Five Wakes and a Wedding

by Karen Ross

  ‘Will you take these?’ Barclay yells above the noise of the sirens, holding out his computer and his work files. He adds drily, ‘I guess we know now what I’d rescue if the house caught fire. Other than you and Chopper, I mean.’

  I take Barclay’s belongings and kiss him on the lips. ‘See you later,’ I shout, before realising the sirens have been turned off and two firemen are walking towards us.

  Chopper can’t wait to get a safe distance between himself and the dangerous beast that’s trying to break out of Eddie Banks’s ruined redevelopment. By the time we get to the corner of the main street, I’m almost jogging to keep up with him and I’m slightly out of breath by the time we get to Happy Endings.

  I’m reaching awkwardly into my pocket for the keys – juggling computer, folders and dog – when another fire engine, blue lights blazing and siren at full volume, announces its imminent arrival in Primrose Hill. The noise spooks Chopper, who lurches away from me and knocks me off balance.

  Bugger!

  Barclay’s belongings fall to the pavement.

  I open the shop door, which calms Chopper and brings him back to my side. I slip his lead and he retreats to the safety of my desk, curling up underneath it in a big round ball of fur. I turn on the lights, then go back outside to retrieve Barclay’s stuff.

  The computer’s aluminium casing is dented, although if that’s the only casualty of the evening, we’ve got off lightly. I stoop to collect the twenty or so folders that are scattered on the ground, smiling to myself as I notice each one is neatly labelled in Barclay’s handwriting. Beneath his happy-go-lucky exterior, he’s clearly very well organised.

  What the—

  In my right hand, I’m holding a folder.

  A big, thick folder.

  The label on it reads: ‘HAPPY ENDINGS/NINA SHERWOOD’.

  I put it on top of the pile, and go back inside the shop with everything I’ve just picked up.

  Then I sit down at my desk and begin to read.

  44

  I’m still reading forty-five minutes later. I’ve been through the entire file once and now I’m studying some of the documents again in what I feel is almost an act of self-harm, given the words and phrases that are already seared into my brain:

  Naïve.

  Foolish.

  Nina Sherwood is exactly the person we need. Overoptimistic, inexperienced, and far too trusting.

  Ignorant.

  Perfect scapegoat.

  Out of her depth.

  Gullible. They should have added that to the list as well. Deep down, I’ve always known someone like Barclay Banks wouldn’t be interested in someone like me. My instincts were almost correct as it turns out he was interested in me, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Barclay and his bloody family have been plotting against me from day one.

  All of them.

  Making sure my business would fail.

  Setting traps.

  Engineering setbacks.

  And – unspeakably – going after Dad.

  Eddie Banks, it turns out, has been sitting in the sunshine of Monte Carlo pulling strings. He asked one of his construction industry cronies to make Dad redundant, expecting me to return what was left of his pension fund and close the business. And if it hadn’t been for Dad’s insistence, that’s exactly what would have happened.

  Eddie Banks even nudged Mrs Happy, reminding her that under the terms of the lease, I was responsible for half the cost of roof repairs. The man’s got blood on his hands.

  I’m about to take another look at the plan to ‘invest’ in Happy Endings when there’s a rattle on the door. Alerted by the sound, Chopper unwinds himself from underneath the desk and lumbers up to greet Barclay. Before I can decide whether or not to let him in, he’s standing in front of me.

  ‘You ought to keep that door locked,’ he says. ‘Never know who might be on the prowl.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘So the basement’s been made safe, but there’s a huge amount of damage,’ he continues. ‘And I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be covered by the insurance. You don’t happen to know the scrap price for gold?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘I’m such an idiot,’ he says.

  And such a conman.

  ‘It’s entirely my fault,’ he says.

  I’m to blame, too. Naïve Nina. That’s me.

  ‘If only I’d listened to you, my love,’ he says.

  If only I’d listened to my head instead of my treacherous heart.

  ‘You kept telling me the hoverboard’s dangerous,’ he says.

  Not as dangerous as you.

  ‘I left it downstairs on charge. Bloody thing exploded. Dreadful to think what might have happened if Chopper hadn’t raised the alarm,’ he says.

  You got that damn right.

  Barclay pauses in the face of my continued silence.

  The two of us make full eye contact. I think he mistakes my expression for delayed shock and zones in to give me a hug.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I spit.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Wordlessly, I hand Barclay the file with my name on it and gesture at the paperwork spread across my desk.

  ‘So … You know.’ His voice is flat, weary, and as he backs away from me, I realise he reeks of smoke.

  ‘Nina. It’s not what you think it is. I swear.’ Barclay slumps into the chair opposite mine. ‘You have to let me explain.’

  This is Ryan Sherwood all over again. Here I am in the same shop. Just a different man with his different lies. So why does it hurt so much more?

  I manage to compose myself. ‘Your notes speak for themselves, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes but—’

  ‘It’s quite simple. Your father made sure I got this shop because he thought an undertaker’s would never succeed in such a fancy neighbourhood. And just to make sure, he enlisted you and Zoe to give failure a helping hand. I’ve got to admit it. You’ve played a blinder, Barclay. Even setting me up with Alice’s funeral so you could get the police onto me for scattering so-called human ashes in the park. Very clever.’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong!’

  ‘Including the hoax call about Kelli being dead? You seem to have forgotten to write a report about that.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with anyone in my family. I swear.’

  ‘And I suppose I’ve misunderstood the end game, too. Genius! The council wouldn’t grant planning permission for yet another café along this street, but your father reckoned there’d be an outcry if an undertaker arrived, and that after I’d been ruined, a coffee shop would seem like an excellent idea.’

  ‘Yes,’ Barclay admits. ‘That was the plan. Originally. But you don’t know the half of it. Please, Nina, you have to let me explain.’

  Barclay speaks so vehemently, I can almost taste his sooty breath.

  ‘Sure. You go right ahead. Knock yourself out.’ The scorn in my voice makes Barclay flinch as if I’ve thrown an actual punch.

  I can’t bear to look at him, so I stand up and start to pace the room.

  ‘So yes,’ Barclay begins. ‘My father did have ambitions for the shop. And he thought a funeral parlour would be all black drapes and granite. Dull and dreary. Easy to get rid of. And yes, he asked me to keep tabs on you. I’m guilty of that, and I’m so sorry. But from the moment we met, we hit it off. You know we did.’

  You were only obeying orders, Barclay. I get it.

  ‘As I got to know you better, I realised what a brilliant job you do. Yes, I did put the dog’s funeral your way, because I wanted to give you a helping hand. I made the mistake of telling Zoe how fantastic you’d been and I’m afraid she tipped off the police and that environmental health officer. We had a hell of a row about it, and all I can do is apologise on her behalf.’

  ‘And that makes everything okay?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And my dad? He’s going to get another job? Just like that. So that’s ok
ay then?’

  ‘That was outrageous. The tipping point. I realised my old man was losing the plot. Don’t you remember, that night I cancelled dinner at the top of the Shard. Told you I’d been called away on urgent business?’

  I do remember, yes.

  ‘So I confronted my father. Told him we were going to leave you alone to turn Happy Endings into the success it deserves to be. But he’s stubborn to the core. Wouldn’t listen. Next thing I knew, you got that solicitor’s letter, threatening you with a lawsuit for lowering the tone of the neighbourhood and wanting compensation. Remember?’

  I nod my head.

  ‘So I went back to France. Told him again that enough was enough. That I was through with doing his bidding. That I’d see the basement through to completion, and then I was done with the family business. He threatened to disinherit me, of course. The old man changes his will more often than he changes his shirts. But he wouldn’t give in. Proper bee in his bonnet. Determined to sue you. In the end, I told him to go right ahead. Said I’d see him in court all right. And that I’d be representing you.’

  I never did hear any more from the solicitors.

  ‘Why should I trust you when you admit you’ve been trying to stitch me up?’

  ‘I made the court case go away. I got Gloria out of trouble. I’ve helped you with the Funeral Expo.’ Barclay is talking faster and faster, louder and louder, and his eyes are glittering with intensity. ‘And because I love you.’

  I want to believe him. I really do.

  ‘Nina, could you possibly sit back down? All this pacing, it’s making me dizzy. I need to tell you everything.’

  Even if he’s telling the truth – and I think he is – what kind of a future could we possibly have, after this?

  I sit back down.

  ‘The reason I printed everything out is because I’m going back to see my father. To finish this once and for all, I needed a lawyer’s dossier. Look, my father emailed me boasting about his real intention. Once he’s opened a coffee shop, he’s going to slash prices to the bone, put the competition out of business and snap up their freeholds for a song. And having demonstrated to the council that retail businesses are no longer profitable, he’ll turn them all into hugely profitable luxury houses.’

  ‘But that would destroy the entire character of Primrose Hill! Turn it into just another minted London suburb.’

  ‘Yes, and unless he abandons the whole crazy idea, I’m going to the media. If the thought of journalists investigating his business empire and its creative tax arrangements doesn’t bring him to heel, nothing will. And then I’m done with the family business. High time I did something more valuable with my life.’

  Barclay puts his elbows down on my desk and props up his head with his fists. ‘So that’s everything,’ he says. ‘Now you know the full story.’ Without looking up, he adds, ‘Talk to me, Nina. Please. Even if it’s only to tell me to fuck off.’

  Could I ever forgive him? Or would this always be in the way?

  ‘Earlier tonight – last night, I mean – when Zoe and I were talking, she said something about you planning to go travelling?’

  ‘Yeah. I was going to do something called flyboarding. You do it in the Caribbean. It’s a cross between water-skiing and flying. You wear these jet-propelled boots for thrust and, if you do it right, you shoot fifteen metres up into the sky.’ Barclay looks up, and for an instant, I see a flash of the man I thought I knew. ‘It’s a twelve-week instructors’ course. They only take eight people a year. But I’ve already decided—’

  ‘Sounds brilliant,’ I interrupt. ‘You should definitely go. Don’t bother to send me a postcard.’

  Funeral Number Five

  ††††

  In Memoriam

  DELE DIER

  1942–2019

  ††††

  BBC BREAKING NEWS ALERT

  Acclaimed conceptual artist Dele Dier has died at a London hospice, aged 77

  Dier studied at the Courtauld Institute of Art, and was twice nominated for the Turner Prize. Fellow artist and lifelong friend Joshua Kent said: ‘The art world has lost a towering figure. Always creative, often controversial, he was one of the most compelling artists of his generation, widely admired and striving to his final breath to explore the essence of art.’

  For more details see the BBC News website.

  LONDON EVENING STANDARD

  Paid mourners take ‘corpsies’ at artist’s bizarre farewell

  Traffic along some of North London’s busiest roads came to a standstill today when 100 mourners dressed as Grim Reapers marched in procession, escorting a horse-drawn glass hearse to Highgate Cemetery where the funeral of renowned artist Dele Dier took place.

  The Reapers, who were paid £50 each, were recruited on social media by friends of Dier. Spokesman Edo Clarkson explained: ‘Earlier this year, Dele attended a joyless funeral with only a handful of mourners. He already knew he was terminally ill and immediately amended his own plans to ensure the ceremony replicated the person he was in life. Namely someone with a wicked sense of humour and no blood relatives remaining. He was amused by the idea of professional sobbers – and I know he would have been thrilled that someone, presumably dyslexic, turned up as a Grim Rapper.’

  Far from sobbing, the black-clothed, scythe-wielding mourners stood at the graveside singing 70s hit ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper’, and swigging ‘dark and deadly’ Grim Reaper cocktails consisting of vodka, gin, tequila and wine. ‘We consulted a top London mixologist who says the ingredients represent the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ explained Dier’s friend, fellow artist and triple Turner Prize winner Joshua Kent.

  A further unusual element of the funeral was Dier’s coffin, which was wrapped in gold paper, tied with a scarlet ribbon and inscribed with a date – 1st December 2019 – and website address: www.deaddeledier.info.

  ‘All will soon become clear,’ Edo Clarkson added. ‘Before the coffin went into the ground, we took plenty of corpsies – selfies featuring the coffin – and I’m authorised to say that a website is currently under construction. Our intention is to remind people that life continues after death, and that Dele will go on in the afterlife. I’d like to thank the awesome, innovative funeral start-up Happy Endings for doing such a great job.’

  A spokesperson for Highgate Cemetery declined to comment.

  45

  Barclay has gone. Vanished.

  It’s been almost a month since fire swept through the basement, destroying bricks, mortar, solid gold sheeting – and my life as I knew it.

  On the day of Dele Dier’s funeral, five days after I saw Barclay that final time, workmen arrived to board up the entire Banks house in Chalcot Square. The neighbours are still furious, complaining a derelict property will affect the value of their own homes. Which is more than a touch ironic. Something Barclay and I could laugh about together, if only he …

  I get stabbing pains in my stomach every time I think about Barclay.

  ‘Nina!’ Gloria’s voice from downstairs. ‘You can’t hide in your room forever! Besides, you’ve got a visitor. Arriving in three minutes.’

  Gloria is interrupting my new hobby. After work, I come here to the sanctuary of my bedroom to stare at the ceiling for hour upon hour, lost in feelings of treachery, loathing and confusion.

  By way of variety, I also indulge in parallel fantasies.

  There’s one where Barclay never leaves his files in the kitchen, we survive the fire, he stops his father’s evil plan, and we all live happily ever after. Another where he convinces me he meant every word he said that hideous night about putting things right and cutting his ties with the family business. And – my current favourite – the one where Eddie Banks stands in front of me, apologising at length for his wickedness.

  What’s this about me having a visitor? I’m not expecting any callers tonight. Chopper, perhaps, but that’s it. Gloria must have made a mistake.

  I drag myself downstairs to find out what
’s happening.

  Gloria’s in the kitchen, putting crisps into a bowl. ‘Eat!’ She waves the bowl under my nose. ‘Sweets, you’re wasting away.’

  Finally, I have found the weight-loss plan that works best for me. The Catastrophe Diet. Six pounds gone – sadly, from all the wrong places – in less than thirty days. The tang of salt and vinegar flavouring wafting up from the Pringles makes me nauseous.

  ‘What’s this about a visitor? Who are you expecting?’

  Gloria plonks a glass of wine in my hand and looks shifty. Before she can enlighten me, the doorbell rings. ‘Just keep your cool,’ she says and dashes from the room before I can ask any more questions.

  A moment later, two voices murmur in the hallway. One belongs to Gloria, the other is familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on—

  No!

  Zoe Banks is in our kitchen. To be fair, she looks as thrilled as I am. As for Gloria … she didn’t even warn me to brush my hair. I know I look terrible.

  Zoe, however, looks worse. Wretched. Her lips are no plumper than my own. She’s wearing nothing more fashionable than an old sweatshirt, jeans and trainers – trainers! – and her eyes are ringed by dark circles.

  Gloria issues Zoe with a glass of wine. Then she tops up my glass and says, ‘You two need to talk. That’s why I invited Zoe over. I’ll leave you to it.’ Before either of us can say anything, far less object, Gloria flees.

  Zoe and I eye one another warily, like boxers who have just stepped into the ring. Finally, I say, ‘We might as well sit down.’ I follow my own suggestion, and a second or so later, Zoe does the same, taking the chair on the opposite side of the kitchen table.

  Zoe lands the first blow. ‘Barclay says he’s never coming back.’

  Her words hit me in the pit of my stomach. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’ I manage. ‘When?’

  ‘The last time was three days ago. We Skyped. But now he’s not even answering texts.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Ten days ago, in the middle of the night, I weakened and called Barclay’s mobile, withholding my own number. I still don’t know what I’d have said if he’d answered. All I got was a foreign dial tone and voicemail.