by Karen Ross
Zoe’s voice gets louder as she walks towards the salon’s main door. ‘I’ll certainly ask him. But I don’t think polo’s his thing. Other than the leg over.’ Both women giggle. ‘You’re far too good for him! I’ll be in touch.’
The woman who wants to date Zoe’s brother leaves The Beauty Spot without any money appearing to change hands. Zoe has a quick word with the Scottish receptionist, then scans the salon.
Our eyes meet.
Zoe frowns – at least as much as the Botox will permit. I swiftly and solemnly bury my head in the treatment list, but it’s no good.
Zoe marches up to my seat. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demands.
‘I popped in for a manicure.’
‘Here?’ The way Zoe says it, you’d think she was sucking one of those sugar-free sweets she’s so fond of. Her banana lips are bubblegum pink today – although they look as though they’re sucking on a rogue sherbet lemon. ‘You’re not welcome here. You know that. You’re not welcome anywhere around here.’ Zoe’s voice is rising and the woman who’s waiting to have egg on her face makes no secret of the fact she’s listening to every word.
This is ridiculous. I resist the impulse to get up and slink out. Instead, I say, ‘Zoe, I’m well aware that having an undertaker in Primrose Hill makes you uncomfortable and I’m sorry about that. But be reasonable.’
Heads are turning. Everyone is eavesdropping. Undaunted, I carry on.
‘There’s no reason for us to be enemies. In fact, I was wondering if we might go out for a drink some time.’ Where did that come from? But no worries, Zoe looks as if she’d rather sup her own blood – with or without platelets – than socialise with me. ‘For now though, would you recommend the Haute Couture Manicure,’ according to the treatment list it includes a mineral bath, ‘or am I better off having the one with a salt and lavender scrub?’ I stretch out my hand towards Zoe and I’m quietly proud – and relieved – to see it’s not shaking.
Zoe takes three swift steps sideways, and for a hideous moment I think she’s about to tumble into the Coffee-Table-on-Fire-Thing.
Without looking at my nails, she spits, ‘You’d need the antioxidant serum. Gets rid of age spots. But it’s not going to happen.’
‘Why not?’
A long pause. Then Zoe finally tells me – and everyone else in her shop – ‘Those hands have touched death.’
‘Not lately, they haven’t.’
Someone at the nail bar laughs at my heartfelt retort, but our conversation isn’t going anywhere good.
‘You know what, Zoe?’ This time, I do stand up. ‘I came here with the best of intentions. I admire you as a businesswoman, and I’m disappointed you’d prefer not to have my custom. But I wish you all the best, I really do.’
The Scottish receptionist intervenes. Gently, she touches my arm, and says, ‘I’ll see you out.’ I walk with her to the door. She checks we’re out of earshot. ‘I’m so sorry about this, Zoe can be very … how can I put it … she can be very … stubborn, at times.’
‘Never mind. She’s entitled to decide who she wants to do business with.’
‘Talking of which,’ the receptionist says, ‘the hairdresser at the other end of Primrose Hill does manicures. Good ones. We recommend them whenever we’re too busy. No welcome drink I’m afraid, but they’re about a quarter of our price. Tell them I sent you.’
20
‘By the way,’ Kelli Shapiro says, ‘I adore your dress. Where’d you get it?’
Before I know it, I’m telling my new friend how I treated myself to the red silk skater dress as a reward for inspiring my new window display.
Friend? That’s more wishful thinking than reality, but Kelli’s got a gift for putting people at their ease. To think an hour ago I was nervous about having supper with someone who’s delivered acceptance speeches at two Oscar ceremonies, but look at us now, chatting away like really close friends. Kelli’s been keeping me entertained with a string of Hollywood indiscretions. My favourite is the story of the Ultra A-List couple – no names mentioned but I’m certain I know who she means – who spend their spare time swapping genders with one another. As Kelli put it, ‘She gets to wear the leather trousers with the cowboy hat and shoots pool in the games room while he does a Nigella in the kitchen, dressed in ten thousand pounds’ worth of Alexander McQueen and a set of sapphire earrings that belonged to Princess Diana. Only in the music business!’
The best I can manage by way of shoptalk, over the Blueberry Café’s signature dish of wild garlic soup, is an anecdote from China, where apparently three hundred undertakers recently entered a national cremation competition.
Kelli’s intrigued. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ she asks.
I explain how China is running out of space for cemeteries just like we are in Britain. ‘The big problem is that cremation goes against the whole tradition of ancestor worship,’ I explain. ‘People are horrified by the idea of burning a body, they think it’s the ultimate in disrespect. So the Chinese government is pulling out all the stops to make cremation less unpopular.’
‘Competitive cremating.’ Kelli rolls the words around in her mouth along with a tiny sip of Prosecco. ‘But how do you win?’
‘According to what I read, the bones needed to be burnt completely. So the ashes turn out white as ivory, without any impurities.’ I realise what I just said and continue hastily, ‘I’m so sorry! I don’t mean to put you off your dinner.’
‘Not at all.’ Kelli daintily spears a final pillow of spinach pasta as if to prove her appetite is unaffected. ‘Delicious,’ she declares. Then continues, ‘I’m fascinated. But what I really want to know, Nina, is why you became an undertaker.’
Ah. The million-dollar question. Sooner or later, it always crops up. I leave it hanging in the air for a few moments, giving Kelli the opportunity to ask if I spent my childhood dismembering insects or burying my Barbies at the bottom of the garden.
When she does speak, the words are a surprise. ‘I do apologise. None of my business. Let me tell you about—’
‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘It’s a perfectly reasonable question. It’s just … well, it’s a bit of a long story.’
‘The sort of story that requires more alcohol?’
I nod.
Once our glasses have been refilled, I begin. ‘When I went to uni, I thought I was going to be a social worker. On my very first day at Sussex, I met this girl called Lin.’
A wave of nostalgia ripples right through me as I remember how I’d been queuing to join the photography society and Lin was standing behind me. We started talking. I’m a South Coast girl and she’d grown up in Glasgow, so the first joke we ever shared was about the need for either an interpreter or subtitles. After ten minutes of standing in a line that was going nowhere, we got fed up and joined the film club instead.
‘We soon realised we didn’t have much in common but it didn’t matter because we were on the same wavelength. We had such fun, every single day. By the end of the first term, Lin had become the sister I never had.’
‘I’m an only child, too.’ Kelli senses I need to take a moment. ‘I always think that’s why I ended up in acting, I had so many imaginary friends, and I became whoever they wanted me to be. So, Lin?’
‘It happened …’ I gulp, then concentrate on controlling my breathing. ‘It happened three weeks into the start of our second year. A Friday. We were supposed to go on a double date with a couple of boys from my course. I really fancied the one we used to call Handsome Richard, and Lin was so fed up with me mentioning his name she got together with his mate and organised a curry night. Except at the last moment Lin thought she was getting a migraine. She insisted I went anyway …’
My voice trails away, as I remember the last words my friend ever spoke to me.
‘An early night won’t do me any harm. Have a great time, and I’ll expect a full report the moment you get back.’
‘I stayed with Handsome Richard that night.’ Ev
en after all these years, I am still ashamed. ‘Came back to our little flat on the Saturday lunchtime. Greeted by three police officers. Lin’s body … it had already been removed.’ I shake my head in response to Kelli’s unasked question. ‘No, there was nothing suspicious. At the inquest, the coroner made a big thing about how the under-twenty-fives are particularly vulnerable to bacterial meningitis. And often, no matter how quickly treatment is given, it’s impossible to save a life. I’ve always thought he said that for my benefit.’
‘Well it certainly wasn’t your fault.’
I acknowledge Kelli’s emphatic tone with a wan smile. Lin’s parents had said the same. Over and over. The more they repeated it the more it was clear that not one of us believed it.
‘Her mother tried to make me feel better by taking full responsibility. After I went out Lin called her to say she’d been sick and her mother told her to keep warm and drink lots of water. Said she’d call her in the morning. She rang a dozen times or more. Then called the police. But yes, I did still blame myself. I always will. If only I’d gone home then at least she might have had a chance.’
Both of us have stopped eating and our waiter interprets the lack of activity as a signal we have finished our appetisers. Quickly and professionally he clears away the crockery and once he’s backtracked towards the serving hatch I continue.
‘I went to Glasgow for the funeral and even though I’d never seen a dead body before – unless you count a budgie and a couple of guinea pigs – I needed to see Lin beforehand. To say sorry … and to say goodbye.’
‘You poor girl,’ Kelli says softly. ‘And that’s why you became an undertaker?’
‘No. Sorry. Haven’t got to the point, yet.’ Despite myself, I smile. ‘I was so terrified at the thought of having to go into that room and look at Lin. Didn’t know if I was going to faint. Or throw up. My heart was thumping so hard they must have heard it in the Highlands. The coffin was set up beneath a window in the corner of the room. Eventually I managed to look. And there she was. Except she wasn’t.’
I see it again, now. Yes, Lin did look as if she was asleep. People had been right about that.
But …
‘For a start, Lin hated pink lipstick,’ I say. ‘Cherry Lush was her colour. That was the first thing I noticed. Then the nails. She always wore navy blue nail varnish, but that was gone, too. And the silver earrings she wore every single day. As for her hair, someone had inserted a parting into her curls and flicked the ends. It looked so weird. And her clothes. All brand new. Lin looked as if she was off to a job interview.’
‘Git that skirt! I’d never be seen dead wearing anything like that!’ Through the years, I hear my friend’s voice again. Clearly, as though she were sitting with us now around the table. Still indignant that someone had got it so wrong.
‘I stood there desperate for her to wake up and tell me she was having a laugh. Lin was cheeky. Witty. Wild-haired. But there she was, dressed like a junior business executive. I felt I’d let her down all over again. How can I put it … In death, she was everything she had not been in life.’
Kelli nods her understanding.
‘As for the funeral itself, it was dreadful. Just plain wrong. They chose “All Things Bright and Beautiful”, “I Vow to Thee My Country”, and “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling”. I stood there mouthing the words along with everyone else but all I could think was how Lin would have hated her parents’ playlist. She was so much more of a “Dancing Queen” kind of a girl.’
Kelli touches my hand, shakes me back to the present. ‘When it’s my turn,’ she says, ‘I fancy “Ring of Fire”. Make sure everyone leaves with a smile on their face.’
‘Yeah, well. Lin would never have wanted a church service. And her favourite flowers were pink peonies. Not white fucking lilies. So you might want to write down what you want and put it somewhere safe.’
Kelli ignores my angry words. ‘So you became an undertaker after you graduated?’
‘I dropped out. Couldn’t handle seeing Handsome Richard every day. Did a backpacking thing to India. It felt good to be in a place where nobody knew me.’
And even better to be far away from well-meaning people who had tried to comfort me with crap like, ‘You’re strong enough to handle this.’ (I wasn’t.) ‘I know what you’re going through.’ (They had no idea.) And worst of all, ‘Can I do anything to help?’ (Can you bring back Lin?)
‘But eventually, I knew it was time to go home and work out what I was going to do next. I saw an advert that asked if I had ever considered a career as an undertaker. Which, until then, I hadn’t. But it was my chance to apologise properly to Lin. I wanted to do whatever I could to make sure a funeral reflected at least something about the person whose life had ended.’
We sit in reflective silence, until Kelli says, ‘Sometimes, you don’t choose a job. It chooses you. And in a manner of speaking,’ she continues, ‘you became a social worker, with or without a degree. You do everything you can to protect the integrity of someone who’s died. You work with people who are going through a crisis. Help them come to terms with grief and loss. And I bet you’re always there if they want to talk to you any time after the funeral.’
Social work for dead people. I’ve never thought of it quite like that. But Kelli’s made a good point. Although I inherited Lin’s collection of CDs and treasured silver earrings, her true legacy is that she changed my life forever.
21
I’ve just finished telling Kelli the story of how Lin and I won a whole month’s rent betting on a white horse called Hawaii-Five-Oh one afternoon at Brighton races when our main course arrives. Two large plates of veal shin slow-cooked in Chianti, sage and lemon peel with cavolo nero bruschetta on the side are brought to our table by Marcantonio, proprietor of the Blueberry Café.
‘Come stai stasera?’ Kelli greets him.
‘I’m very well indeed. You?’
The two of them begin a conversation in fluent, quick-fire Italian, punctuated by vigorous hand gestures and magnificent shoulder shrugs. It ends with Kelli saying, ‘Sembra buonissimo! Ah, ci porta un’altra bottiglia di vino.’
I understand the final few words well enough and once Marcantonio has left in search of more wine I say, ‘So those Italian lessons you were starting. The day we first, er, met. They seem to be going well.’
‘Darling, you have no idea!’ Kelli does that lovely throaty chuckle she does – it reminds me of Dad, I really must phone him – ‘I never did get round to telling you why I need to speak Italian. You remember that film part I was up for?’
I nod.
‘Well, the director. It’s Roberto Ferrari.’ He’s serious box office. ‘Even my agent didn’t think I stood a chance. They’d already screen-tested half of Hollywood and London, but the word was it was all just a formality before they gave the role to Meryl. So I was tipped off that Roberto was going to be in Sicily with his family. Rediscovering his roots or something. I spent three weeks learning dozens of Italian sentences and phrases by rote, as I would for a film script. Then I pitch up in this tiny mountain village near Erice and, accidentally-on-purpose, bump into him. I launch myself at him in my best, fluent Italian. About how much I admire his work, my Neapolitan grandmother – may God forgive me, along with my two lovely, lovely grannies, both of whom came from Kent – my lust for pasta, and my devout wish to crown my career by inhabiting the role of a glamorous yet serious woman who, in late middle-age, abandons her comfortable life in Seattle because her Filipino housekeeper’s father and his army general boss have been murdered.’
‘You said all that in Italian?’ I’m enthralled by Kelli’s story. She certainly knows how to keep an audience – even an audience of one – on the edge of its seat.
Kelli nods gleefully. ‘With the odd Filipino phrase chucked in. I wanted Roberto to know how much I loved the script. And you know what?’
I shake my head.
‘Roberto didn’t understand a word I’d said. Not a single
bloody word! Once he’d stopped laughing, he told me I had the passion, determination, and enterprise the role demanded. Meryl hasn’t spoken to either of us since, which isn’t so surprising. It really is the role of a lifetime.’
‘So tell me about the story. You go to the Philippines, right?’
‘Yep. The two women travel to Manila, where they uncover a web of corruption that reaches to the heart of government. Our heroine – yours truly – is framed on drug charges and sentenced to life imprisonment. She spends the next two years teaching her fellow prisoners to speak English and transforms the prison work programme into a goldmine, to make sure those who are released leave with a decent amount of cash. Eventually, one of the ex-prisoners exposes the wicked government people, there’s four days of fighting in the streets before the army seizes power, and then my character is given a royal pardon. Plus several medals.’
We are halfway through the bottle of wine – I realise I’ve been drinking a lot faster than Kelli – and even though I’m pretty full, I allow myself to be talked into a pear and grappa sorbet for dessert. I could easily get used to the Italian Diet.
‘I know the film’s going to be a huge success. Can’t wait to see it!’
‘And I can’t wait for the first day of filming! But I didn’t ask you here so I could boast, Nina.’ Kelli sounds suddenly serious. ‘I want you to know I'm rooting for your business to succeed. It won’t happen overnight. Success doesn’t work that way. But I see something of myself in you when it comes to the jobs we do.’
‘Really? Actress and undertaker?’
‘Think about it. So much of my career has been spent waiting for other people to make decisions. That’s where you are right now, waiting for someone to choose your business. You’ll do a great job, and the word will be out. But when you run a small business, which is what we both do, there are always going to be these lulls when you convince yourself you’ll never work again. You need to get used to it. Accept it. Learn to value the downtime. It’s always a fine balance between making sure you’re ready to do your job at short notice and lapsing into can’t-get-out-of-bed lethargy.’
