Peggy narrowed her eyes.
“What?” Andrew said.
“Oh, nothing,” Peggy said. “I was just thinking about a moment in Sainsbury’s about a week ago when I nearly punched you in your stupid face.”
“. . . Right,” Andrew said, deciding not to probe that one any further.
“There’s something else I want to show you too,” Peggy said, reaching into her Tardis bag again and pulling out her phone. “Obviously it’s a bit too late to help poor old Josephine find company, bless her, but what do you reckon about this?” She passed her phone over to Andrew, who wiped his fingers on a paper napkin before he took it. It was a post Peggy had drafted in Facebook.
“You know what?” Andrew said, once he’d finished reading it.
“What?”
“You’re actually brilliant.”
Andrew wouldn’t have thought Peggy capable of blushing, but her cheeks were definitely tinged pink.
“So shall I post it?” she said.
“Abso-bloody-lutely,” Andrew said. He handed her phone back and watched her upload the post just as his own phone started to ring.
“Yes, no, I understand, thanks, but like I said that’s out of my price range, I’m afraid. Okay, thank you, bye.”
“‘Out of my price range, I’m afraid,’” Peggy said. “Are you buying a yacht or something?”
“That’s next on the list, obviously. For now, I’m trying to move house.”
“Wow. Really?”
“I think it’s for the best. Time to move on.”
“So now you’re experiencing the joy of speaking to all those lovely lettings agents.”
“Yep. I’ve never had so many people lie to me in such a short space of time.”
“You have much to learn, my friend.”
Andrew rubbed his eyes and yawned. “All I want is to live in a converted train station on top of a mountain with sea views and Wi-Fi and easy access to central London, is that so much to ask?”
“Have another cookie,” Peggy said, patting him on the top of the head.
* * *
—
They were nearly back at the office—despite coming close to making an executive decision to dedicate the afternoon to Scrabble in the pub.
Andrew had been building up the courage, again, to ask whether Peggy had overheard him in Rupert’s kitchen, and this felt like the most opportune moment he’d had in the last few days.
“So, the other night . . .”
But he didn’t get a chance to finish, because Peggy suddenly grabbed his arm. “Look,” she muttered.
Cameron had arrived at the office ahead of them and was skipping nimbly up the stairs. He stopped to search for his building pass, only finding it once Andrew and Peggy had caught up with him.
“Hi, Cameron,” Peggy said. “We weren’t expecting you back till next week.”
Cameron busied himself with his phone as he spoke. “Had to come back early,” he said. “Last day of the course got canceled. Salmonella, it would seem. I’m the only one who managed to escape it. Well, hopefully,” he added.
The three of them walked down the corridor in silence. When they got to their office Cameron held the door open so Peggy could go through, then turned to Andrew and said, “Could we have a quick word in my office when you have a moment?”
“Sure,” Andrew said. “Can I ask wha—”
“See you in a minute then,” Cameron said, walking away before Andrew could say anything else. He didn’t know exactly what was coming, but he could make a reasonable guess that he wasn’t going to be awarded a knighthood.
A few weeks ago he would have been panic-stricken. But not anymore. He was ready for this. He dumped his stuff by his desk and made his way straight to Cameron’s office.
“Andrew,” Peggy hissed from across the room, her eyes wide with concern.
He smiled at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
— CHAPTER 38 —
Another day, another funeral.
Today was the day Josephine Murray said good-bye to the world, and Andrew was the only one returning her farewell. He shifted his position on the creaky pew and exchanged smiles with the vicar. When Andrew had greeted him earlier that morning it had taken him a moment to realize he was actually the floppy-haired youngster whom he’d watched conduct his very first funeral service. Though that had only been earlier that year, he already looked to have aged considerably. It wasn’t just that his hair was neater, in a more conservative side parting, it was also in the way that he carried himself—it was more assured. Andrew felt oddly paternal, seeing how much he seemed to have matured. They had spoken briefly on the phone beforehand and Andrew, after discussing it with Peggy, had decided to relate parts of Josephine’s diary so that the vicar was able to add a bit more color to the service, and make it more personal.
Andrew swiveled to look to the back of the church. Where, then, was Peggy?
The vicar approached. “I’ll give it another minute or so, but then I’ll really need to start, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Of course, I understand,” Andrew said.
“How many were you expecting?”
That was the problem. Andrew didn’t have a clue. It all depended on how Peggy had gotten on.
“Don’t worry too much,” he said. “I don’t want to cause a holdup.”
But just then the church door swung open, and there was Peggy. She looked flustered at first, but then relief flooded her face when she saw that the service hadn’t started yet. She held the door for someone behind her—there was at least one other person, then—and made her way up the aisle. Andrew watched as first one, then two, then three people came in after her. There was a short gap, and then, to Andrew’s amazement, a steady stream of people filed in until he lost count at over thirty.
Peggy arrived next to him. “So sorry we’re late,” she whispered. “We had a decent response on the Facebook page but then we managed to round up a few people from Bob’s Café across the road last minute.” She nodded at a man wearing a blue and white checked apron. “Including Bob!”
The vicar waited until everyone was seated before making his way to his lectern. After the initial formalities he decided—spontaneously, it looked to Andrew—to leave his lectern, and his notes with it, so that he could be nearer to the congregation.
“As it happens, I have a little something in common with Josephine,” he said. “My grandmother was her namesake—she was always Granny Jo to me—and they both kept diaries. Now, my granny’s, which we were only allowed to read once she’d passed away, was of course of great intrigue to us. It was only when we were finally able to read it that we realized she’d written most of the entries after a couple of strong gin and tonics, and so they were pretty hard to read in places.” There was a warm ripple of laughter from the congregation and Andrew felt Peggy take his hand.
“From what I gather from the good people who’ve looked after Josephine’s affairs, her own diary shows her to be witty, bright and full of life. And while she was someone not shy of a strong opinion, especially when it came to television schedulers or weathermen, her warmth and strength of character are what leap off the pages.”
Peggy squeezed Andrew’s hand and he squeezed back.
“Josephine may not have had family or friends around her when she died,” the vicar continued. “And today might well have felt like a lonely occasion. So what a wonderful thing it is to look out over so many of you who have given up your time to be here today. None of us can be sure at the start of our lives just how they will end, or what our journey there will be like, but if we were to know for sure that our final moments would be in the company of good souls such as yourselves, we would surely be comforted. So thank you. May I invite you now to stand and join me in a moment of contemplati
on.”
* * *
—
The service over, the vicar waited by the church door and took a moment to thank everyone individually for coming. Andrew even overheard him telling Bob that of course he’d love to pop over later “for a cuppa,” but saying he’d probably pass on the muffins. “But they’re massive!” Bob remonstrated. “You won’t get a bigger one for miles around, honestly.”
“I think he’s made about twenty new customers today,” Peggy said. “Good on him, the cheeky bugger.”
They strolled toward a bench and Andrew brushed away some fallen leaves so they could sit down.
“So, are you actually going to tell me how it went with Cameron?” Peggy said.
Andrew leaned back and looked up at the sky, watching a distant plane leaving the faintest of vapor trails. It felt good, stretching his neck like this. He should do it more.
“Andrew?”
What was there to say?
The conversation had been meandering and inconclusive. Cameron had been at pains to say how much he was on Andrew’s side, how if it was up to him he’d let the revelations from the dinner party go. But then he’d started to pepper what he was saying with phrases like “duty bound” and “following protocol.”
“You understand I have to say something?” he’d concluded. “Because, whatever the reasons for doing what you . . . did, it’s all still rather troubling.”
“I know,” Andrew had said. “Believe me, I know.”
“I mean, bloody hell, Andrew, if you were in my position, what would you do?”
Andrew had gotten to his feet. “Cameron, listen, I think you should do what your instincts tell you, and if that means reporting me to someone up the chain, or if it gives you a neat solution to the cutbacks issue were it to come up again, then I understand. I won’t hold it against you.”
“But—”
“Honestly. To have everything out in the open, to have been able to move on, that’s more important to me than keeping this job. If it helps you out with a tricky decision, then I’m genuinely fine with that.”
God, what a relief it had been to be able to speak as freely as this. To open himself up to new possibilities. He’d thought of Peggy’s campaign. The more they’d discussed it, the more energized he’d felt.
“Besides,” he’d said to Cameron. “It’s about time I finally figured out what I’m going to do with my life.”
* * *
—
Peggy brought him back to the present as she took his hand. “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it now.”
Andrew shook his head. “No, we can. So, it looks like I’m going to be let go.”
“Oh my god,” Peggy said, clapping her hands to her mouth, eyes wide.
“But,” Andrew said, “Cameron has promised to try and find me a position in another department.”
“And you’ll go for it, you think?”
“Yes,” Andrew said.
“Right, well that’s . . . good,” Peggy said, a tinge of disappointment in her voice.
“Though only temporarily,” Andrew said.
“Really?” Peggy said quickly, eyes searching Andrew’s. He nodded.
“I’ve been doing a bit of research. About charity funding. You need a fair wedge up front to start one, around five thousand pounds. But I have the money Sally left me. I’ve not had any better ideas about how to spend it, and I know she’d be really happy with me using it for something like this.”
Peggy was looking at him with such a strong mixture of confusion and excitement that Andrew had to stop himself from laughing.
“I’m talking about your campaign idea, just in case you weren’t quite there,” he said. “And I was thinking, maybe you could, you know, help me. See if we can make a proper go of it.”
“This is . . . Andrew . . . I don’t quite . . .”
“I’m not saying it’s definitely possible,” Andrew said. “We might fall at the first hurdle. But we can give it our best shot.”
Peggy was nodding at him very firmly. “We can, we absolutely can,” she said. “Let’s talk about it more over dinner tonight—if the offer’s still on, that is?”
“It very much is,” Andrew said. He’d found a new flat that morning—a chance spot on one of the four bewildering apps he’d downloaded—and even though it meant he’d have to move the following week he’d made the decision to do it on the spot. Part of him did feel a little sad about moving, but at least with Peggy’s coming around that evening he’d be able to see the old place off in style.
“Quick question,” he said. “You do like beans on toast, right?”
“My favorite, obviously,” Peggy said, looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes, not sure if he was joking or not. “But right now, I don’t know about you, but I could murder a massive muffin.”
“Why not,” Andrew said. They held each other’s gaze for a moment.
He saw again her and the girls rushing down the platform toward him at King’s Cross, and his heart flickered once more with a sense of possibility.
He had given up on how he was going to broach the subject of whether Peggy had overheard him talking about his feelings for her in Rupert’s kitchen. He was just stupidly happy that she was there now, at his side, knowing everything there was to know about him. That, he realized, was more than enough.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my wonderful agent, Laura Williams. Words can’t express how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me.
To Clare Hey at Orion and Tara Singh Carlson at Putnam. I am so lucky to be working with two such brilliant editors and publishers. Thanks for everything.
Thank you to everyone at Orion, especially Virginia Woolstencroft, Katie Moss, Harriet Bourton, Sarah Benton, Oliva Barber, Katie Espiner, Lynsey Sutherland, Anna Bowen, Tom Noble and Fran Pathak. And to all at Putnam, especially Helen Richard, Alexis Welby, Katie McKee and Sandra Chiu.
To the awesome Alexandra Cliff—I shall remember that phone call for a very long time. Also, to the brilliant Marilia Savvides, Rebecca Wearmouth, Laura Otal, Jonathan Sissons and everyone else at PFD.
To Kate Rizzo and all at Greene & Heaton.
Special thanks to Ben Willis for reading this at an early stage and giving me invaluable advice in a Camberwell Wetherspoons, and for being there for me from the beginning. So too has been Holly Harris (official). Thank you for everything, especially stopping me from going insane in Wahaca when I found out I was getting published. I am very lucky to call two such excellent people my friends.
To my good pals Emily “Half Pint” Griffin and Lucy Dauman. You’re the absolute best.
Thank you to Sarah Emsley and Jonathan Taylor—I couldn’t wish for two more kind, wise and good-natured people as mentors and as friends.
To the rest of the gang at Headline for being wonderful to work with, and whose celebratory messages to me the moment the news came out gave me so much joy. Special thanks to Imogen Taylor, Sherise Hobbs, Auriol Bishop and Frances Doyle.
To the following, for their encouragement, support and advice: Elizabeth Masters, Beau Merchant, Emily Kitchin, Sophie Wilson, Ella Bowman, Frankie Gray, Chrissy Heleine, Maddy Price, Richard Glynn, Charlotte Mendelson, JJ Moore, Gill Hornby, Robert Harris.
To Katy and Libby—wonderful, supportive sisters. Love you guys.
Finally, to my mum, Alison, and dad, Jeremy, to whom this book is dedicated—this is all down to you.
— A CONVERSATION —
WITH RICHARD ROPER
What is your debut novel, Something to Live For, about?
Something to Live For is about a man called Andrew, whose job is to search for people’s next of kin when they’ve died alone. Andrew has got himself trapped in a lie where his colleagues think he’s happily married with kids. When we meet him at the start of the book, he has fully embr
aced this fantasy as a way to stave off his loneliness, but then a new person, Peggy, comes into his life, and everything changes.
This is such a unique premise for a book. What inspired you to write this story?
I was idly browsing the Internet one day when I came across an article following a day in the life of the local authority workers whose job is to investigate when someone dies without a next of kin. I was struck by what an unusual way to make a living that was. Also, how profoundly weird it must feel to be the person to sort through a stranger’s possessions after their death, trying to piece everything together. The workers in the article were painted as stoic and matter-of-fact, without giving away anything about their personalities, and I couldn’t help but want to know more about them and their lives. That’s when I began to write Andrew’s story.
Is Andrew based on anyone real? Do you personally relate to him?
When I first started to think about the idea for the book, I did actually watch a very short interview with a man who does Andrew’s job, and there was certainly something measured and calm about him that helped me decide on how Andrew should present himself to the world—which is completely at odds with all his internal angst and neuroses. I do definitely relate to Andrew. There are certain personality traits of his that are exaggerated versions of my own, and when I’d finished the book—without turning this too much into an amateur therapy session; I am a repressed Brit, after all—I realized that the lessons Andrew learns in the story are attributable in some way to my own life.
What kind of research did you do to write this novel?
I read lots about public health funerals and what Andrew’s job entails, and throughout the writing of the book I was always coming across articles about the rise of “pauper’s funerals” and statistics showing how more and more people—of all ages and demographics—are experiencing loneliness. In an earlier draft of the book, there was a lot more in there about the practicalities of Andrew’s job, but in the end it became a bit too distracting from the story, so lots of that came out.
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