’

  Gloria’s sentence ends on a note of challenge. I sense the hurt in her fighting talk and realise, not for the first time, my friend is an interesting mixture of conven
tion and rebellion.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘You took me by surprise. Tell me everything.’

  Gloria relaxes and begins to tell me about the misery of Fred’s marriage, while I do my best to swallow the remainder of the bouncy scrambled egg on my plate.

  ‘… Everyone’s going to tell me I’m crazy even to contemplate setting up home with someone who’s been married three times already. But I really do love him, sweets. I knew from the very beginning there was something special about him, that he was the person I’d been waiting for. And relationships are never straightforward, are they?’

  Setting up home. What does that mean for me? Will I end up in a squat with Edo? Because there’s no way I can afford to pay anyone a proper rent. But Gloria mistakes the stricken look on my face for something else.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Nina,’ she says. ‘I understand how hard it is for you to talk about marriage. After what happened and that …’

  Ryan, she means. The man I knew from the very beginning was so so special. The man I knew I’d marry. Even before our first proper kiss. Even before our fourth date, when he went down on one knee slap bang in the middle of Trafalgar Square and proposed. But for the first time in a long time, thinking about my husband fails to produce the usual engrained image of his funeral pushing through the surface of my imagination. It must be because my brain is still in shock while I selfishly continue to calculate the implications of Gloria’s happy news. How soon will I have to move out? Could I sleep in the shop? Or is this the final nail in the coffin, so to speak? Time to give up and let Dad have back what’s left of his failed investment.

  ‘Gloria, I’m truly thrilled for you and Fred. Of course I am.’ A lie. Fred’s handsome enough, but his moral compass is – at best – dyslexic. I don’t trust him to leave his wife. And if he does … well, Gloria deserves so much better. As does Fred’s wife.

  ‘That means a lot to me, sweets. You’re the first person I’ve told.’

  ‘So what’s, er, the timescale for Fred moving in?’

  ‘First things first,’ Gloria says. ‘He has to leave his wife. Before the end of the year, we think. That’ll give me time to introduce him to Mum and Dad. Soften them up before they discover he’s got a bit of a past.’

  I suppose that’s one way to describe Thrice-Wed Fred’s emotional CV. It also means I’m unlikely to be homeless in the immediate future.

  ‘Time for work,’ Gloria announces. She settles the bill and we make our way out into the street, my friend with a bomb in her bag, and me with a legal booby trap still ricocheting around my brain.

  19

  Gloria heads towards Chalk Farm, leaving me at the door of Happy Endings.

  Once I’ve opened up, I’ll check the trade press and see if there’s any funeral-related news worth tweeting. I’m trying to do at least one tweet every day. Yesterday’s was about a recent service in Yorkshire where the service was taken by an Elvis impersonator. Five of my growing band of followers favourited my link, so I don’t think I’m wasting my time, while I wait for ‘The Call’ that will mean my business is actually in business.

  I know. Only a few minutes ago I was thinking of conceding defeat, but the reality is that I’m still only six or seven funerals behind the schedule I set in my business plan and I just have to keep the faith.

  Bugger. I’ve broken a nail taking my key out of the door lock. I wince at the pain and suck on my finger.

  When the stinging has subsided, I examine my hands. They could definitely do with a spot of TLC. It’s been far too long since I had a professional manicure and talking about Eddie Banks and his basement has made me wonder what’s happened to his daughter, Zoe, and her posh hen house. You know, why not? There’s no point sulking about being banned from the Traders Association. Perhaps if I go to The Beauty Spot as a customer – I suppress the scary thought of how much it’s going to cost – Zoe will realise she’s misjudged me. And it won’t hurt to have well-groomed hands when I’m sitting across the table from a customer. Or Kelli. Or Barclay …

  No time like the present. But I start to feel nervous five minutes later, when I approach Zoe Banks’s shop.

  From the outside it looks like just another Primrose Hill townhouse, freshly painted and impeccably maintained. A blue plaque above the door announces this was once the home of Karl Marx. And to the side, in lettering so discreet as to be almost invisible, a logo to reassure me I’m in the right place.

  It takes me a few seconds to locate the door buzzer. I also spot a security camera tucked into the corner of a windowsill. What if Zoe takes a look and refuses to let me in? But no. A friendly voice with a Scottish accent comes out of the entry system’s loudspeaker and beckons me inside.

  Having seen Zoe’s home, perhaps I should have been prepared for the opulence of her shop. The space is much larger than I’d anticipated. Lavishly modern, all marble flooring, artful lighting, rich colours, and a couple of sculptures that wouldn’t look out of place in the Tate Modern. In the centre of the room sits a state-of-the-art nail bar. At first glance, you’d think it was made of ice, but I think it’s solid glass. A couple of white-uniformed beauty therapists are giving treatments and I watch a woman of about my own age slide her hand inside a square machine that radiates a deep violet glow. I feel as if I’ve entered a foreign country, one with a heavenly scent of pine in the air, and I’m intrigued.

  To my right there’s a set of steps. A sign tells me there’s a steam cabin and an infinity duo pool tucked away downstairs. I’m eyeing up something that could be mistaken for an octagonal coffee table were it not for the line of flickering flames running through the centre when I realise there’s a woman standing next to me.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Do we have you booked in?’

  ‘No.’ Oh well, it was a nice idea, and at least I’ve seen inside The Beauty Spot. ‘I only wanted a manicure.’

  ‘You’re in luck!’ The woman’s Scottish accent has a pleasant lilt to it. ‘We’ve had a cancellation. If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes?’

  Before I can say, ‘No thank you, I’d better be getting back to my empty shop,’ I’m installed in an armchair next to the Coffee-Table-on-Fire-Thing. The woman – she must be the receptionist – hands me what looks like a restaurant menu. ‘Have a look,’ she says. ‘We’ve got some excellent special offers at the moment. And several new treatments. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  It feels good to let someone else take charge, and I can see how professional the woman is. Friendly yet authoritative. I feel myself start to relax. This is going to be hugely expensive, so I might as well enjoy every moment.

  My fears about cost are reinforced the moment I begin to read the list of treatments. The price of a crystal-clear microdermabrasion massage and manicure is roughly the same as I spend on groceries in a month. As for the eco-friendly heated massage using recycled shells from tiger clams ‘hand-picked from a minor Indonesian island’… let’s just say I’ve sold coffins that were less expensive.

  ‘For you.’ The Scottish receptionist is back by my side, bearing a tumbler of green liquid balanced on a slab of slate. ‘Your complimentary welcome juice shot,’ she says. ‘Freshly blended fruits, spices, and seven organic herbs known for their power to strengthen nails.’ She sees me hesitate and adds, ‘You’ll love it.’ I take the glass from her and she walks to a staircase at the back of the salon. I wonder what’s upstairs.

  The juice is a strange combination of sweet and sour. I think I’ve identified nutmeg, fennel and possibly sorrel, when my attention is diverted by a voice that declares, ‘Darling, you absolutely should treat yourself to the vampire facial!’ I do my best to look-without-looking at the two women sitting on the other side of the fiery coffee table. The woman who just spoke is American and I’d guess she’s in her early sixties. ‘I have a friend in Texas who swears by them,’ she confides. ‘And these days, having your own blood extracted is so routine. They separate the platelets and inject them back into your skin. Simple!�
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  ‘Maybe.’ The potential vampire victim, a few years younger, and someone I think I’ve spotted in the street, says it in a tone that really means, ‘Not on your life!’ This is confirmed when she scans the treatment list and decides, ‘For now, I’m going to stick with this one. The Cluckingham Palace Regal Facial. So important to support our local businesses, isn’t it?’

  The American looks bewildered, but I think I understand. My suspicions are confirmed when the other woman continues, ‘If it’s good enough for the Duchess of Cornwall, it’s good enough for me. Zoe’s built this amazing hen house in her own back yard. Can’t get more sustainable than that … although I have to admit the blood thing is pretty sustainable, too. Anyway, every morning at dawn, Zoe selects seven eggs, separates the yolks and blends them into a special moisturiser that’s “overflowing with Vitamin A”. That’s what it says here,’ the woman taps the treatment list with her already-immaculate fingernail. ‘She makes enough for two facials every day and there’s a waiting list. It’s taken me three weeks to get to the top, and I don’t want to waste the opportunity.’

  So Zoe’s had her way with the hen house. She must have found a way round the planning regulations to be up and running so fast. Despite myself, I wish I could see how the architect’s plans turned out. Cluckingham Palace is a fun name, I have to admit, and as for Zoe’s sheer cheek at monetising her hens’ output, I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.

  Another voice breaks into my thoughts. One I recognise immediately.

  ‘… Well you know what my big brother’s like.’ Zoe Banks is walking down the staircase, arm in arm with someone who looks awfully similar to Kate Moss’s sister. I strain to hear her continue. ‘Different girl every week. I don’t think he’ll ever settle down, he’s having too much fun. He’s been on the Tatler list of most eligible bachelors for the past four years, and doesn’t he know it!’