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10

Thank goodness for Chopper! If it weren’t for him, I’d find it hard to get out of bed in the morning. After my humiliating meeting with Zoe Banks, I just wanted to lock myself away and hide. But Chopper’s having none of it. He expects to be in the park at eight o’clock, wreaking havoc, so I’ve got into the habit of walking him before I open the shop, although walking is hardly the right word. Chopper is a force of nature – as soon as I slip his lead, he’s away! Eager and surprisingly elegant for such a huge creature. Paws pounding like hooves, at least until he comes across some delicious distraction, such as rearranging the flowerbeds with his paws, chasing a wheelchair, or joyfully demonstrating his superpowers by turning a flock of pigeons into fifty black specks in the sky merely by lumbering towards them.

I’m now on ‘Good-morning-how-are-you?’ terms with a whole bunch of other dog owners, which is something to cheer me up first thing. In fact, it’s often as much conversation as I get during the entire working day … because it’s still ‘No Business as Usual’ at Happy Endings, and I don’t know what to do, short of entering Zoe Bloody Banks’s sweepstake in the hope of winning back the fifty grand I owe my dad for foolishly investing in me and my stillborn business.

It’s been a month. Time enough to stop kidding myself that all I have to do is raise awareness.

I’ve put leaflets through every door in Primrose Hill announcing my arrival. Then, when I called the local paper to see if they’d run an article about Happy Endings, they put me through to someone who insisted I could transform the fortunes of my business simply by spending two hundred and fifty pounds a week on advertising until I foolishly surrendered my credit card details.

Response? Zero.

I’ve also introduced myself to most of the other shopkeepers – none of whom went out of their way to be friendly, not even the florist, who’s usually an undertaker’s closest business ally – and confirmed my worst fears by reading the latest edition of our trade paper, whose front page declared Britain now has an ‘over-supply’ of funeral directors. By which I strongly suspect they mean me.

Perhaps I should look for a part-time job. Evenings in a pub or restaurant. At least that would keep some cash trickling in. I was talking to Edo last night about the possibility of—

What the hell!

Someone on a scooter is racing down Primrose Hill. Far too fast. Directly towards Chopper.

‘Mind my dog!’ I yell, as I run towards the accident that’s about to happen.

Chopper, unaware of the danger, is on the main path at the bottom of the hill, head deep inside a carrier bag that’s been abandoned next to a rubbish bin. The idiot on the scooter, meanwhile, responds to my anguished cry by taking one hand off his handlebars and waving at me. What am I supposed to do? Move Chopper out of the way?

Much too late to do anything at all.

Chopper is lumbering up the hill, greeting the scooter as if it’s another dog out to play. I can hardly bear to look … a millisecond before impact, the idiot dodges Chopper with the insouciant panache of a slalom skier, only to careen head-first into a tree trunk on the other side of the path.

I sprint towards his body. ‘Are you okay?’ I yell.

Serves him right if he’s not.

The scooter has come to rest on the grass, wheels still spinning. Its owner is picking himself up off the ground, and brushing grass from his skinny jeans. He runs an index finger along one of his cheekbones to wipe away a trail of dirt, then rotates his shoulder blades, as if to check nothing’s broken. He looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t imagine why.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he says. ‘Just a bit winded. Sorry if I scared you.’

The idiot’s pleasantly deep voice and immediate contrition catches me off-guard. I’d been all set to tell him off for dangerous driving. But that was when I’d assumed he was a teenage boy, rather than the man of about my own age who is now stroking Chopper.

‘She’s right,’ he tells the dog. ‘I was going much too fast. But it’s such a wonderful feeling. Like flying.’ Then he looks up at me. ‘Buy you a quick coffee, by way of apology?’

I mean to say no. But the idiot is in possession of a mischievous smile, sparkling grey eyes, and a T-shirt that says, Honk if You’re About to Run Me Over.

It’s not as if I need to get to work on time to begin another soul-destroying day of no clients, so thirty minutes later we’re still sitting outside at one of the cafés on the high street, across the road from Happy Endings. Chopper is refuelling on ice-cold water from a bucket-sized bowl. I’m on my second latte, wishing I’d followed suit when the idiot ordered himself a breakfast butty that overflows with dripping butter, bacon and HP sauce. It smells delicious.

‘Okay if I give some to Chopper?’ The idiot breaks off a generous portion of his breakfast and lobs it in Chopper’s direction. The dog rises with gravity-defying grace, captures the snack before it hits the ground, and proceeds to chew daintily.

I sit and salivate, trying – and failing – to look elsewhere as the final sliver of buttery bacon disappears. He’s got nice hands, the idiot. It’s one of the things I always notice about a man. Assessing their suitability to carry a coffin. These are strong, capable hands. Well-manicured, too.

The idiot evidently cares about his appearance and if I’m not mistaken he’s even wearing a splash of cologne, fresh and spicy, with a hint of fir. Doesn’t smell as good as the bacon, but not a bad second.

‘So do you live around here?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Professional dog walker?’

‘Still no.’ I’m not meaning to be unfriendly so I say it with a smile. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh, my dad’s got a house up the road, and I was just popping in. I work for the family business. Property management mostly, and boring stuff involving corporate law. We’ve been doing a lot of insolvencies lately.’

He says this as though it’s a good thing and I can’t help but think of Gloria. If she were with us now, she’d say, ‘You’re the type of lawyer who makes rich people richer. The type of lawyer I never want to be.’

Disloyally, I realise the idiot would most likely scrub up pretty well if he swapped his jeans and T-shirt for a business suit.

‘Do you like it?’ he’s asking me.

‘Pardon?’

‘My T-shirt. You were staring at it.’ Before I can apologise he continues, ‘I got a brilliant one yesterday. Going paintballing next week, and I came across one in Camden Market that says, Why Should You Date a Paintballer?’

He leaves the question hanging.

‘Go on, then,’ I encourage him. ‘Tell me why I should date a paintballer?’

‘Because we’ve got a lot of balls. That’s what’s written on the back. Convincing, huh?’

There’s something about the guileless way he says it that makes me laugh. His company is an unexpected treat on what’s bound to turn out to be another lonely day.

‘I’m in desperate need of another bacon butty and more coffee. Say yes this time?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes please.’

Just as our refills arrive, something slots into place. ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ I ask.

‘Is that the best you’ve got?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re flirting with me, right?’

‘Me? No! Of course not. I have seen you before. On rollerblades. Going past my shop.’

‘Which shop would that be?’

‘Over there.’ I point towards Happy Endings, sit back and wait for the inevitable response.

But the idiot proves the exception to the rule. ‘Noggsie’s old shop, right?’ he says pleasantly. ‘So how’s business?’

‘Okay.’ I’m not about to confess it’s non-existent. I pause for a strategic mouthful of bacon butty, while I attempt to swallow the accusation of flirting. He’s sort of right. I’m definitely enjoying his company. Since that night with Jason, I’ve started noticing men again. There’ve been one or two who I – admit it, Nina – actually fancied.

And the idiot makes three.

‘I’d better go to work,’ I say.

‘Why? Are there some dead people I don’t know about? Did I miss the news story about the avalanche in Tufnell Park last night?’

‘You’re a very bad man.’ It’s the sort of remark I’d expect from a colleague rather than a civilian, and the mock shock-horror way he says it is actually quite funny.

‘I try not to be. Stay a while.’ The idiot brushes my wrist with his fingers. ‘More coffee?’

Last time I drank four lattes for breakfast I was still awake at two o’clock the following morning.

‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘And why don’t you tell me about the paintballing?’

He needs no second invitation. ‘There’s this huge woodland site between Edinburgh and Glasgow,’ he begins. ‘All sorts of scenarios. The village hostage rescue looks the most fun. That’s where you get to use the paint thrower.’ He sees my puzzled expression and clarifies, ‘It’s basically a huge water cannon filled with paint. The ordinary paintballs are a mixture of oil, gelatine and dye, and we fire them through nitrogen-powered compressed air.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘I have no idea.’ The idiot looks puzzled. ‘No-one’s ever marked me. I always win.’

‘You do this a lot, then?’

‘Once before. When I was seven. If it works out I’m going to sign up for this place in Oklahoma where you spend a week recreating the D-Day battles. With paint. If you pay a bit extra, you can lead the French Resistance.’

By the time the idiot has finished telling me about battle packs, paint pods, flag capturing, defensive bunker play, ravine negotiation and a legendary character called The Paint Punk, I’m thinking I’d love to go paintballing. With him.

And then I realise what’s really going on.

All this military talk … well, for a few minutes, it was just like old times.

Old times with Ryan.

My husband.

Captain Ryan Sherwood.

That day I watched him being presented with his Afghanistan Operational Service Medal was one of the proudest of my life.

And now?

I’m ashamed to realise that instead of thinking about Ryan’s funeral, I’ve been imagining myself on a date with a man who knows absolutely nothing about the savage realities of military life.

The idiot has stopped talking and for the first time in more than an hour the silence between us feels awkward.

‘You’re not how I imagined a corporate lawyer,’ I blurt out.

‘Says the lady undertaker. Sorry … there’s nothing I’d rather do than sit and talk to you for the rest of the day. But it looks like you’ve got a customer.’

I turn to see a man peering through the window of Happy Endings, then rattling on the door.

Business at last!

And a timely reminder that my priority is work.

Not relationships.

‘I’d better dash. Come on, Chopper. Thanks for breakfast. Good luck with the paintballing, and drive that thing,’ I point at his scooter, ‘more safely in future.’

‘Bye for now.’ He hesitates. Then, ‘Look, let me give you my number. Perhaps we can have dinner.’

I punch his details into my phone. Rude not to. Not as if I’m ever going to call him. But as I walk briskly across the street, rubbing the finger that used to wear a wedding ring, I acknowledge the idiot is charismatic in a man-child kind of way. Far too old to be riding a child’s toy, but at least he has good manners.

And Barclay is a pretty cool name.

11

‘Ah, there you are.’ The man who’s been looking into my shop hears me approaching and turns round at the sound of my footsteps.

I recognise him. Gareth Manning. Runs one of our neighbourhood’s abundance of estate agencies. I’ve overheard him several times in the street, braying with his colleagues about soaring house prices, boasting that if he learns a few phrases of Japanese he’ll be able to add a further thirty thousand to the price tag of a studio flat. He looks from me to his watch.

‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ he says.

‘So sorry I’m late.’ I quickly unlock and usher Gareth in through the door. Chopper and I follow. ‘Just give me a few moments,’ I say. I walk Chopper down to the basement and settle him onto his day bed, next to the fridges – which have been behaving themselves perfectly, although gobbling vast amounts of electricity since they have yet to accommodate anyone – and then retrace my steps.

‘Gareth, isn’t it?’ I say. We shake hands. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘I’ve come to measure up. And take pictures.’

‘For what?’ I’m bewildered because Gareth has the look of someone who’s made an appointment to see me.

‘The shop.’ Gareth flicks open the catches on his briefcase and produces a camera plus some gadget that shoots out a laser of light when he points it at the wall.

‘For what? Why?’ I’m baffled.

‘You know.’ Gareth sounds embarrassed, whereas before he was merely impatient to get on with his work. ‘The lease, and that.’

‘What about the lease?’

Now Gareth looks shifty. ‘Well, aren’t you surrendering it at the end of the month?’ He keeps his eyes studiously to the floor, then mutters, ‘Personally, I think you’ve made a good decision. No call for your kind of business around here, is there?’

If I weren’t so shocked, I’d tell Gareth that more people will die in our neighbourhood this year than will buy homes. And that we have only one undertaker, as opposed to half a dozen estate agents, all of whom seem to make a handsome living.

At least, that’s what I wish I’d said when I rerun this scene in my mind hours later. But for now, I’m dumbfounded. I can feel my face turning the colour of a pillar box. ‘Who told you that? About the lease?’

Before I can discover the source of Gareth’s misinformation, we are both startled by the sound of a ringing phone.

‘Excuse me,’ I mutter. Then, ‘Hello, Happy Endings. This is Nina speaking.’

Probably yet another cold caller trying to convince me I’m owed a fortune for payment protection insurance I know I never had in the first place.

But there’s nothing brash about the voice on the other end of the line. It’s female, shaky, and a bit muffled. ‘Is that … the undertaker?’

‘Yes, you’re through to Happy Endings,’ I repeat. ‘May I help you?’ My heart is racing. This is the call I have been waiting for. Gareth is fiddling with his laser pointy thing, and I’d like to order him to leave, but I don’t want to break off from this important phone call to speak to someone else, so I turn my back on him and listen.

‘I need to arrange a funeral.’

‘Of course. Might I have the name of the deceased, please?’

‘Kelli Shapiro.’

‘Kelli Shapiro?’ The Kelli Shapiro? The famous Kelli Shapiro? The woman who declared her two Oscars make splendid bookends, at least according to what I once read in Grazia. I’m relieved I’ve managed to keep the shock from my voice. ‘Let me just check the spelling on that,’ I say. ‘Kelli with a double l? And S-h-a-p-i-r-o.’

‘That’s right.’ A whisper.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you. If I give you the address, would you be able to come round to make the arrangements?’

‘Of course.’ I scribble it down. The big blue house facing the park. ‘What time would be convenient for you?’

‘Could you come now?’

‘Of course.’ I put down the phone.

Gavin has been packing up his briefcase. ‘Kelli Shapiro, eh?’ he says, trying and failing to quell his excitement. ‘Suicide? Drugs?’

Coldly, I escort him the few steps to the front door and seize the advantage. ‘Who told you to come here today?’

‘Can’t tell you that. Client confidentiality. You know how it is.’ Gareth hesitates, then adds, ‘Tell you what. Get me an introduction to sell Kelli’s house, and I’ll cut you in on my commission.’

I shut the door in his face.

12

Kelli Shapiro’s home is only a few minutes away. I force myself to walk slowly, although my mind is racing and my heart is hammering. Kelli’s next-of-kin must have seen my advert in the local paper, so it turns out I wasn’t squandering my start-up funds, after all.

Kelli Shapiro! Growing up, Mum was always teasing my dad about Kelli Shapiro. He had an enormous crush on her. ‘It’s just that she’s got magnificent comic timing,’ he’d protest. ‘Britain’s answer to Meg Ryan.’

‘And such a fine actress. Especially when she’s fighting the Mafia, dressed only in a chain-mail bikini,’ Mum would retort. ‘Shall I book tickets for Friday?’

Which means … I do some rapid mental arithmetic. Kelli Shapiro couldn’t have been much more than sixty. Part of me is shocked, as it always is when you hear someone famous has died. I wonder if Dad’s listening to the news this morning.

Okay, enough of being starstruck. Time – at last – for me to do my job.

Organising a funeral is very much like organising a wedding, except you’ve got far less time to make everything perfect … and a body instead of a bride. Just like a wedding planner, my top priority is to make sure it’s all as stress-free as possible. I wonder if Kelli left any instructions for her funeral? There’s no way of knowing whether it will turn out to be a huge, celebrity-filled gathering, or a private ceremony for family and close friends. No matter, whatever the family wants, I’ll make certain it happens.

At Kelli Shapiro’s townhouse, I push open the metal gate and walk the few yards to the front door. I run my fingers through my hair and adjust my jacket to make sure I look neat and tidy before taking a deep breath and pressing the doorbell.

Footsteps on the other side of the door, then through a panel of opaque glass, I see a shadow walking towards me.

The door is opened by a casually dressed middle-aged woman. Dirty-blonde hair in a pixie cut that reminds me of Kelli herself – I’ve seen several of her films on TV – and I notice a definite family resemblance, although there’s nothing movie-star glamorous about the woman who’s standing in front of me.

‘Come on in,’ she says.

I follow her along the hallway into a comfortable, shabby-chic kitchen. The scrubbed pine table, chintz-covered chairs and abundance of wild flowers seem more seaside cottage than metropolitan London. There’s even a wonderful smell of freshly baked bread coming from the Aga.

‘Take a seat,’ the woman says. A moment later, she places a jug of coffee in front of me, then sits down on the other side of the table. ‘I suppose we ought to get started.’ She looks at me expectantly.

‘Yes,’ I begin. ‘As I said on the phone, I’m Nina Sherwood. And you are …’ I pull out a notepad from my bag, and take the top off my pen.

‘Kelli’s my name,’ the woman says. ‘Kelli Shapiro.’ She looks at me then adds, ‘You’ve gone terribly pale, my love. Everything all right? If you’re not feeling well, we can leave my first Italian lesson for another day.’

‘Italian lesson?’

‘Well, you’re an hour early. But sì.’ The woman pauses. ‘Darling, you’re staring at me as if I’ve got two heads. What on earth’s wrong? Did they not tell you that I’m … well, I’m in the public eye.’ Kelli pulls a self-deprecating face.

Even though I’m sitting down, my legs are shaking. ‘Did someone from this house just make a phone call to the … the shop down the road called Happy Endings?’

‘Happy Endings? The new funeral parlour that half my neighbours are up in arms about?’ Now it’s the woman – Kelli – who looks nonplussed.

A full ten seconds of silence.

Then she asks, ‘Why would someone from my house call your business? Especially as I’m the only person here.’ A note of steel enters her voice. ‘You had a phone call?’

I nod.

‘And?’

I’m unable to speak.

‘Did someone put you up to this?’

Kelli’s tone has shifted from steel to fury, and I do something I have done only once before in all my years as an undertaker.

I start to cry while I’m at work.

Kelli sits across the table, watching. I feel her pale blue eyes scrutinise me as though I am some particularly hideous insect, floundering in its own liquid.

I’m reaching for a handkerchief to wipe my eyes, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

‘Nina, tell me what happened. Please,’ Kelli says, all anger gone from her voice. ‘I’m sorry you’re so upset. Whatever’s happened, I’m sure it’s not your fault. Not unless you’re a better actress than I am.’ Kelli goes back to her seat on the other side of the table, then gently asks, ‘Who called you?’

‘A woman.’

‘What did she say?’

‘That she needed to organise a funeral.’

‘For whom?’

My tear-stained face tells Kelli Shapiro everything she needs to know. ‘For me,’ she says softly. ‘Wasn’t it?’

I manage a nod. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘First of all, whatever this is, it’s not your fault. Second of all, I’m going to pour myself a vodka. Join me?’

Another nod.

Kelli mixes two giant vodka tonics quickly and efficiently. She places a crystal tumbler in my hand, sits down next to me and raises her glass. ‘L’Chaim!’ she declares. ‘To life!’

I’ll definitely drink to that. I take a gulp and feel the alcohol burn a fiery trail down my body. Better.

Kelli has taken charge. ‘So here’s what I think has happened,’ she says. ‘Someone’s played an extremely cruel practical joke. The question is, are they trying to get at me, or at you?’

‘Oh me, definitely,’ I say. ‘You would have been my first client.’ Oh Lord, the vodka’s got my tongue. I so should not have said that.

To my surprise, Kelli lifts her head back and laughs. A genuine, throaty chuckle. I remember how much Dad loves that laugh.

An infectious laugh that sets me off, too.

‘Reminds me of a funeral I went to,’ Kelli splutters. ‘Someone started with the inappropriate giggles. Well, next thing you know, two hundred people are trying not to join in. We were all stood there with our heads down, biting on our lips, faces contorted, Botox notwithstanding, pretending to hold back the tears. Contagious hysteria, or what?’

‘You’d be surprised how often it happens.’ The professional in me reasserts itself. ‘It’s a displacement for grief. Funerals force people to think about their own mortality.’

A shadow passes across Kelli’s face. ‘Can I trust you?’ she says.

‘Well … yes. Of course. Despite evidence to the contrary.’

‘I feel I can,’ Kelli says. ‘I’m very intuitive. Look, it’s possible this joke wasn’t aimed just at you. I’ve not been entirely well.’

Oh my God.

‘They’ve been treating me in Switzerland and everything’s fine again. For now. But it’s all been kept terribly hush-hush. If it gets out, I’ll never work again. Film insurance and all that. The thing is, I’m chasing a big part at the moment. Me and every actress of a certain age on both sides of the Atlantic. So there’s a possibility that tricking you into coming here is actually sending a message to me. That someone’s found out about my … condition, and this is their way of threatening to tell the movie people.’ Kelli looks thoughtful. Perhaps she’s going through a mental list of her rivals.

I’m about to thank Kelli for trusting me with such a big secret when her phone rings. She looks at the screen. ‘Contact of mine who does showbiz for TMZ,’ she says. ‘Maybe he knows something about the movie. Do you mind if I take it?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Robert, darling.’ Kelli listens intently for a moment. ‘Well yes, of course I’m answering my mobile. What were you expecting?’ She flicks her phone into speaker mode, and puts it on the table.

‘We had a release that—’ The man on the other end of the phone is stammering. ‘According to the Press Association, you’ve, er, passed away. All I’ve got is your mobile number and I was hoping someone would answer the phone.’

Kelli doesn’t miss a beat. She does her wonderful laugh again then says, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Robert. Anyone would think it’s April the first. I think someone’s got their wires crossed. Sorry to kill the story, darling. But – and I’ve always wanted to say this – I think you’ll find reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’

With that, Kelli ends the call. ‘I need to talk to my management,’ she says. ‘But I’m glad to have met you. Weird though it is. Good luck with your business, and I’ll tell my neighbours you’re just a normal person trying to do a difficult job. I can tell you’re very good at it, too.’

We walk together to the door. Kelli’s phone is ringing again but she takes no notice and kisses me on the cheek. ‘See you around,’ she says.

I walk slowly back to work, deep in thought. Even though Kelli seems to think this horrible trick was aimed at her, I’m not convinced. What with Gareth Manning appearing out of the blue to measure up my shop …

And then it hits me. I still have no business.

The hundreds of pounds I’ve spent on those bloody adverts have had no effect. I might just as well have poured Dad’s pension money down the drain. Maybe I should give up now while I’m still in a position to return some of his savings.

I’m back on the high street, where there’s some sort of commotion going on. A scrum of at least ten people in a huddle at the café where I had coffee this morning with Barclay.

I hear one of the guys shout, ‘There she is.’

Then they all swarm towards me. In a pack. Pointing cameras.

‘Why did you do it, Nina?’ bellows someone I’ve never seen in my life. How come he knows my name?

‘Was it just a sick PR stunt? Trying to get your business on the map?’ shouts someone else.

‘And what about Kelli Shapiro? Is she in on it too? Trying to get herself back in the spotlight because her career is on the skids?’

Jesus. Now I get it.

‘Kelli had nothing to do with it!’ I sprint the final few yards to the door of Happy Endings. I fumble with the lock – the key wobbles all over the place in my trembling hand – until I’m finally able to let myself in. Then I lock the door from the inside, and flee to the basement.

Only when I am cuddling Chopper, who is delighted to see me, do I realise I was so flustered that what I just said to the paparazzi could easily be interpreted as an admission of guilt.