Five Wakes and a Wedding

by Karen Ross

  Twenty-one. Younger even than Edo.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Monsieur Noir.’ Barclay has the innate charisma of a showman. And expressive, groomed eyebrows that remind me a little of Brad Pitt. His clothes are casual – white shirt and chinos – but clearly expensive. Brown, well-shined brogues. Dad says you can judge a man by his shoes, but should I be judging?

  Is this a date?

  Or lunch?

  Or what?

  ‘Victor Noir was an unfortunate young man, shot dead by Napoleon’s great-nephew.’ Barclay seems unaware of my scrutiny. ‘But extremely popular with the ladies, to this very day. Can you see why?’

  I take a closer look at the sculpture.

  How did I miss that? Not only are Victor Noir’s nose and lips unaccountably shiny – no wonder he seems to be smiling beneath his green toothbrush moustache – his, how can I put this … Victor Noir is still pleased to welcome visitors. To be blunt, there’s something that’s only too plain to see in the trouser department. Something that has obviously been very well-rubbed.

  I drag my eyes back to meet Barclay’s.

  ‘Women come from all over France to visit Victor Noir. All over the world, in fact.’ Barclay is amused. ‘He’s quite the fertility symbol. They say that if you kiss him on the lips, you’ll be pregnant before you know it. Or if you give him a bit of a French polish, you’ll be married within the year. Shall we give it a try?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I say firmly.

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t offer.’

  Barclay is hard to read. Half the time he seems either to be teasing me, or taking the mickey out of himself.

  Is he interested in me?

  I’m so out of practice, it’s hard to tell.

  Do I want him to be interested in me?

  Is this the sort of connection Kelli was talking about? Or exactly the opposite, and a case of crossed wires …

  ‘You hungry yet?’

  I surreptitiously consulted the map while we were en route to Victor Noir and found no symbol for a restaurant or café, but I’m learning to expect the unexpected.

  ‘I did skip breakfast this morning.’ A decision made in expectation of a lavish lunch.

  ‘No worries. This way.’

  We stroll for five minutes, chatting inconsequentially about Chopper’s insatiable lust for sticks, a new hip-hop musical that opened last week in the West End – Barclay’s seen it already, and I can’t help but wonder who was sitting next to him – and Camden Council’s latest recycling initiative, which is so complicated, neither of us have a clue what’s supposed to go where.

  We arrive at a series of steps that lead into a small park, complete with brightly coloured flowerbeds, a well-kept lawn, and a perimeter lined with wooden benches.

  Barclay zones in on one of the benches. ‘Look,’ he points. ‘Over there.’

  I swivel and take in the perfect view stretching across Paris all the way back to the Eiffel Tower. Barclay, meanwhile, continues until he reaches a thick, waist-high hedge. He bends down and fishes around inside the greenery until he finds what he’s looking for, then returns to the bench – triumphantly – carrying a wicker hamper. How on earth did he manage that?

  Before I can enquire, Barclay’s saying, ‘I thought it would be fun to have a picnic. Nothing fancy, just a few bits and pieces. Ready to dig in?’

  Barclay opens the hamper, reaches for a linen tablecloth packed inside, shakes it out, and lays it on the grass beside the bench. He begins to arrange a magnificent selection of French delicacies. I’m particularly impressed when a white polystyrene box opens to reveal a platter of seafood, king prawns, oysters and smoked salmon, so fresh I can almost smell the Mediterranean, accompanied by juicy wedges of lemon, thick mayonnaise and crusty brown bread. I arm myself with a napkin, sit down on the grass, and get stuck in. Everyone knows French women don’t get fat – people have written books about their lack of obesity – and I’m working on the basis that calories consumed in France don’t count.

  Barclay builds a stacked plate of ham, cheese, salami, salad and baguette, puts it down beside me, then reaches back inside the hamper to fetch liquid refreshments and glasses. He does the honours – chilled rosé for me, iced mineral water for him – and says, ‘Cheers!’

  We lock eyes and raise our glasses.

  I’m starting to feel overwhelmed. No-one has ever been to so much trouble on my behalf. ‘Thank you for organising this.’

  ‘My pleasure. So good to be away from home, even for a few hours. Especially on a day like this. Helps get everything into perspective, wouldn’t you say?’

  I realise I haven’t given Happy Endings a single thought for several hours and feel immediately guilty.

  ‘So what would you usually be doing on a Friday afternoon?’

  Barclay flicks away baguette crumbs while considering his answer. ‘Thinking about my plans for the weekend. Either that or dealing with last-minute work emergencies. Although, sadly, corporate insolvencies seem to be going through a dip.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  ‘Not for me!’

  I don’t like what Barclay’s saying, but there’s something very engaging about the way he doesn’t take himself seriously.

  ‘Talking of which, Nina, how’s your business going?’

  ‘Much better, thank you.’ I’m not going to sit here and whinge.

  ‘Lots of people dying, are they?’ Barclay sounds genuinely interested.

  ‘Well no. Not exactly. But I’ve been busy getting everything into place. Website. Branding. Social media. Getting my name out there. That sort of stuff.’

  ‘I heard there was a spot of bother with one of your neighbours. Something about the roof?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Happy!’

  Barclay chokes on his water. ‘Yes, that’s her! Brilliant name. She’s the most miserable woman in Primrose Hill. Always yelling at me when I was a kid.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Breathing, mostly. What’s her problem this time?’

  ‘She seems to think I should pay thousands of pounds to get her roof fixed.’ I explain about the shared roof and the lease, and Barclay listens intently.

  ‘There’s nothing so unusual about a repairing lease. But it does sound like bad news for you,’ he says when I’ve finished. ‘Expensive bad news. And it’s an old building, so there could be other stuff happening. Dry rot. Wet rot. Woodworm. Subsidence, even.’

  We both fall silent. Barclay begins to pack up the remains of our picnic. I pluck blades of grass from the earth while performing scary mental arithmetic. It all seems hideously unfair. I’ve been in the building for a matter of weeks. I don’t own it yet I’m legally obliged to foot the bill for what’s obviously years of neglect. And this is the professional opinion of the only two lawyers I know – Gloria, and now Barclay. Oh, and Dad’s legal friend, who should have spotted the clause in the first place. Maybe he did, and thought nothing of it, if it’s as common as Barclay says it is. That still doesn’t make it right, though.

  On the pretext of helping Barclay clear away, I pop a stray morsel of saucisson sec into my mouth, and wonder how I can spend even less on food than I already do.

  The beep of a text alert. Mine. I check my phone. Edo.

  Quiet day at Happy Endings So went up on roof. Big fuss about nothing. Slates & flashings all fine. Just a bit of cracked render on parapet. Few hundred quid max 4 proper repair. Done temp fix with special tape from Homebase, should last ages. Taken photos. Will send 2 Mr & Mrs Happy! Hope dentist not 2 painful xxx

  Weird telepathy, as if Edo overheard our conversation. I text him a reply.

  Fantastic! Thx xx

  I feel bad about the dentist thing, even though Edo has nothing to be annoyed – or jealous – about. Gloria’s told him, there’s a reason why I don’t do relationships.

  ‘No need to be miserable, Nina.’ I start at the sound of Barclay’s voice. ‘There’s a solution to every problem, and I know ho
w to fix yours.’ Before I tell him I think Edo has already – literally – fixed it, Barclay continues. ‘You have to cut your losses. Move into Kentish Town. It’s on the up and up, thanks to all those French families who’ve taken it over. I’ll find you a shop. Negotiate a cheap rent. Get you out of that lease, too. Just because you’ve failed once, it doesn’t mean you’re a failure.’

  Bloody hell. Does Barclay have any idea how patronising he sounds? Talk about mansplaining. He might as well pat me on the head and say, ‘There, there.’ Or is it that he’s used to people doing what he says, in that way that rich people are?

  ‘Let me think about it. And I’d have to consult my father. He’s an investor.’ No point in spoiling the afternoon, especially as my financial circumstances have just taken such a reassuring turn for the better. ‘How long before we need to head back to London?’

  ‘No huge rush.’ Barclay saunters across to the hedge and puts the picnic basket back where he found it. Then he adds, ‘You do need to think about it, Nina. Burying your head in the sand when you’re running a business with no clients isn’t smart. It’s how bankruptcy starts. Let’s face it, Primrose Hill isn’t the right spot for you.’

  This time, Barclay sounds very concerned. As if I’m one step from debtor’s jail. Whereas I’m still several steps away. And I don’t think people get imprisoned any more.

  ‘Thanks for offering to help. Where are we off to next?’

  ‘You can’t go home without visiting Édith Piaf. A woman after your own heart … no regrets and all that jazz.’ There’s not even a trace of sarcasm in Barclay’s voice. ‘Did you know piaf is French slang for sparrow?’ My lunch date has reverted to full-on tour guide mode. ‘And that her great-grandmother was a Moroccan acrobat?’

  We giggle our way towards the perimeter of Père-Lachaise, back towards Oscar Wilde. All I really know about Édith Piaf is that she had a gorgeous voice, and big problems with drink and drugs.

  Forty-seven.

  Piaf’s tomb is a solemn slab of granite, decorated with a vase of slightly wilted flowers, and twenty or more individual red roses, each one hand-tied and cellophane-wrapped.

  I notice Barclay is frowning at his phone.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Oh, just my dad. One of his projects giving me a headache. Neighbours complaining the burglar alarm’s going off. Why do these things always happen on a Friday?’ I’m about to make sympathetic noises when Barclay continues, ‘I need to call our security people. There’s gold on site, so we need to be careful.’

  Barclay retreats to make a phone call, leaving me staring at Édith Piaf, and wondering what sort of building project uses gold.

  It takes a few seconds for the penny to drop.

  With a big fat clang.

  24

  Barclay returns, looking relieved. ‘False alarm,’ he says.

  ‘This building project.’ I pick my words carefully. ‘Whereabouts is it?’

  ‘Just around the corner from your shop. It’s why I’m in Primrose Hill so often.’

  ‘In Chalcot Square, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Eddie Banks’s basement?’

  ‘We’re way behind schedule. And the bloody neighbours say they’ll invoke penalty clauses if we go over. Going to cost us a fortune.’

  ‘But that would make you …’

  ‘Barclay Banks. Pleased to meet you.’ He holds out his hand, in mock formality, then pulls a face. ‘My mum’s idea of a joke. But in her defence, my parents didn’t have two pennies to rub together when I was born. As for the bloody gold in the chill-out zone, that certainly wasn’t my idea. More trouble than it’s worth. Not literally, but you know what architects are like.’

  I have no idea what architects are like.

  ‘You’re Zoe Banks’s brother.’

  It comes out as the accusation it’s intended to be.

  ‘Ah Zoe,’ Barclay says her name fondly, reminding me of the way I sometimes say Chopper’s. ‘She’s not exactly a member of your fan club, is she?’

  You know what my brother’s like. Different girl every week. You’re far too good for him!

  ‘You’re the playboy brother.’

  Barclay considers this second allegation. ‘Well, I do like the fine things in life. Who doesn’t?’ He looks me up and down, then treats me to a warm, innocent smile.

  It should make me want to slap him.

  But it’s really hot.

  ‘There’s a lot to be said for money,’ Barclay continues. ‘Essentially, it buys you time. Like today. With the helicopter. I expect you think I’m bone idle, but I was in the office at five o’clock, and I’ll put in another shift when we get back. Dad’s drummed it into Zoe and me that there’s no free rides. Work hard, play hard, die young, make a good-looking corpse. Right?’

  I ignore Barclay’s attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ I snap. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To get to know you better. Anything wrong with that? I’ve heard from Zoe and Dad that you’re a very hard worker, and I hate to think you’re going to work yourself into the ground with nothing to show for it when your shop goes under. I meant what I said, Nina. You’ve picked the wrong location. I want to help you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Barclay considers the question. ‘I’ve never believed it’s wrong to combine business with pleasure.’ And with that, he turns his back on Édith Piaf and me and heads towards a curving lane that wouldn’t look out of place in the New Forest, calling over his shoulder, ‘Jim Morrison or Marcel Proust?’

  ‘Jim Morrison.’ I’m still processing the fact that Barclay is Zoe’s brother – Zoe’s playboy brother – and figure there’s safety in numbers. By all accounts, Jim Morrison’s grave is usually the busiest place in the cemetery.

  Today is no exception. I realise we’re getting close when the distinctive smell of cannabis mixed with the excited chatter of American accents begins to fill the air.

  ‘People always tell you his grave’s hard to find. But in my experience, you just follow your nose.’ Barclay waits for me to draw level with him and we begin to walk up a hill, then along one of the narrow paths. ‘They say Jim Morrison visited Père-Lachaise a few days before he died and said he wanted to be buried here. His dad was an admiral.’

  Twenty-seven.

  Barclay sees me looking at the dates on Jim Morrison’s tomb. ‘Yeah, same as Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. It’s a dangerous age. But you know what they say – better to burn out than fade away.’ There’s something sombre, pensive almost, about the way Barclay says this.

  ‘Are you a big fan of Jim Morrison?’

  ‘Hardly. Always thought “Riders on the Storm” was a bit of a dirge. Seems to last forever. And I bet you most of this lot,’ Barclay nods towards Jim Morrison’s latest fans, ‘would be hard-pushed to name another two of his songs. Give me Pharrell Williams any day!’

  The grave itself is modest and nondescript, nothing much to look at, but the sightseers are undeterred, taking it in turns to do selfies and sing choruses of ‘Riders on the Storm’.

  ‘Seen enough?’

  I nod. ‘So what’s your favourite grave in the cemetery?’ I ask. ‘Can we go see it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it my favourite exactly. But yes, there is one place I always visit. It’s round the corner. Follow me.’

  ‘Come here often, do you?’

  I’m teasing, but Barclay’s voice when he replies is serious.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. I do.’

  We turn right and make our way along a path shaded by a canopy of trees. I wonder who Barclay’s taking me to see. After Victor Noir and his shiny bits, anything is possible.

  ‘Here.’

  A well-maintained grave. Black headstone, the lettering in gold.

  ‘Twenty-two.’ Barclay’s voice, faster even than I can calculate the gap between the date of birth and the date of death. ‘The only thing I remembe
r is the way her hair used to smell. Like apples.’

  I read what’s written on the headstone, trying to work out what to say.

  ‘She was born in Paris and her parents thoroughly disapproved of the marriage.’ There’s nothing of the tour guide or the showman about Barclay now. ‘But back then, if you were pregnant, you got married. Even if you were only nineteen, and you’d met your husband three months earlier. But you know what … sometimes, these things work out … At least, until …’

  ‘What happened? Was it an accident?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Barclay stifles a bitter laugh. ‘My mother died in childbirth. Ten days before my second birthday. Dad couldn’t afford a decent burial, so the in-laws, my grandparents, stepped in and brought her home.’

  Barclay’s voice is getting thicker with every sentence. His every ounce of confidence has drained away. He looks twelve years old.

  I wrap my arms around him and pull him towards me. A second in which the only sound is the beating of my own heart. Then Barclay wraps one hand in my hair, and the other around my waist.

  He pulls me close and I look up at his face.

  This is momentous. I’m stone-cold sober and it feels like the start of the rest of my life. It feels … just … right.

  Barclay runs his fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes in anticipation.

  ‘So tell me Nina.’ His voice is soft, husky, urgent. ‘Have you ever done it in the back of a hearse?’

  25

  I don’t know if my daily social media efforts are doing any good but at least when I’m doing them they keep my mind off Barclay Banks. It’s been a week since Paris, but he’s still flitting in and out of my thoughts.

  One moment I picture him as a vulnerable boy – how dreadful to lose your mother when you’re still an infant – and the next, I think of him as a presumptuous know-it-all, insisting I’ve opened my business in the wrong part of London.