Or a cigar. Or notes from the grandchildren. I mean, you only have to think about the way weddings have changed in the past few years, with services on the beach, or at the top of the London Eye …’
Zoe has picked up a gold fountain pen and is writing something down, so I trail into silence. Once she’s finished, I’ll ask her to guess some of the most popular music tracks that are played at crematorium services. Start a dialogue instead of lecturing the poor woman.
I watch Zoe’s elbows move in, out and back in as she signs her name, cutting a Z into the paper. Then she leans forward on her throne thing and moves her perfectly made-up face closer to mine.
‘It all sounds very undignified,’ she says. ‘If you have to have a funeral, much better to get it over and done with as quickly as possible, then get back to normal life. But that’s hardly the point. The thing is.’ Zoe purses her banana lips and pauses for emphasis. ‘The thing is, Nina, we don’t do death in Primrose Hill. Michelin-starred restaurants, yes. Designer handbags, absolutely. Health and beauty … well of course, that’s my job. We have a huge local demand for ethical foie gras, even though those smelly protestors were out on the streets demonstrating against the butcher and the fur shop last weekend. Which reminds me, I need to speak to the police commissioner to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Look,’ Zoe tries – and fails – to smile, ‘we even sell chocolate and perfume. Everyday essentials the local community can’t manage without. We give people what they want. And there’s just no demand for death, I assure you. I can’t imagine what possessed my father to encourage you. A clear error of judgement if you ask me.’
Wow!
And without further ado, Zoe’s on her feet, her arm under my elbow, walking me to the door. I want to retort with a bold statement, explaining Happy Endings is here to do a job, to cater for a need, just like the chocolate shop. Or, indeed, the spa. But my cheeks are burning as if I’ve been slapped in the face and I know I’ll struggle to speak without crumpling. Which means Zoe has the last word.
‘If you like, I’ll do what I can to help you get out of the lease,’ she offers. ‘Otherwise, you’ll be gone by Christmas. I bet on it. In fact, I already have. We’re running a sweepstake to guess the date you’ll close. We all thought it was a great way to help fund the Christmas lights.’
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