This was not a dress rehearsal, after all. You only get one chance at the perfect goodbye.
‘Morning, Mrs Craig. Can you believe it’s Friday already?’ I sang, opening the door.
Mrs Craig stayed silent.
‘It’s set to be another cold one this weekend. I just hope we don’t get the snow that they’re predicting. Can you believe it, snow in March? I wouldn’t want that to ruin your big day.’
There was still no sound from Mrs Craig.
‘Right, I’m going to put the kettle on.’
Leaving Mrs Craig to it, I settled at my desk to have my breakfast, first making sure to pop out the tiny white pills that must be taken on an empty stomach, just as Doctor Ahmed prescribed. I opened the newspaper and allowed myself ten minutes before the day properly began. Flipping straight to page thirty-four, I checked that all the names had been spelled correctly and the text was free from grammatical errors. I still remembered the waves of nausea when I’d noticed they had printed a colon instead of a semi-colon for Mrs Briars back in 2015. I glanced at the clock. I had ten minutes before the rest of the team would be in, so I decided to quickly do a last-minute check of Facebook and Instagram before any interruptions. I tried my hardest not to use those sites at work, but I’d been so busy that I was finding it tough to stay on top of things.
When the doorbell went, I didn’t need to check the video monitor to know who was waiting on the doorstep. There she was, a vision in beige. Ms Norris’s visits were like clockwork: every Friday morning, the same for the past nine months.
‘What is with this weather?’
The plump woman tutted, readjusting the flowery chiffon neck scarf that had twisted in the howling gale. It was severely tangled around her saggy, powdered jowls like some sort of butterfly-patterned noose.
‘I’m sure I never heard that nice weather man with the funny accent say anything about a hurricane this week. I just don’t know if I’m coming or going. One moment they’re saying it’s warmer than average and the next it’s like living in the North Pole. Bring on summer, I say!’
I stood up and hurried to help close the door behind her, crunching on leaves that had blown in like fallen confetti around her sensible black shoes. I’d have to get the Hoover out the minute she left. Tan-coloured tights bagged at her swollen ankles.
‘Morning, Ms Norris,’ I smiled.
Her normally sleek porcelain grey bob now resembled tousled candy floss.
‘I wasn’t expecting you to brave it out in this weather.’
‘It’ll take a bit more than Storm Elmo or whatever ridiculous name they’ve given this one to keep me indoors. Purdy doesn’t watch the weather report, so it doesn’t matter one jot to her if it’s glacial or a heatwave. When she needs a walk, she needs a walk.’
I peered past Ms Norris, now taking off her thick beige pea coat, to see Purdy tied up to the railings outside. The flat-faced pug, also beige, was shivering dramatically.
‘Er… will she be OK out there?’
Ms Norris wafted a liver-spotted hand, red-lacquered nails flashing in front of my face. ‘She’s the ultimate drama queen, that one.’
I nodded uncertainly. The pug had, thankfully, stopped shaking and was now more interested in the leaves skittering across the small drive.
‘Linda not in yet?’ She glanced over at the empty chair and blank screen of Linda’s computer. The first day Ms Norris had come in to the office she had originally been booked in with Linda, but after a series of ‘creative differences’, i.e. a bit of a personality clash, she was placed with me and we’d been working together ever since.
‘Not yet.’
‘Hmph. I should have a word with Frank about her timekeeping… Shall I just go through, dear?’ Ms Norris asked, already on her way down the corridor to the only meeting room. ‘I’ll have a cuppa, if you’re making one.’
I snapped back to attention. ‘Oh, of course, the kettle has just boiled actually.’
‘So, I’ve been thinking about songs.’ Ms Norris cleared her throat before I had the chance to put down her well-thumbed file and sit down opposite her.
‘Songs?’
‘Yes. Songs.’
I flicked a thumb through the many papers, frowning. ‘I thought we’d covered music?’
Ms Norris adjusted herself in the teal-coloured armchair. ‘Well, we had, but I’ve been thinking about my song choices and, well, I’ve changed my mind.’
I forced myself to stay impassive. This was the third time Ms Norris had been ‘thinking about her song choices’ in the last month. Not that it was a problem to amend the details, it just worried me that she would change her mind yet again before her big day.
‘Sinatra.’
‘Sinatra?’
‘I know it has been done to death but I think we should go back to “My Way” and stick with it. I don’t know what I was thinking with Vera.’
‘Right.’ I marked a thick line through ‘We’ll Meet Again’. ‘Any other thoughts whilst I have your notes here?’
‘Yes. You can take Blythe Summers off your list too. Her kids have moved her to Brighton to be near them, and spend her numbered days in some council-run nursing home being served cold soup and looking at the sea through grubby windows. Outrageous if you ask me, just so they can relieve some guilt on their part by pretending it’s what she wants. I know for a fact that she doesn’t even like the seaside that much, and I can’t say I blame her!’
I turned to the list of invitees that Ms Norris had given me a while ago. She liked to keep this up to date so that, when the time came, her friend and point of contact, Alma Dawes, would take charge of the plans, knowing the guest list was set to her requirements. ‘This is rather fun!’ she’d said when we’d first met. ‘I’ve never had a wedding so it feels exciting to be planning a big party!’
But since she’d first visited, we’d scored so many names off – people who had passed away, moved on or, perhaps most often, those she’d had a falling out with, that the guest list was looking a bit thin. But, as Ms Norris said, ‘It’s my day so I can invite who I want. The rest of them can like it or lump it.’
‘Anything else?’
Ms Norris shook her head. ‘Nope, that’s it for now. Oh! I remembered your Tupperware this week,’ she said, struggling to bend down to pick a carrier bag off the floor. She placed the empty box on the table between us with a flourish. ‘You excelled yourself this time, Grace.’
I blushed. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed them. I’ll swap you for a batch of raspberry macarons on your way out. I have to say this was your trickiest one yet.’
Our mini bake-off had started out as an innocent request from Ms Norris for a decent Victoria sponge. She was adamant that none of the coffee shops in town appeared to be able to get this simple recipe right. She proudly told me how, back in the day, she had been a bit of a star baker, but arthritis had limited her repertoire. I was at a loose end so had offered to give it a go; she insisted I used one of her recipes, and it was such a hit that I included a baking