Banks’s excellent eulogy made Gloria think of Nina. She imagined her friend casting a professional eye over the proceedings. What was it Nina had said the day before? About the way funerals were changing, with more people drawing up plans for their own farewell appearance while they were still alive and well. A question of matching the occasion to the person, she had explained.
Gloria made a mental note to tell Nina the Traders Association had organised a wreath in the shape of a giant hammer.
Then she realised she could do so much better.
At the champagne reception that followed Noggsie’s funeral, Gloria cornered Eddie Banks and told him about Nina and her ideas about dragging funerals into the modern era.
Banks immediately offered to do what he could to help, and Gloria had been impressed that someone so successful was prepared to go out of his way to help a woman he’d never even met achieve her dream.
Noggsie would definitely have approved.
And later, listening to the way Nina talked – enthusiastically yet respectfully – about the people she intended to help once she had refurbished Noggsie’s shop, Gloria was convinced Happy Endings would have had his blessing.
Here I am in Primrose Hill, one of the most fashionable parts of London, and it ought to be wonderful.
But it’s not.
I’ve spent all morning watching the world stroll past my shop window oblivious to my presence.
All morning, feeling I don’t fit in.
All morning, every morning.
Monday to Friday.
Afternoons, too.
It’s been an entire week and I almost wish I was back in Siberia. When Jason banished me to the back office, at least I had a sense of belonging.
I keep reminding myself it’s like being the new girl at school. Too soon to have made any friends, too shy to approach anyone, but knowing that before too long, someone will be kind.
Maybe Eddie Banks lulled me into a false sense of security. I’ve never actually met him because he’s almost always in Monte Carlo. But I spoke to him on the phone after Gloria’s brilliant idea about me taking over Noggsie’s shop.
The moment their conversation ended, Eddie Banks had apparently marched right up to Noggsie’s son and told him, ‘I’ve got the perfect tenant for your father’s shop. Young entrepreneur by the name of Nina Sherwood. I know you’re back off home to Australia tomorrow, so shall I have my people sort out the lease and the terms on your behalf? Save you the hassle, and get that shop open again.’
The two men shook hands and Eddie Banks’s team proceeded to process the paperwork in record time, which was just as well, because apparently another retailer was showing serious interest in opening a business. I felt especially fortunate that Noggsie’s son had even been talked into letting me have an initial discount on the rent. All I’d had to do was sign the agreement.
It had felt like destiny. But now I’m not so certain. Still, it was foolish of me to imagine customers would fall into my lap. That only happens once a business has proved itself and the recommendations roll in. For now, it’s important to get a proper feel for the neighbourhood. Which makes the people-watching important rather than just a time-filler or an activity to stop myself fretting about the future.
I’ve certainly seen one or two strange sights, including a family of four dressed all in matching tweeds riding along the road on a double tandem the length of a hearse. Then there’s Sybille Newman, my neighbour with the roof issue. Always dressed in orange. She’s just spent five minutes telling off a road sweeper for doing a sloppy job. (I’ve privately taken to calling her Mrs Happy, because she treats me to a scowl every time she marches past the shop, pretending not to look inside.) There’s also a man on rollerblades who seems to be circling our block of shops … I’ve seen him go past at least five times, and here he is again.
In between studying the locals, I try to knuckle down and practise my daily exercises in creative visualisation. I imagine myself busy and productive, doing a good job for satisfied customers, opening bank statements that demonstrate increasing prosperity, then the look on my parents’ faces when I present them with tickets for a luxury weekend in Sardinia to say thank you for their backing.
And the rest of the time? I’m scared I’ve made a dreadful mistake.
Marry in haste and repent at leisure, isn’t that what people say? I begin to think I’ve achieved the retail equivalent, and that I should have looked a lot more carefully before I leapt into self-employment.
My watch tells me it’s still far too early for lunch, although talking of food, word must have got out that Happy Endings has nothing to do with coffee or cupcakes. No-one’s asked me if I’m selling either since Wednesday.
But I’m still being mistaken for a bookshop and every time I explain I’m an undertaker, the outcome is more or less the same. I get an, ‘Oh, what a shame, dear!’ as though I’ve missed out on tickets for Glastonbury or the Latitude Festival. And that’s on a good day. There have been two or three others who, like Mrs Happy, have made no secret of the fact they believe my business has no business being here.
‘How dare you give your shop such a misleading name?’ The woman who berated me for that didn’t hang around long enough to let me explain my conviction that the best funerals are those that honour someone’s life and give a true sense of who that person really was – and are far from morbid or mysterious affairs – which is why I think ‘Happy Endings’ is such a great choice.
Not, of course, that anyone’s showing any signs of choosing me. I still have no idea when I’ll be called to action. I firmly remind myself this is par for the course. In my line of work, there’s mostly no lead time.
Obviously, I feel sorry in advance for the person who’s going to be my first customer, because organising a funeral is a distress purchase. But at least when it happens, I’ll know how to help them and the people they leave behind. It’s what I’m best at.
In the meantime, there’s no point drooping around an empty shop like one of my wilting delphiniums. I’ve got plenty to do. The cremation urns are still down in the basement. I’m incorporating them into my inaugural window display – the empty window has turned out to be a mistake rather than the minimalist statement I had been aiming for – to eliminate any further misunderstandings about the nature of my business.
Edo promised to help me haul everything out front this afternoon, but there’s still no sign of him, so I might as well get on with the admin instead of wallowing in procrastination.
In particular, I need to compose an email to Zoe Banks.
Zoe is not only Eddie Banks’s daughter but also a fellow retailer – her shop is called The Beauty Spot – and she’s the driving force behind the Primrose Hill Traders Association. I really want to get to know my fellow shopkeepers, and I need to get cracking. I activate my computer with a flick of the mouse and begin.
Dear Zoe Banks,
My name is Nina Sherwood and I am the new kid on the block. As you may know, my shop is called Happy Endings, and in many ways, it is thanks to your father that it is here at all. My friend Gloria was present at Noggsie’s funeral, and afterwards, when she was talking