during which I observe Gloria sneaking morsels of still-warm croissant under the table to our new dog, the four of us – Edo, Gloria, Chopper and I – head for Highgate Ponds.
It’s beautiful late spring weather, and Gloria is excited to see the lilacs in full bloom. Edo keeps Chopper on a stout leash, offering him no further opportunities for misbehaviour.
‘So what sort of dog is he?’ Gloria asks. She’s spent the past ten minutes complaining she’s fed up with having her social life dictated by the schedule of Thrice-Wed Fred’s wife, whose latest crime is to surprise her cheating husband with a weekend jaunt to Berlin.
‘Half-Bernese half-poodle,’ Edo says.
I can see the poodle in Chopper. Woolly coat in shades of black, brown and white, with a head of hair that reminds me of those long wigs worn by the old codgers who populate the House of Lords. But Bernese? Isn’t that a type of sauce?
‘So that makes him a Bernedoodle!’ Gloria is amused by the thought.
‘Or a poodlenese,’ Edo suggests.
I take another look at Chopper. Edo let him off the lead when we got to the woods at the back of the ponds, and the dog is celebrating his freedom by enthusiastically turning a fallen branch into a pile of matchsticks. Chopper is about four times the size of any other dog out on a Saturday walk, so all I can say is that the Bernese must be a very big dog indeed.
‘That’s interesting,’ Edo says.
‘What?’ I enquire. ‘A dog chewing a stick?’
‘No. Taking one thing and transforming it into another.’
Before I can say something about dogs doing that every time they sink their teeth into something, Edo continues his thought. ‘Shapeshifting.’
‘Is that what they taught you at art school?’ Gloria’s tone is only faintly mocking.
‘As it happens, I’ve got a postgraduate tutorial with Joshua Kent next week,’ Edo retorts. ‘If I’m lucky, he’ll mentor me on my next project.’
Wow! Edo must be an even better artist than he is a sign writer. Joshua Kent is a real big shot. His art is on display in galleries and private collections all over the world. It’s not my kind of thing – call me a philistine, but I like a painting to look like a painting, with a nice frame and everything – but winning the Turner Prize three times has made Joshua Kent properly famous.
Edo is looking suitably modest. ‘I’ve got a couple of ideas,’ he says, ‘but I think they’re too ordinary. Can we talk about something else, please? I’m terrified. Nina, what do you think Gloria should do about Fred? Dump him, or what? What would you do?’
I’m about to reply to Edo’s penultimate question in the definite affirmative, but Gloria is faster. ‘I’ve told you,’ she says to Edo. ‘Nina doesn’t do relationships.’
The pair of them exchange a glance, and I realise Edo has been briefed about the reason for my lack of a love life. Gloria must have told him about Ryan – his funeral and all that – and my decision to prioritise my career over relationships.
An awkward pause, while we watch Chopper take a breather from his labours, then spit out the final shreds of wood and begin to paw furiously at the ground, digging a hole in which to bury his matchsticks.
‘If anyone needs advice,’ I finally say, ‘it’s me.’
‘The business?’ asks Gloria, and I suspect this is something she has also discussed with Edo.
‘It’s only been a week,’ Edo chimes in. ‘And besides, the weather’s too good for dying.’
Even though he is being facetious, Edo has a point. More people die during winter than summer. But that’s not the issue. Every time I think about my parents, I feel sick. Sticking all their pension money next to the matchsticks in Chopper’s freshly dug hole in the ground is beginning to seem like a far better idea than allowing them to keep their investment in Happy Endings.
I feel Gloria’s hand on my arm. ‘Remember your business plan, sweetie.’ She’s doing her best to reassure me. I’ve estimated thirty funerals in the first year, so with only one week gone, I’m not even behind schedule. But neither have I earned a single penny.
‘My business plan wasn’t much more than guesswork,’ I confess. Guesswork, moreover, that didn’t even include any budget for advertising and marketing. ‘I should have thought things through more thoroughly. Maybe there’s a good reason why the shop was empty for so long after Noggsie’s first stroke left him unable to carry on – and it wasn’t just because the council rejected change-of-use applications from a bunch of hipsters who wanted to turn it into yet another café.’
‘Rubbish!’ Edo jumps in. ‘Remember what Noggsie’s son said.’ The son who lives in Australia and gave me a good deal on the rent. ‘He wanted you to have the lease because he reckoned the high street needs some proper shops again. There’s only so many cupcakes a person can eat.’
Edo’s wrong about that. Especially when they incorporate marshmallow frosting. But his intentions are good.
Enough of this.
I’m behaving like a complete wimp.
All doom and gloom and Poor Little Me just because things aren’t happening as fast as I’d hoped. Yes, when I was an employee, we could more or less guarantee how many funerals we’d handle every week, but the business had been there for decades. My empty shop window has evidently led to misunderstandings about the nature of my business but it’s sorted now: my collection of ceramic urns are modern and tasteful, although from what I’ve seen of Primrose Hill so far, there’s a danger the locals will think I’m running an art gallery.
‘You know what?’ I confess. ‘I was hoping in my heart of hearts that business would just fall into my lap. But I need to make myself known.’ There have to be cheaper ways of advertising than buying space in the local paper, which every undertaker seems to do as a matter of routine. ‘I’ve made a start already.’
I’m telling my friends about the email I sent to Zoe Banks when my phone pings. I look at the screen.
‘Ha!’ I tell them. ‘Talk of the devil, and the devil appears!’
It’s a message from Zoe.
I’m going to meet her on Monday.
Can’t wait!
Truthfully, Zoe’s email reads more like a summons than an invitation. Yes, we need to discuss what you’re doing. Monday 7.15am. Home not spa.
My own email is repeated underneath. Taking another look, it does seem to ramble a bit. But never mind that Zoe hasn’t replied at length. The important thing is that she has replied at all. Promptly, too, which is good business etiquette. Zoe must be one of those scarily efficient women who has successfully tamed her email mountain by keeping responses – even to warm and friendly messages like mine – to the bare minimum.
That fits
