by Karen Ross
Edo nods. ‘Dele hasn’t got any relatives to take care of him. He’s going to look through my sketches for the Design for Death project, but we spent most of my visit talking about that Riverdance guy. Michael Flatley.’
‘How so?’ I ask.
‘He’s making a fortune, dipping the soles of his dancing shoes in acrylic paint, then strutting his stuff on giant canvases and selling the results. We both think he should use his feet as paint brushes. Or maybe his dick.’
Gloria decides to change the subject. ‘So what are we going to do about Mr and Mrs Happy?’ she enquires. The three of us exchange looks, and start laughing.
Edo’s good deed has been punished by a fresh flurry of correspondence. This time, eight pages.
Handwritten.
Accusing ‘you and your associates’ – that would be Edo – of deliberately causing further damage to an already fragile roof … using plastic materials totally unsuited to a conservation area … undermining future insurance claims … tampering with works carried out previously by the honest, skilled tradesman from Sheet Hot Roofing, who was now, apparently, in talks with a firm that had recently restored part of the main roof at Westminster Abbey. Then there was an entire page about incorrectly circumferenced corbels that I didn’t even begin to understand … along with a warning that Mr and Mrs Happy held me personally responsible for their rapidly deteriorating health … followed by various threats involving leasehold tribunals, lawyers and injunctions. And a final sentence requesting I cough up twenty-two thousand pounds without further delay, using the envelope thoughtfully provided.
We’ve taken to reading Mrs Happy’s letters aloud, which reduces us all to childlike laughter after only a few sentences. Edo’s threatening to turn her tortured sentences into a rap and shoot a video of himself performing it to use as the centrepiece of a crowd-funded Roof Appeal.
‘I’ve already replied,’ I say. ‘A few lines pointing out she failed to mention all the photos Edo took, and asking for evidence the repair hasn’t worked. That seems to have shut her up. At least for now. Anyway, I’ve got better things to do.’
Gloria and Edo look expectantly at me, and while we start to clear away the remains of our feast, I fill them in on my new idea.
‘I’m going to set up a funeral planning consultation service,’ I announce.
‘Cool.’ Edo is immediately enthusiastic and Gloria returns from the sink to the table to hear more.
‘How’s it going to work?’ she asks.
‘Basically, people will be able to write down information about the kind of funeral they want and leave behind clear instructions for their families,’ I explain. ‘I’ll talk them through all the different burial and cremation choices that are open to then, like leaving your body to medical research or opting in or out of organ donation programmes. Clients can say if they want anyone to visit their body, and if so, what they want to be wearing, whether they want make-up and so on.’
Gloria nods her approval, and I warm to my theme. ‘We’ll talk about the kind of service they want. And the budget. That’s really important. I’ll give them an estimate that reflects their choices.’
‘Asking if they want a traditional coffin? Or something more personal. Like one their friends and relatives can decorate? That’s going to be hugely popular.’ Edo speaks with surprising authority. I can tell he’s been researching.
‘Yes, that sort of thing,’ I agree. ‘They can decide who they want to speak. The music they want played. If they’d like to display photographs that tell the story of their lives. And so on. I’m going to call it “Know Before You Go”, and charge … I’m thinking somewhere in the region of a hundred and fifty pounds. What do you reckon?’
‘Great name,’ Gloria says.
‘Definitely not enough.’ Edo weighs in. ‘Surely a service like that is worth more than you’d pay the plumber to fix a toilet?’
‘It’s only going to take me a couple of hours to help people make their decisions,’ I counter.
‘I suppose.’ Edo considers. ‘And if you can get two clients a week, that’s fifteen grand a year straight onto your bottom line. Then you could commoditise the service with an online package for do-it-yourself downloads. And add on funeral pre-payment plans. I know you don’t think they’re a great idea, but you have to admit the income would be handy.’
Edo’s loading the dishwasher while he speaks, assisted by Chopper, who’s busy rinsing the plates with his shallot-and-rosemary-imbued tongue as they go into the machine. As always, I’m impressed by Edo’s entrepreneurial flair. Maybe I should make him my sales manager, although he’s much better off working at the pub. They’ve already promoted him to shift manager.
‘I know.’ Gloria’s eyes light up with that spark she gets when she’s figured something out. ‘We offer a free will-making service at the law centre. If you do me a leaflet that explains the things people need to think about, I could include it with the documentation. It might get you some business long-term, and from our point of view, it would be very useful.’
‘I can do better than that,’ I say. ‘How about I come to the centre and give a group talk, as well? No charge, obviously. It’ll help me fine-tune the service.’
‘Cool.’
‘So when does “Know Before You Go” get going?’ Edo asks.
‘I’ve already done my first client.’
‘Who?’ Gloria and Edo ask the question together.
‘I can’t tell you that. Client confidentiality. But by the time we’d finished planning, she seemed very pleased. Said it was a weight off her mind. And she paid on the spot.’ With cash I’ve already spent on this lavish Sunday lunch. It feels so good to start paying my way again, and the Farmers’ Market Diet with Prosecco is simply delicious.
‘It’ll be Lydia. Alice’s owner,’ Edo tells Gloria.
‘Mmm.’
I can tell Gloria’s not listening properly. She’s zoned out, and I bet I know what she’s thinking about.
Fred.
He’s been reading her the riot act about her plans for the Regent’s Park Garden Festival. Says that if they’re going to be properly together, then she needs to stop acting like – what were his words? – ‘a spoiled little rich girl who always wants to be the centre of attention’.
That went down well.
‘Sometimes, he just doesn’t get me at all,’ Gloria told me when she recounted their conversation.
The only thing wrong with that sentence – if you ask me, which Gloria had not – is the first word. I’m no fan of Fred, and not only because when he moves in with Gloria I’m likely to be homeless. I just don’t get what she sees in him.
Then again, I’m no judge of men …
Barclay.
Oblivious to the fact that both our minds are now partly elsewhere, Edo is back on one of his favourite topics. The value of art.
‘… It’s something Joshua Kent and now Dele Dier keep drumming into me,’ he’s saying. ‘Art – our sort of art – is all about pushing boundaries. When Andy Warhol hand-painted a single-dollar bill, what was he really trying to do?’
‘Forge money in an interesting way?’ I suggest.
‘He was making a statement about our money-dominated society. And unearned wealth. And the transactionality of art.’ Edo senses he’s losing his already distracted audience and cuts to the chase. ‘Fifty years later, Warhol’s dollar bill painting sold at Sotheby’s for twenty-one million pounds. What does that tell us about art and boundary breaking?’
Before either of us can make a sensible contribution to Edo’s impromptu lecture, the doorbell rings.
27
Edo gets up to see who’s at the door. From the way Gloria’s running her fingers through her hair and quickly checking her lipstick I can tell she thinks it’s Fred, come to apologise for the error of his ways.
Which gives me a few moments more to berate myself for being preoccupied with Barclay Bloody Banks. How could he have possibly known playing bingo is
secretly one of my favourite activities, dating back to childhood holidays at Center Parcs where I won all manner of gruesome ornaments and assorted tat.
I hear raised voices from the hallway.
Barclay!
This time I’m not imagining it. That’s definitely his voice drifting down the stairs. And Edo’s.
‘I’m telling you. She’s busy.’ Edo sounds cross. ‘You’re interrupting.’
‘Her phone’s broken.’
‘No. It’s not. What do you want?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Barclay Banks. Who are you?’
‘None of your business.’
Chopper senses bad vibrations and begins to bark. I’d better intervene and find out what Barclay’s doing here before the pair of them come to blows. Especially as I never gave him my address. How presumptuous of him to think my phone’s not working, just because I ignored his texts.
By the time I get to our front door, the conversation has moved on. Barclay and Edo are across the street, next to a black sports car. They seem still to be squabbling. I watch Barclay take a large white envelope from his messenger bag. He shoves it at Edo, says something I can’t hear, then mounts a purple skateboard and shoots off along the pavement.
Edo comes back to me. ‘You went to Paris? With him?’ He looks disgusted. ‘On a date? I didn’t realise you were that superficial.’
‘It wasn’t a date. Just lunch. A business lunch.’ My explanation sounds lame, even to me.
‘He said he’d come round on business.’ Edo seems a little less certain. ‘And that I was to give you this.’
The envelope.
‘Let’s go back inside and see what’s in it,’ I suggest. ‘And Edo, it wasn’t a date. I promise. I’m sorry I said I had to go to the dentist. I said that because I didn’t want you getting the wrong idea.’
‘It’s nothing to do with me. It’s just that …’ Edo looks uncomfortable. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I know you’ve, um, suffered in the past. With relationships. Gloria told me what happened. So I want to look out for you. You’re like a sister to me, Nina. And that guy’s bad news, I know he is.’
‘You’ve got nothing to worry about. And as it happens, the business advice he gave me was rubbish.’
Edo looks cheered by this and we go back indoors.
Gloria’s made us all coffee. ‘What was that all about?’ she asks. ‘Did it come to blows? I didn’t realise you knew Barclay Banks. That was him I heard yelling at Edo, right?’
‘I don’t. Not really.’
‘He took her to Paris.’
‘Really? You’re a dark horse, Nina Sherwood!’ Gloria’s delight is enough to paint the scowl back on Edo’s face.
‘Enough,’ I say firmly. ‘Let’s see what it is he’s brought me.’
‘Remember last time someone came round here with an envelope?’ Gloria says.
Indeed I do. ‘The one from Jason Chung, telling me I was fired … that seems such a long time ago.’
‘Maybe this one’s an injunction, ordering you to stay away from Zoe,’ Gloria jokes.
I open the envelope and pull out a bunch of papers. Before I have a chance to see what’s written on them Gloria says, ‘That’s definitely legal stuff. Give it here.’ I hand over Barclay’s paperwork. Edo and I sit in respectful silence, while she scans the pages. A good five minutes pass before she is ready to deliver her verdict.
‘Bloody hell,’ she says. ‘Where’s that envelope again?’
Edo picks it up from the table and gives it to Gloria, who reaches inside and produces a second envelope. She tears it open and produces an oblong-shaped piece of pink and white paper, glances at it – poker-faced – then pauses for what seems like forever, collecting her thoughts.
Until at last she says, ‘So here’s the thing. The Banks Group – that’s the holding company for the family’s entire business interests – would like to invest in Happy Endings. They say their representatives have been monitoring your progress since they helped you acquire the premises, and now wish to acquire five per cent of your company. Their conditions are that you immediately surrender the lease in Primrose Hill and move to premises they have identified in Kentish Town. They will pay all costs and any penalty charges associated with the move, and also assume liability, if any, for the roof repairs.’ Gloria is all business now, and I’m reminded what a good lawyer she is. Clear, incisive and effortlessly able to command the attention of any room. ‘The Banks Group appears already to have valued the business, although goodness knows how. And they enclose a cheque.’
Gloria hands me the pink and white piece of paper.
I scrutinise it.
‘This is a joke, right?’
‘Apparently not. It’s properly signed and dated and everything.’
‘Enough to buy another bottle of Prosecco?’ Edo is indignant. ‘They’ve got a bloody cheek.’
‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘We could definitely buy a bottle of Prosecco.’
I pass the cheque to Edo.
Gloria and I sit looking at one another.
‘RIDICULOUS!’ Edo looks as if he’s denouncing Andy Warhol’s dollar bill. ‘Fifty thousand pounds? That would value Happy Endings at a million.’ Edo’s favourite show is Dragons’ Den. He’s also quicker than I am at percentages. ‘Sorry Nina, this is awesome. But wrong.’
I stare at Barclay Banks’s signature. His elongated, pointed initials look like a pair of daggers. Edo and Gloria, meanwhile, stare at me.
Before they have a chance to say anything, I tear the cheque in half.
Then in half again.
28
This is the hottest summer we’ve had for years, and I’m starting to enjoy it. Business isn’t exactly overheating – still just the one funeral to date – but things are definitely warming up.
It’s been two weeks since I ripped up that cheque from Barclay Banks and, ever since, I’ve felt empowered. Yes, it would have been good not to have to worry that my income is still dwarfing my outgoings, but the freedom to run my business exactly as I want is priceless. And who’s to say the whole thing wasn’t some sort of a joke? Entirely possible – likely – that if I’d paid that cheque into my bank account, it would have bounced further and faster than Barclay Banks sitting on a space hopper.
Damn! Now there’s a picture of Barclay in my head again. Good Barclay, tour guide extraordinaire, the entertainer who went to such an effort, taking me to Paris. Quick, flick the mental switch … here comes Bossy Barclay, the know-it-all who wants to have a big say in my business and take it somewhere I don’t want to go. In real life, I’ve heard nothing further from the man himself and, as I limit myself to thinking about him for no more than five minutes a day, that’s today’s ration all used up.
Still, it makes a change from thinking about my husband’s funeral, as I’ve done in the past, whenever I wanted to switch off from any hint of romance in my life.
I pull up a spreadsheet on my computer. Let’s see, the blog piece I wrote about ‘Know Before You Go’, accompanied by promotional tweets, led to a piece in the Standard, which in turn has generated thirty enquiries. I’ve done four paid consultations this week alone, with a further three to come.
So far, my favourite is the one where a husband and wife in their seventies turned up saying they’d heard about a company in France that’s found a way to take someone’s unique scent and turn it into perfume. I contacted the company in question and discovered it’s doing a roaring trade with both the living and the recently deceased. All they need is an item of clothing, plus the know-how to extract the dozens of different molecules that make up an individual’s scent, which they turn to liquid through some miracle of chemistry. My clients went away cheered by the thought that whoever survives longer will at least be comforted by the other’s familiar fragrance.
They also wrote down their instructions for a humanist ceremony. Basically, they’d like family and friends to stand up and te
ll stories about them, followed by simple cremation. The gentleman asked for his ashes to be scattered at Lord’s cricket ground – legally or otherwise – and wanted ‘Ruby Tuesday’ to be played at his funeral, because that had been blaring through loudspeakers the first time he kissed his wife. She, in turn, chose ‘All You Need Is Love’ because they’d walked down the aisle to The Beatles anthem, and said she didn’t care what happened to her ashes. ‘Just don’t leave them in the boot of the car, darling,’ she’d told her husband. ‘You know I’ve never liked the way you drive.’
So that’s another few hundred pounds in the bank. Which has helped take the sting out of Jason Chung’s latest move. His company’s taken over a funeral parlour up the road, in Belsize Park. As usual, there’s been no change of name, just a big advertising campaign announcing £500 discounts on all funerals for the next three months. I wouldn’t be surprised if this isn’t a deliberate move, purely to stifle my business.
A ding on my computer announces the arrival of an email.
Darling, Greetings from Manila!
Even hotter than London, but there’s driving rain to cool me down! I’m not needed on the set for a few days, so I’m off to Davao to check out the Kadayawan festival and the Pearl Farm resort while I get to grips with the rest of my lines. Should I send Meryl a postcard, d’you think?!? What’s happening in P Hill? Take it Zoe Banks hasn’t managed to run you out of town yet? And that poor little dog! You did a great job from the sound of it, and I loved the pictures on your blog. Been in any more helicopters, lately? Very Christian Grey!!!!!! Don’t let Barclay tie you in knots, my love, but even if he was a bit of an arse, it was thoughtful of him to take you to Père-Lachaise. Maybe give him another chance? From what you said, you two really did connect. What’s to lose? K xxx
Did I mention Kelli’s become my confidante? We’re exchanging emails several times a week.
I’m about to reply with the news that work on Eddie Banks’s basement has been halted due to an invasion of moths when I notice the increasingly familiar sight of Sheet Hot Roofing’s white van pulling up outside.
