Five Wakes and a Wedding. Karen Ross

what? Why?’ I’m baffled.

      ‘You know.’ Gareth sounds embarrassed, whereas before he was merely impatient to get on with his work. ‘The lease, and that.’

      ‘What about the lease?’

      Now Gareth looks shifty. ‘Well, aren’t you surrendering it at the end of the month?’ He keeps his eyes studiously to the floor, then mutters, ‘Personally, I think you’ve made a good decision. No call for your kind of business around here, is there?’

      If I weren’t so shocked, I’d tell Gareth that more people will die in our neighbourhood this year than will buy homes. And that we have only one undertaker, as opposed to half a dozen estate agents, all of whom seem to make a handsome living.

      At least, that’s what I wish I’d said when I rerun this scene in my mind hours later. But for now, I’m dumbfounded. I can feel my face turning the colour of a pillar box. ‘Who told you that? About the lease?’

      Before I can discover the source of Gareth’s misinformation, we are both startled by the sound of a ringing phone.

      ‘Excuse me,’ I mutter. Then, ‘Hello, Happy Endings. This is Nina speaking.’

      Probably yet another cold caller trying to convince me I’m owed a fortune for payment protection insurance I know I never had in the first place.

      But there’s nothing brash about the voice on the other end of the line. It’s female, shaky, and a bit muffled. ‘Is that … the undertaker?’

      ‘Yes, you’re through to Happy Endings,’ I repeat. ‘May I help you?’ My heart is racing. This is the call I have been waiting for. Gareth is fiddling with his laser pointy thing, and I’d like to order him to leave, but I don’t want to break off from this important phone call to speak to someone else, so I turn my back on him and listen.

      ‘I need to arrange a funeral.’

      ‘Of course. Might I have the name of the deceased, please?’

      ‘Kelli Shapiro.’

      ‘Kelli Shapiro?’ The Kelli Shapiro? The famous Kelli Shapiro? The woman who declared her two Oscars make splendid bookends, at least according to what I once read in Grazia. I’m relieved I’ve managed to keep the shock from my voice. ‘Let me just check the spelling on that,’ I say. ‘Kelli with a double l? And S-h-a-p-i-r-o.’

      ‘That’s right.’ A whisper.

      ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

      ‘Thank you. If I give you the address, would you be able to come round to make the arrangements?’

      ‘Of course.’ I scribble it down. The big blue house facing the park. ‘What time would be convenient for you?’

      ‘Could you come now?’

      ‘Of course.’ I put down the phone.

      Gavin has been packing up his briefcase. ‘Kelli Shapiro, eh?’ he says, trying and failing to quell his excitement. ‘Suicide? Drugs?’

      Coldly, I escort him the few steps to the front door and seize the advantage. ‘Who told you to come here today?’

      ‘Can’t tell you that. Client confidentiality. You know how it is.’ Gareth hesitates, then adds, ‘Tell you what. Get me an introduction to sell Kelli’s house, and I’ll cut you in on my commission.’

      I shut the door in his face.

       12

      Kelli Shapiro’s home is only a few minutes away. I force myself to walk slowly, although my mind is racing and my heart is hammering. Kelli’s next-of-kin must have seen my advert in the local paper, so it turns out I wasn’t squandering my start-up funds, after all.

      Kelli Shapiro! Growing up, Mum was always teasing my dad about Kelli Shapiro. He had an enormous crush on her. ‘It’s just that she’s got magnificent comic timing,’ he’d protest. ‘Britain’s answer to Meg Ryan.’