Five Wakes and a Wedding

by Karen Ross

  Huge relief! By way of celebration, I go to the kettle, brew myself a coffee and then immerse myself in my various social media accounts. Last night when I drove back from Mum and Dad’s I had the germ of an idea to promote Happy Endings. What if I could organise some sort of exhibition about funerals and the way they’re changing? Practical information mixed with cutting-edge ideas that concentrate on celebrating a life as well as mourning a death.

  I could pull in some favours from the contacts I made at my old job. There’s Carol, a celebrant I used to work with on a regular basis. I’m sure she’d be keen to come and explain how she works with bereaved families to organise funeral services that, yes, are full of sadness, but also bursting with inspiration and happy memories.

  I check out her Facebook page and see she recently officiated at a jazz guitarist’s farewell. The service featured live music from his friends, who shouldered him in and out of a garden marquee in a white customised coffin, featuring hand-written tributes including ‘Go Your Own Way’, ‘Dreamer’, and ‘Thank You For Being A Friend’. Perhaps I could ask Carol to do a slide show about coffin art.

  On the subject of coffins, I’ve been reading about a firm that wants to turn them into storage space. The idea is that you buy your coffin now and it doubles up as a piece of furniture for – hopefully – many years. Before you know it, I’ve found a retired carpenter who runs ‘Build Your Own Coffin’ workshops. Might be fun!

  We could even have a Death Café, a casual get-together where people of all ages chat about dying over tea and cake. There was a pop-up at the Royal Festival Hall and hundreds of people showed up. I imagine Zoe Banks will self-combust if I bring the concept to Primrose Hill.

  I scribble down a few more ideas, then close my eyes and start to visualise what an exhibition might look like. I see a market place of workshops, displays, discussions and cakes.

  Cake …

  All I’ve had so far today is that small fruit salad. And I’ve been playing with this new idea for an hour now, which means it’s high time I went to see my housemates to eat humble pie.

  I click ‘Shut Down’ on the menu bar. While the computer is going through its farewell routine, I remember my other piece of post, still sitting unopened on the desk. I slit the white envelope, pull out two pages of closely typed white paper, and start to read.

  What the hell.

  A firm of West End solicitors writes to inform me they are acting on behalf of a group of concerned Primrose Hill residents. Who are accusing me of devaluing their properties.

  … Estate agents confirm that homes and commercial freeholds within a five-hundred-metre radius of your address have lost approximately one per cent of their value since your business opened in April. This equates to £10,000 per million, and for your information, the average value of the properties concerned is £2.75 million.

  We would prefer to avoid legal action and imagine you share this objective. My clients are not unreasonable, and provided you give an undertaking to relocate ‘Happy Endings’ elsewhere no later than 31st December, we can resolve this matter amicably.

  We look forward to receiving your compliance, in writing, at your earliest convenience. However, should this not be forthcoming, we will not hesitate to initiate litigation.

  Talk about swings and roundabouts! No sooner have I been spared the expense of a new roof than another bunch of neighbours are gunning for me. Can they really pin the blame on Happy Endings in particular, rather than the economy in general? I’d love to throw the letter in the bin, but I’ve got a feeling this latest hassle isn’t going to disappear so easily, so I stuff it into my bag and head for home.

  I’m barely through the front door when Gloria yells, ‘Nina! Is that you? At last! You’ll never guess what’s happened.’

  Gloria greets me – Chopper at her heels – brandishing her iPad. ‘It’s Kelli Shapiro! She got married!’

  I hug Gloria in greeting and say, ‘Let’s see.’

  So Kelli married the engineer. Keir. My money was always on him, given that the other man in her life was already married.

  Kelli looks glorious in a simple white dress with sequin beading, and her husband looks dashing – not to mention extraordinarily handsome – in a traditional Filipino embroidered tunic and black trousers. Kelli’s quoted in the text. ‘We’ve known each other a good few years,’ she says. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. What you might call an arranged marriage. Keir said we were going to a black and white party at White Beach, not far from where we’re filming in Manila. I thought we were kicking off with a walk on the sand at sunset. Then I realised I’d pitched up for my own wedding. The entire cast and crew were there to wish us well. It’s the best surprise I’ve ever had!’

  I scroll through more photos. The beach looks like paradise. Here’s Kelli being given away by her director, Roberto Ferrari. A close-up of a white gold amethyst and diamond ring. Non-traditional and very Kelli. Someone’s even rustled up an elaborate four-tier wedding cake that wouldn’t be out of place at a society wedding in Chelsea.

  I can feel Gloria looking over my shoulder. ‘Definite eye-candy!’ she says gleefully. ‘More than a hint of Christian Bale. Let’s hope he comes to live in Primrose Hill.’ Then, ‘You don’t seem terribly surprised.’

  On our way to the kitchen, I admit Kelli had already been in touch. ‘You’re so good at keeping secrets!’ Gloria says, mostly, I think, in admiration.

  I seize my opportunity. ‘Talking of which, there’s something else I need to tell you. You and Edo.’

  ‘Someone mentioned my name?’ Edo is kneeling on the floor, presiding over what looks like the wreckage of a plane that nose-dived into a war zone. Mangled lumps of rusting metal, a waist-high pile of rubble, two coils of barbed wire, and lethal shards of glass are spread out on a tarpaulin along with an array of three-quarter-dead plants and a few toys that look as if they’ve been snatched from a skip.

  Edo – wearing heavy gauntlets to protect his hands – is decanting the haul into numbered boxes and rubble sacks, in preparation for its unscheduled appearance at the Regent’s Park Garden Festival. Gloria quickly shuts the door behind us, to keep Chopper safe from harm.

  ‘Nina’s got something to tell us,’ Gloria says. ‘C’mon, spill the beans! What’s up?’

  ‘It’s not your parents?’ Edo stops what he’s doing and looks anxious. ‘Is that why you dashed to Southampton?’

  ‘No. It’s about my husband,’ I begin. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. And you’re not going to like it.’

  Gloria and Edo listen intently, letting me speak without interruption, until I get to the bit about how I accomplished my counsellor’s well-intentioned suggestion that I visualise life without Ryan.

  ‘You mean … you mean you put him six feet under in your imagination? Awesome!’ Edo’s face lights up with laughter.

  ‘It’s not funny.’ Gloria leaps in. ‘She must have been in real pain to do something that drastic.’

  ‘I had a really hard time accepting what had happened,’ I acknowledge. ‘I was so used to doing whatever Ryan wanted. It was as if keeping him happy was how I measured my own value.’ A feeling I’ve never managed to put into words until now. ‘I think I became addicted to his approval and that’s why I crashed and burned so hard when he dumped me.’

  My friends hear me out, all the way to this morning’s final meeting in Hyde Park.

  ‘Good on you,’ Gloria says. Almost as an afterthought, she adds, ‘He’s properly dead to you now.’

  Edo chimes in. ‘I don’t know why you thought we’d be cross with you. He cheated on you. Now he’s cheating on his wife. Dirtbag! He never deserved you in the first place.’

  I think Edo’s slightly missing the point – I’ve been apologising for my behaviour, not Ryan’s – and on the other side of the room, I notice Gloria flinch. She’d been stuffing empty tinfoil containers into a sack, but stops what she’s doing and looks up.

  Our eyes meet and I know we
’re thinking the same thing.

  Fred.

  Finally, Gloria understands why I’ve got reservations about him. It’s not that I’ve been trying to protect my friend. Well, up to a point that’s what I’ve been doing, of course. But mostly, I’ve always felt sorry for his wife.

  Edo carries on, oblivious to the tension in the room. ‘So now you’re a born-again divorcee, rather than a tragic widow,’ he says lightly, ‘does that mean men are back on the agenda? Are you going to start dating?’

  ‘You’re punching above your weight,’ Gloria snarls.

  ‘I know.’ Edo looks at Gloria with an expression that reminds me of Chopper when he’s being told off. A mixture of hurt and unquenchable optimism.

  Wow! I always knew it wasn’t me Edo fancies. He’s got a crush on Gloria. Poor lad!

  ‘I’d better start loading the van,’ he says.

  Once Edo’s left the room, burdened with a heavy box of shrapnel, Gloria says, ‘Fred always says his wife’s going to throw a party when he moves out.’

  ‘Maybe she will,’ I say carefully. ‘But are you sure you want to be someone’s fourth wife?’

  ‘I’ve not been thinking that far ahead,’ Gloria admits. ‘Fred’s got a brilliant legal mind. But he thinks that makes him special. That the normal rules of life don’t apply to him. When you were talking about Ryan, I realised that so long as I do what Fred wants, he’s all sweetness and light. But whenever there’s something I want that he doesn’t, he accuses me of putting pressure on him.’

  ‘Like the living together?’ I ask gently. Gloria’s been pretty quiet on that front, lately.

  ‘He’s come over all pompous,’ Gloria confides. ‘Says I should be concentrating on my law exams rather than the Garden Festival. Sometimes he sounds more like my father than my actual father. And he always manages to make everything about him. Last night, he was banging on about how my “guerrilla gardening activities”’ – Gloria drops into an accomplished Fred-like tone – ‘“are hardly going to advance my progression up the legal ladder”. As if I care about that!’

  I pick my way across the kitchen floor, through the minefield of unorthodox garden display materials that separates us, and give Gloria a big hug. ‘I love who you are,’ I say. ‘And I never want you to become the wife I worry about. You’re far too good for that.’

  After we’ve disentangled, Gloria says quietly, ‘Fred’s told me he doesn’t mind getting married again. But he says he couldn’t bear another divorce.’

  Not the most romantic proposal I’ve ever heard. But Gloria needs to find her own way.

  ‘What about you? Are you going to start dating again?’ she’s asking me.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t go getting ideas.’ I know I’m saying this to myself as much as to Gloria. ‘It’s nothing serious. But just for practice, just to make sure I’ve learned to take heartbreak in my stride, I’m going out on Sunday night. With Barclay Banks.’

  36

  ‘Put this on first.’ Barclay hands me a matte black helmet. ‘Then get your leg over.’

  Perhaps I’ve led a sheltered life, but I’ve never been on a motorbike before. This one is all chrome, leather, and big wheels. Barclay’s already in the saddle, and the engine is running. I adjust the chin strap on the helmet, and after a moment’s hesitation, jump on behind him.

  ‘Keep your arms wrapped around me. And remember, don’t fight the bike. Always move with it.’

  At least that’s what I think he’s saying. Impossible to be sure with the helmet muffling my ears, and before I can ask for further instructions, we’re off.

  I cling to Barclay’s waist, trying not to think about the dozen or so motorbike fatalities whose funerals I’ve helped to organise during my career, clutching him even tighter as he accelerates, and only just resisting the temptation to lean backwards at the first corner.

  There’s not much traffic and by the time we get to the bottom of Highgate Hill I’m starting to relax. Barclay’s no boy racer, although the first time he moves onto the wrong side of the road, to overtake a bus, I dig my nails into his midriff. Not even a single ounce of belly fat lurking beneath tonight’s T-shirt, a skimpy white number that modestly declares, Go-Kart Champion.

  We pull up at traffic lights in Crouch End. ‘Nearly there,’ Barclay yells, and I try to figure out where this Go-Kart Derby is taking place. It’s only when we’re driving through a sudden stretch of parkland that I get my bearings.

  Alexandra Palace looks stunning at this time of year. High on a hill, dressed in its summer best, with beautiful mature trees and fabulous views all the way to east London. I wonder if they’ve built a track especially for the derby. Barclay steers the bike into a parking space, kills the engine, dismounts, and removes his helmet. I follow suit.

  ‘That was fun,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve got the scars to prove it!’ Barclay turns and lifts his T-shirt and I’m alarmed to see two sets of red marks tattooed on his smooth torso. My tense response to that bus he overtook. ‘I’ve heard of love bites,’ he continues, ‘but this looks like I’ve been attacked by fleas.’

  ‘Sorry.’ How come I’ve never noticed the laughter lines that crinkle around his eyes before?

  ‘At least you can’t keep your hands off me. I’d say that’s a promising start to our evening.’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never been on a motorbike before.’

  ‘I get the feeling you’re more comfortable as a driver than a passenger,’ Barclay says. ‘Anyway, we’re about to find out. This way.’

  He slings his arm around my shoulder and steers me towards the ice rink.

  I’m confused on several levels.

  Did he just say I’m bossy?

  Or is he suggesting I’m literally about to drive something?

  A go-kart?

  As if!

  And what are we doing inside an ice rink?

  We stroll past a sign that says ‘Closed for Private Function’ and down a corridor that – yes – leads out onto a vast expanse of ice.

  In the middle of the rink, yellow and white safety cones mark out a figure-of-eight race track. A dozen or so go-karts are neatly lined up. I’d been expecting something that looked like a fairground bumper car, but with their open cockpits, single seats and sleek body shapes, these are more menacing, like scaled-down Formula One beasts.

  At the edge of the ice, about twenty people – mostly male – stand chatting. One of them notices Barclay and waves.

  ‘Do you want to meet the gang first? Or get suited up?’ Barclay enquires.

  The look on my face tells its own story.

  ‘You didn’t think I invited you here just to sit and watch me?’ He looks perplexed. ‘That would be plain rude. Not to mention sexist. I thought you’d enjoy driving something with a bit more oomph than a hearse. But not if you don’t want to. We can go out to dinner instead. Your call.’

  I look at Barclay, his Go-Kart Champion T-shirt, and his concerned expression. ‘It’s not dangerous,’ he adds. ‘Not really. Just a chance for you to give it a whirl before the racing starts.’

  The fact he’s making no attempt to cajole me onto the ice encourages me to reconsider. I look towards the rink and notice a couple of karts are out on the ice. I watch them negotiate their way safely round the circuit, encouraged by a few cheers from the crowd. ‘They’ve got brakes, and things?’

  ‘Of course. But sometimes they freeze, so better to accelerate your way out of trouble.’

  Barclay’s advice isn’t entirely reassuring. I watch one of the karts slither to a standstill. The driver gets out. A girl. About fourteen years old.

  ‘That was brilliant!’ she shouts. ‘Thanks, Dad! Best birthday present ever!’

  ‘Okay.’ I’ve made up my mind. ‘Where do I go to get changed?’

  ‘Really? You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Barclay leads the way towards the crowd. ‘Everyone,’ he says, �
�this is Nina.’

  A couple of his friends nod hello.

  Then one says, ‘The Nina?’

  Barclay looks embarrassed.

  I try to help him out. ‘No, I’m the other Nina,’ I say.

  Everyone looks confused, Barclay included.

  ‘Joke.’

  Barclay squeezes my hand, and introduces me to one of the rink’s staff members. ‘This is Simon. He’ll get you kitted out and walk you through the safety stuff. Then off you go! Wait,’ he adds. ‘Who did you say’s your next-of-kin?’

  ‘Quit while you’re ahead,’ I retort, and follow Simon towards the changing rooms.

  Twenty or so minutes later, I retrace my steps. Dressed in head-to-toe thermal overalls, boots, gloves, goggles and a full-face helmet over a balaclava, I feel like The Stig. Barclay whips out his phone and takes a picture.

  ‘You on Instagram?’ he enquires. I try to grab the phone from him, but the heavy gloves make it impossible. He presses a few buttons. ‘Hashtag brave. Hashtag beautiful. Do you think we need hashtag blessed as well?’

  I pull a face at him – not that he can see me through my helmet visor – turn and walk towards my go-kart and cautiously lower myself into the hot seat.

  37

  I settle myself into the go-kart – dismayed to discover my bum is so close to the ice – and run through Simon’s briefing again. My right boot grazes the two pedals. Brake and accelerator. Seatbelt on. Studded tyres … roll bars … head rests … all designed for maximum safety.

  Steer into the skids (am I really going to skid?), keep to under thirty (seems way too fast), and slip sideways into the bends. (SIDEWAYS? How is that even possible?)

  I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, gun the engine and creep out onto the track. At least I meant to creep, but I’ve overdone it on the gas, so here we go! The first bend is rushing towards me and it’s hard to resist the impulse to close my eyes, count to three and see if I’m still alive. For a moment, I don’t know if I’m sideways, upside down, or back to front. Then the bend’s behind me and I hear a voice.