At least if I’m alone, the only person with the power to disappoint me is myself.
I was having this conversation with myself because, thankfully, I had woken up alone. Jason was long gone. His Porsche, too. An hour or so later, while I was still waiting for the alternator and the mechanic to show up, I discovered a note in my jacket pocket. That was wonderful. You look beautiful when you’re asleep and I can’t wait to see you again. J xxx
No!
There was only one thing to do.
I sent Jason a text. LAST NIGHT DIDN’T HAPPEN, it said. PLEASE DELETE.
Jason was never the same after that. He was worse. Never missing a chance to criticise my work, berating me for missing sales targets, and even giving me a verbal warning for being five minutes late.
And yet …
It’s Jason I have to thank for this huge makeover in my life. If he hadn’t fired me, Happy Endings wouldn’t exist and I wouldn’t be standing here in my new shop today.
Actually, I’m sitting at my reception desk. It’s been two hours since Gloria and Edo left to take Mum and Dad out to breakfast, and I flipped the sign on the door from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’. I’ve passed the time by making sure I understand the various software packages that came with my new computer, dusting the display shelves (twice) and making sure the fridge in the basement continues to behave itself.
I’m on my fourth cup of coffee, which means I need to run to the loo again, but before I can leave my desk, the door opens and a woman comes in.
She’s five foot nothing, dressed head to toe in a bright orange ensemble of blouse, skirt, tights and clumpy boots. Her outfit clashes magnificently with her thick, shoulder-length hair, dyed in that unfortunate yet ubiquitous shade Gloria and I always refer to as menopause red, topped by a purple fedora that adds several inches to her height.
‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘I’m Sybille Newman. Your neighbour.’
The shop next door to mine is The Primrose Poppadum – ‘Modern Organic Indian Classics, Free from Dairy, MSG, Wheat & Egg’ according to its sign – and Sybille Newman doesn’t fit my image of a restaurateur. Then again, I’m probably not her idea of an undertaker.
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ I say cautiously.
‘So you’re the owner, are you?’ Sybille Newman has a cut-glass accent and she sounds cross.
‘Yes, I’m Nina Sherwood. Today’s my first day and—’
‘Never mind that. I’ve come about the roof.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The roof. My husband and I live above the dreadful Indian restaurant.’ Sybille gestures towards The Primrose Poppadum with a flash of her Guantanamo orange fingernails. ‘Make sure you never go there – I’ve seen them arriving with carrier bags full of stuff from Asda. Organic my foot! We’re trying to get them shut down because of the dreadful smells. My husband has a respiratory disorder and they’re making it so much worse. But that’s not the point. The roof is leaking and we need a new one.’ She looks expectantly at me.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say. ‘But I don’t understand why your roof is any of my business.’
‘It’s a single structure that covers both properties.’ Sybille Newman frowns at me as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. ‘Ned and I have lived here for twenty-three years, and even when the betting shop was downstairs, back in the nineties, there was trouble with the roof.’ She leans on my reception desk and adds, ‘We’ve had it replaced twice, but now there’s water leaking into our living room again every time it rains. We’ve got a good jobbing builder who’s been patching it up, but we shouldn’t have to be doing that at our own expense. Not when it’s supposed to be a shared cost. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the purlin’s rotted. And there’s a ticking noise coming from the rafters that keeps us awake every night. Woodworm probably. Or beetles.’ Sybille smiles slyly. She seems almost pleased at the prospect. ‘So I’ll get some roofers round to supply estimates and let you have copies.’
‘Okay.’ I presume she wants me to pass them on to my managing agent.
‘And you need to complain to the council about the restaurant smell. Not that they’ll do anything about it.’
There’s something about the way she says this that makes me think Sybille Newman enjoys being a victim, that she’s the sort of woman who is happy only when she’s got something to complain about. I’ve already got a feeling that no matter how hard I try to be a good neighbour, nothing I do will be ever good enough.
Our conversation seems to have run its course and I’m wondering if I should walk Sybille to the door when she says, ‘I take it your stock will be arriving soon?’
I’m not planning to carry a supply of coffins. The shop’s too small. But it’s a weird question.
Sybille continues, ‘Ned intends be your first customer.’
Ned? Didn’t she say her husband’s called Ned?
I’m still working on the implications of that sentence when she continues, ‘Ned’s always got his nose buried in a novel. I presume you’ll give him a discount. The old bookshop always did. So sad when they closed. Business rates went through the roof. But don’t let me put you off.’ Sybille has noticed my startled expression. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a huge success of Happy Endings.’ She says this with an almost-sneer that suggests precisely the opposite. ‘There’s plenty of children around here, and it’s so important to get them reading at an early age, stop them frying their brains with electronic gadgets.’
‘Yes, reading’s important,’ I agree. ‘But actually … Actually, Happy Endings isn’t a bookshop.’
‘Not a bookshop?’ Now it’s Sybille who is perplexed. ‘Everyone’s been saying that’s what’s opening. If it’s not a bookshop, then what is it?’
‘A funeral parlour.’
‘A WHAT? Really? That’s totally unsuitable. No-one asked Ned and me about this. I’m sure we were entitled to be consulted. My husband’s health is very fragile, and having an undertaker’s downstairs … Well, it’s hardly going to cheer him up, is it?’
With that, the woman turns abruptly on her orange heel. At the door, she shoots a baleful look in my direction.
‘Poor Noggsie.’ She says it as if she’s spitting a pair of marbles from her mouth. ‘He was always so helpful about the roof. He’d be spinning in his grave if he knew about this. About you.’
††††
In Memoriam
PETER JAMES NOGGS
1933–2019
††††
The vicar looked nervous, Gloria thought. And understandably so. Everyone present in the church had known Noggsie, whereas few of them, including Gloria herself, knew the vicar, who seemed to be an earnest young man, clearly overwhelmed by the many famous faces staring back at him.
A final rustle of his papers, and the vicar began. ‘Peter …’ he said. ‘How strange to call him Peter, when all of us here knew him as Noggsie. He was the beating heart of our community for as long as any of us can remember.’
Primrose