by Karen Ross
Kelli’s making a lot of sense. And she’s not finished yet.
‘You have to keep going. Even when it seems hopeless. I believe in you and I’m sure there are plenty of other people in your life who’d agree. And I’ve been meaning to say, I think that window display of yours is genius.’
Before I know it, I’m telling Kelli how my dad’s invested his money in Happy Endings. How hugely supportive Edo and Gloria are. How – and why – I came to be sacked from my old job. And how damn difficult it is to keep myself going day after day, waiting for the chance to show what I can do.
‘That really does sound like my life!’ Kelli says.
‘I’ll feel so relieved once my first job actually happens. Looking forward to that moment is what’s keeping me going.’
‘What about outside of work? Is there someone special?’
Kelli’s caught me off balance.
‘My husband … I can’t get his funeral out of my mind,’ I say before pausing. I’m not going to spoil our evening by talking about Ryan.
Quickly, before Kelli can say anything sympathetic, I lob the question back across the table. ‘How about you?’
My enquiry is met with a broad smile. ‘You know what they say … variety is the spice of life. There’s a young man I see when I’m in London. Keir. An engineer. Early forties. Nothing too inappropriate. Proper action man. Hardly ever watches a film, because it means you have to sit still.’
Kelli’s words make me think of Barclay.
‘So last weekend, Keir persuaded me to get kitted out in a full climbing suit – boots, harness, the lot – so we could yomp across the roof of the O2 arena,’ Kelli grins at the memory. ‘I was terrified, but it made me feel properly alive. You get an amazing view of the London skyline if you’re brave enough to look up from your feet. Ah, Keir. I love him because he makes me laugh. Then, when I’m in America, there’s someone called Murray. He’s in the business. Producer. Married. Always has been. Always will be. He and his wife, they have an arrangement. The two of us have known each other for thirty years. And I love him because he makes me think. Makes me reconsider my own beliefs and prejudices. Every once in a while we have very perfunctory sex together. I’m not entirely sure why. Habit, I suspect. I try not to get involved when I’m working, because it’s too likely to get messy. But Keir and Murray, they’re not the only ones.’ Kelli looks directly at me, without hint of apology or embarrassment. ‘I don’t think we can get everything we need from just one person. Maybe I’m making excuses, or perhaps it’s because my work means I’ve led such a nomadic life.’
‘And have you ever been married?’ I’m relieved the focus is back on Kelli, and loving her gung-ho attitude.
‘Once. For about half-an-hour. Two actors. Fatal combination. Probably what put me off long-term relationships for good. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I do occasionally regret not having children.’
Exactly what I had been wondering.
‘I think we can all have anything we want. But not everything. The little choices we make almost without thinking can have huge consequences. That’s something I didn’t properly realise until it was too late.’ Kelli seems to be talking as much to herself as to me.
‘So here’s a piece of unasked-for advice from an older woman, Nina. Life is short. You of all people know that. I’m truly sorry for your terrible loss, my darling.’ Kelli reaches across the table and brushes my hand with her own. ‘But I want you to promise you’ll never hide from what’s most important. I don’t mean your work. That’s part of who you are. I’m talking about love. Big love. That’s what completes us all and makes life worth living. Remember I told you I’m intuitive?’
Kelli’s blue eyes stare directly into mine until she forces me to answer with the merest bob of my head.
‘Well I sense you won’t need to be alone too much longer. And I want you to know that almost always, there comes a moment when you can write yourself a complete new script. Redefine yourself and shift the course of the rest of your life. All you have to do is take the leap and let love in.’
‘Yes, but—’ I’m about to say something about protecting yourself from another dose of pain, but Kelli’s having none of it.
‘Yes, but—’ she mimics my voice, not unkindly, but with unnerving accuracy. ‘Yes, but … And then there’s “if only”. Aren’t they just the saddest words in any language? We meet someone. We feel the connection. And instead of thanking our lucky stars, we worry. We make excuses. We overanalyse. We step away. Or we run. When really, all we ever need to do is say yes. And talking of saying yes,’ Kelli concludes, ‘you said something earlier that’s been playing on my mind. Nina, I need your help. Here’s the thing … Just hear me out.’
‘Okay.’
‘That first time we met,’ Kelli begins, ‘I told you it was possible the funeral hoax thing was aimed at me. Someone warning me off trying out for the new movie. Remember?’
‘Of course.’
‘As I said,’ Kelli looks around the Blueberry to make sure no-one can overhear, ‘there’s an issue with my kidneys. Nothing immediately fatal. It’s under control with medication. The doctors say I’ve got probably two, maybe three years of wriggle room before we have to even consider a transplant. So I’m fine to work. I’ve told Roberto, of course, and we agreed to keep shtum because of the insurance hassle. Bit naughty, I know.’
I’m shocked. Kelli looks a picture of health. ‘But—’
I was about to say I’d never have guessed in a million years, but having cut me short, Kelli continues. ‘Darling, this is the first time in months I’ve drunk alcohol,’ she says. ‘And it’s mostly because I’ve been plucking up the courage to ask you something.’
‘Me?’
‘As I say, I’m hardly at death’s door. But I’ve come to think there’s a reason why we’ve met. Nina, since you came into my life I’ve given a lot of thought to my funeral. I know what I want when the time comes. And I can’t think of a better person than you to be responsible for the arrangements. Would you do that for me, please?’
I gulp. ‘It would be an honour. But you have to promise you’re going to live for years.’
This time, Kelli’s laugh is so loud a couple of people do take notice. ‘I promise,’ she says. ‘How are you fixed tomorrow? Let’s sit down and write the script for my final appearance. Three o’clock?’
Despite myself, I’m laughing too. I’ve never met anyone so enthusiastic about their own funeral.
‘You’re on!’
22
My life has taken a turn for the surreal.
Yesterday, I spent a hugely uplifting afternoon helping Kelli plan her funeral. To say she has something unusual in mind would be to do her an injustice.
Today, I was meant to be having lunch with Barclay.
And I am.
I think I am.
At any rate, he’s promised I won’t go hungry.
When he texted yesterday and said he’d organised a long lunch out of town, I was in the middle of a conversation with Edo, who was telling me about his plan to visit our local hospice and talk to a colleague of Joshua Kent – an artist friend who’s suffering from lung cancer and has more than just a passing interest in Edo’s Design for Death project. We got so engrossed I forgot to text Barclay back to explain I couldn’t be away from Happy Endings for more than a couple of hours. In case a client turned up. So I’ve told Edo a white lie about needing to go to the dentist and he’s agreed to mind the shop, which I strongly suspect he wouldn’t if he knew I was out with Barclay.
And not only out with Barclay. I’m out of the country with Barclay.
As our cab threaded its way across town, I thought he was taking me to lunch in Chelsea. But our destination turned out to be Battersea heliport. Barclay ushered me inside a helicopter, then plonked himself in the pilot’s seat.
‘No way!’ I protested. ‘Remember I’ve seen what you can do just with two wheels.’ And frankly, I’m intrigued about what
you did with that canoe. And the kite. And that woman I saw you with last Sunday, I added silently.
Fortunately, Barclay couldn’t read my mind. In response, he simply fastened my seatbelt. As he did so, his hand brushed against my thigh but he seemed not to notice.
‘Would you like to see my driving licence?’ he offered. ‘You are allowed to pilot helicopters when you’ve passed, right? Isn’t that what Prince William did? Just sit back, my princess, and enjoy the ride.’ A sidelong glance accompanied by a grimace that reassured me Barclay was sending himself up. ‘We’ll be there before you know it.’
I’d never been in a helicopter before, and I have to admit I loved it. Even when Barclay removed his sweater to reveal a T-shirt that announced, Helicopter Pilot in Training.
Or at least I was fine until I realised the land beneath us was about to change to water.
‘Turn this thing round!’ I squealed. ‘You didn’t say I needed to bring my passport.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Barclay was relaxed, so I guessed we were going either to the Isle of Wight or the Channel Islands. For the remainder of our flight, I sneaked sidelong glances at his handsome profile – I think the broken nose adds character – while admiring his easy familiarity with the helicopter’s controls.
‘So tell me about your family, Nina,’ Barclay says now. ‘Live in London, do they?’
‘Southampton. My dad works in construction and Mum’s a teacher.’
‘Long way to commute. Whereabouts do you live? Is there a Mr Nina I should know about?’
I do one of the things I always do when I’m with a man who’s showing interest in me. I tell him in a single sentence that I live in a house share with friends in Kentish Town, and then encourage him to chat about himself.
‘So how was the paintballing?’ I enquire.
‘Epic!’ Barclay spends the next ten minutes telling me about the riotous time he had in Scotland. ‘There was a split second when I thought I was either going to get hit or lose the flag, but I dived just in time.’
He puts his hand over mine, encouraging me to control the helicopter. ‘Have a go,’ he says. ‘You know you want to.’
And for the next few seconds, I’m flying!
When Barclay resumes command he starts telling me about a recent case that obliged him to visit the Cayman Islands. I’m fascinated by the lengths some clearly rich people will go to make themselves even richer, which is probably why I’m focused more on Barclay than on the earth spread out below us. But when I do take a look at the scenery I realise I’m wrong about our destination. That’s definitely not Ryde Pier I can see below us. And the scale of the city coming into view is much bigger than any of the Channel Islands … until, after about ninety minutes in the air, Barclay lands us smoothly back on the ground.
‘Et voila,’ he announces.
I get out of the helicopter and gaze up at the Eiffel Tower, tantalisingly close to where we’ve landed.
Wow! This is much more like being on holiday than going out to lunch.
Once inside the terminal, a uniformed official walks towards us. Barclay says quietly, ‘Leave everything to me.’ Then, ‘Bonjour François. Ça va?’ The two men exchange handshakes and a bit of banter and Barclay produces a red document wallet. The Frenchman gives it barely a glance before handing it back and waving us towards the exit where a taxi is waiting. No passport, no problem.
Barclay ushers me into a waiting car and to be honest I’m a bit disappointed we’re not having lunch up the Eiffel Tower, as I’d been expecting.
‘Want to guess where we’re going?’
I shake my head. It feels good not to wrestle with any decisions. I don’t mind admitting, at least to my ‘holiday self’, that Barclay’s take-charge attitude is attractive. I also like the fact he doesn’t have perfect teeth: one’s got a slight chip on the side, perhaps the result of another of his misadventures on a scooter.
The Parisian traffic is light. Only a few more days to August, and it looks as though the residents have already begun to abandon the city for their traditional month out of town. It’s not long before I see a sign that says we are on Avenue de la République, followed, a few minutes later, by another, when our car turns into Avenue Gambetta.
Bloody hell. Now I know where Barclay is taking me.
23
‘Have I done the wrong thing?’ Barclay’s face falls. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look anything other than self-assured.
‘Absolutely not. It’s just that I’m … well, it’s not exactly where I imagined us having lunch.’
The car glides to a halt at what looks like steps that lead to a park.
But I know better.
This is Cimetière du Père-Lachaise.
While Barclay murmurs something to our driver in a mixture of English, French and laughter, I take in my surroundings. Okay, so this isn’t how I imagined my day was going to turn out, but Père-Lachaise and New Orleans are meant to have the coolest, most interesting cemeteries in the world. And until now, I’ve seen neither.
This is also my first visit to Paris, and if I’d come for a weekend break, Père-Lachaise would have been high on my list of sightseeing priorities. So now’s my chance to explore – although I’m not sure, exactly, where lunch is coming from. Maybe there’s a restaurant.
‘You might want this.’ Barclay gives me a map. ‘I’ve brought us in the back way,’ he gestures. ‘It means we get to walk downhill. The other way’s pretty steep. Ready?’
Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand. Together, we walk up a short flight of concrete steps and enter the cemetery.
‘Most people make a beeline for Jim Morrison’s grave.’ I feel Barclay’s pepperminty breath on my face as he speaks. ‘But if you’ll let me, I’d prefer to take you on a tour of some of the hidden gems. Unless, of course you’ve been here before?’
I know I’m supposed to fill the silence now Barclay’s finished talking, but something’s happened to my brain. I suspect it’s been fried by the pulses of electricity that have been flooding through me ever since we started holding hands.
Surreal and surrealer. Here I am, on a gorgeous summer day, on the fringes of a famous French cemetery, with a man I know almost nothing about – not even his surname – when I ought, by rights, to be at work.
And it feels so good.
‘Look over here.’ Barclay finally releases my hand and points towards a tombstone embossed with elegant gold letters and adorned with a pair of deep red roses. Maria Callas. The opera singer.
‘Fifty-three,’ I say.
‘Pardon?’
‘Her age when she died.’ I gesture towards the two dates on the stone.
Barclay gives me a quizzical look.
‘I can’t help it. I always calculate people’s ages. Date of birth to date of death.’
‘How about 1938 to 2012?’
‘Seventy-four.’ My answer is instant.
‘1546 to 1603?’
‘Fifty-seven.’
‘1879 to 1999?’
‘One hundred and twenty! You’re teasing me.’
‘Yes,’ Barclay says solemnly, ‘I am. Did you know that someone stole Maria Callas’s ashes from the cemetery?’
‘Are you still taking the piss?’
‘No. I swear. She died of a heart attack here in France. The police eventually recovered the ashes, but rather than risk another theft, her friends had them scattered in the Aegean Sea.’
It looks like Barclay’s going to be an excellent tour guide. I follow in his wake – careful to keep a small distance between us – and we work our way deeper inside the cemetery.
‘A million people are buried at Père-Lachaise,’ Barclay says. Everywhere I look, tombstones are laid out in orderly rows. Like the streets of a silent city. Even though we’re still less than a hundred metres from Avenue Gambetta, the pathway has become as eerily quiet as it is beautiful.
Eighty-six. Fifty-three. Twenty-nine. Seven. I’m back calculating age
s as we walk among the dead. Some of the graves are ornate, protected by metal railings, although I don’t recognise any famous names; others are less distinguished but well-tended, often with fresh flowers. And every time I turn my head, I see angels. Angels clasping crosses. Angels with doves perched on their shoulders. Angels with their wings soaring into the sky.
Père-Lachaise surely contains more angels than there are in all of heaven and the older and more weathered they are, the more lifelike they seem.
‘Keep up!’ Barclay breaks into my thoughts. He’s stopped beside a name I recognise immediately.
Oscar Wilde was forty-six when he died and his tomb is as peculiar as it is impressive. It’s huge, with a flying, naked angel at one corner, and looks almost brutal, like something that would be more at home in a Russian theme park. But the vision is softened by hundreds of lipstick hearts and kisses, along with graffiti tributes from visitors. Thank you. I love you. Keep looking at the stars. Wilde child we remember you.
‘They put up the plate glass wall a few years ago,’ Barclay says, ‘when the cost of cleaning was getting out of hand. So now people decorate that, instead.’
We’re joined at the grave by a group of excited, lipstick-at-the-ready German teenagers. Barclay attracts their attention by blowing Oscar an extravagant farewell kiss, then says, ‘I’ll take you to one of my favourites now. Ever hear of a guy called Victor Noir?’
‘Nope.’
‘Follow me!’
Barclay is such easy company, it feels as if we’ve known one another for years. We walk companionably along one of the many cobblestone lanes that crisscross the numbered sections of the cemetery in an intricate maze. Barclay takes a path that leads us gently towards the centre of Père-Lachaise. A distant honking duel between two irritable motorists is the only indication that it’s business as usual for the living.
‘Here.’ Barclay has stopped at a grave unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s a life-sized sculpture of a man lying flat on his back. The bronze has a green-grey weathered patina. The prone man’s top hat is upended just below his right knee, and someone has recently used it as a makeshift vase, placing a bunch of mauve freesia inside.
