austere space, dominated by a metal and glass desk as big as a ping-pong table. Behind it, there’s a chair that reminds me of the Iron Throne, softened only by the addition of a scarlet cushion – Zoe’s presumably – and on the other side, a considerably less impressive ladder-back chair. Carson gestures towards it, then gathers a bunch of envelopes from the desk and leaves the room.
I’m still taking in my surroundings – half a dozen floor-to-ceiling free-standing metal shelves in a geometric pattern that would make them almost sculpture were it not for the dozens of aluminium box files they hold – when Zoe returns. Instinctively, I stand up and take a few steps towards her.
Zoe Banks towers over me. I’m five six and she’s at least three inches taller, even before you take into account her skyscraper heels. We exchange a firm handshake – I notice Zoe gives my home-manicured nails a beady once-over – then retreat to our respective sides of the giant desk.
‘So you’re Nina.’ She looks square at me, pronouncing my name as though she’s just captured something nasty on the tip of her tongue. ‘One moment.’
Zoe busies herself with some papers, which gives me a chance to get the measure of her. She’s actually rather beautiful. Model-slender and impeccably dressed in a grey linen dress that accentuates long legs, bronzed in a shade that didn’t come out of a spray can. She’s got one of those Julia Robert mouths – you know, the length of a pillar-box slit – and impeccable white teeth. But she’s overdone the Botox or the collagen or whatever it is she’s had someone squirt into her glistening lips. Unfortunately, they look like a pair of scarlet bananas. No, I’m just being mean. Zoe Banks is as high-end and glossy as everything else in this perfect house. Everything except me.
Before I can berate myself any further, the scarlet bananas begin to speak. ‘Thank you for popping by,’ they say. ‘So, tell me about your little shop.’
And I’m off! Explaining that although the undertaker I used to work for mostly organised traditional funerals – black clothes, white lilies, newspaper notices, Bible readings, etc. – the funeral industry is starting to change.
‘Relatives want something more personal,’ I say. ‘Services as individual as the person who has died.’ I recall a photo emailed to me last week by Anna Kovaks. Grigor’s family cycling through woods on the outskirts of Budapest, following one of his favourite off-road treks on their way to a river where they scattered the ashes Anna had repatriated. Zoe continues to stare at her papers, which is a bit rude, but undaunted, I persevere.
‘It definitely helps families to grieve when they’re able to do something that properly reflects the person they loved. Say, putting a favourite book inside the coffin. 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,
