Читать книгу Five Wakes and a Wedding - Karen Ross - Страница 16

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, as I run towards the accident that’s about to happen.

Chopper, unaware of the danger, is on the main path at the bottom of the hill, head deep inside a carrier bag that’s been abandoned next to a rubbish bin. The idiot on the scooter, meanwhile, responds to my anguished cry by taking one hand off his handlebars and waving at me. What am I supposed to do? Move Chopper out of the way?

Much too late to do anything at all.

Chopper is lumbering up the hill, greeting the scooter as if it’s another dog out to play. I can hardly bear to look … a millisecond before impact, the idiot dodges Chopper with the insouciant panache of a slalom skier, only to careen head-first into a tree trunk on the other side of the path.

I sprint towards his body. ‘Are you okay?’ I yell.

Serves him right if he’s not.

The scooter has come to rest on the grass, wheels still spinning. Its owner is picking himself up off the ground, and brushing grass from his skinny jeans. He runs an index finger along one of his cheekbones to wipe away a trail of dirt, then rotates his shoulder blades, as if to check nothing’s broken. He looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t imagine why.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he says. ‘Just a bit winded. Sorry if I scared you.’

The idiot’s pleasantly deep voice and immediate contrition catches me off-guard. I’d been all set to tell him off for dangerous driving. But that was when I’d assumed he was a teenage boy, rather than the man of about my own age who is now stroking Chopper.

‘She’s right,’ he tells the dog. ‘I was going much too fast. But it’s such a wonderful feeling. Like flying.’ Then he looks up at me. ‘Buy you a quick coffee, by way of apology?’

I mean to say no. But the idiot is in possession of a mischievous smile, sparkling grey eyes, and a T-shirt that says, Honk if You’re About to Run Me Over.

It’s not as if I need to get to work on time to begin another soul-destroying day of no clients, so thirty minutes later we’re still sitting outside at one of the cafés on the high street, across the road from Happy Endings. Chopper is refuelling on ice-cold water from a bucket-sized bowl. I’m on my second latte, wishing I’d followed suit when the idiot ordered himself a breakfast butty that overflows with dripping butter, bacon and HP sauce. It smells delicious.

‘Okay if I give some to Chopper?’ The idiot breaks off a generous portion of his breakfast and lobs it in Chopper’s direction. The dog rises with gravity-defying grace, captures the snack before it hits the ground, and proceeds to chew daintily.

I sit and salivate, trying – and failing – to look elsewhere as the final sliver of buttery bacon disappears. He’s got nice hands, the idiot. It’s one of the things I always notice about a man. Assessing their suitability to carry a coffin. These are strong, capable hands. Well-manicured, too.

The idiot evidently cares about his appearance and if I’m not mistaken he’s even wearing a splash of cologne, fresh and spicy, with a hint of fir. Doesn’t smell as good as the bacon, but not a bad second.

‘So do you live around here?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Professional dog walker?’

‘Still no.’ I’m not meaning to be unfriendly so I say it with a smile. ‘How about you?’

‘Oh, my dad’s got a house up the road, and I was just popping in. I work for the family business. Property management mostly, and boring stuff involving corporate law. We’ve been doing a lot of insolvencies lately.’

He says this as though it’s a good thing and I can’t help but think of Gloria. If she were with us now, she’d say, ‘You’re the type of lawyer who makes rich people richer. The type of lawyer I never want to be.’

Disloyally, I realise the idiot would most likely scrub up pretty well if he swapped his jeans and T-shirt for a business suit.

‘Do you like it?’ he’s asking me.

‘Pardon?’

‘My T-shirt. You were staring at it.’ Before I can apologise he continues, ‘I got a brilliant one yesterday. Going paintballing next week, and I came across one in Camden Market that says, Why Should You Date a Paintballer?’

He leaves the question hanging.

‘Go on, then,’ I encourage him. ‘Tell me why I should date a paintballer?’

‘Because we’ve got a lot of balls. That’s what’s written on the back. Convincing, huh?’

There’s something about the guileless way he says it that makes me laugh. His company is an unexpected treat on what’s bound to turn out to be another lonely day.

‘I’m in desperate need of another bacon butty and more coffee. Say yes this time?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes please.’

Just as our refills arrive, something slots into place. ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ I ask.

‘Is that the best you’ve got?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re flirting with me, right?’

‘Me? No! Of course not. I have seen you before. On rollerblades. Going past my shop.’

‘Which shop would that be?’

‘Over there.’ I point towards Happy Endings, sit back and wait for the inevitable response.

But the idiot proves the exception to the rule. ‘Noggsie’s old shop, right?’ he says pleasantly. ‘So how’s business?’

‘Okay.’ I’m not about to confess it’s non-existent. I pause for a strategic mouthful of bacon butty, while I attempt to swallow the accusation of flirting. He’s sort of right. I’m definitely enjoying his company. Since that night with Jason, I’ve started noticing men again. There’ve been one or two who I – admit it, Nina – actually fancied.

And the idiot makes three.

‘I’d better go to work,’ I say.

‘Why? Are there some dead people I don’t know about? Did I miss the news story about the avalanche in Tufnell Park last night?’

‘You’re a very bad man.’ It’s the sort of remark I’d expect from a colleague rather than a civilian, and the mock shock-horror way he says it is actually quite funny.

‘I try not to be. Stay a while.’ The idiot brushes my wrist with his fingers. ‘More coffee?’

Last time I drank four lattes for breakfast I was still awake at two o’clock the following morning.

‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘And why don’t you tell me about the paintballing?’

He needs no second invitation. ‘There’s this huge woodland site between Edinburgh and Glasgow,’ he begins. ‘All sorts of scenarios. The village hostage rescue looks the most fun. That’s where you get to use the paint thrower.’ He sees my puzzled expression and clarifies, ‘It’s basically a huge water cannon filled with paint. The ordinary paintballs are a mixture of oil, gelatine and dye, and we fire them through nitrogen-powered compressed air.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘I have no idea.’ The idiot looks puzzled. ‘No-one’s ever marked me. I always win.’

‘You do this a lot, then?’

‘Once before. When I was seven. If it works out I’m going to sign up for this place in Oklahoma where you spend a week recreating the D-Day battles. With paint. If you pay a bit extra, you can lead the French Resistance.’

By the time the idiot has finished telling me about battle packs, paint pods, flag capturing, defensive bunker play, ravine negotiation and a legendary character called The Paint Punk, I’m thinking I’d love to go paintballing. With him.

And then I realise what’s really going on.

All this military talk … well, for a few minutes, it was just like old times.

Old times with Ryan.

My husband.

Captain Ryan Sherwood.

That day I watched him being presented with his Afghanistan Operational Service Medal was one of the proudest of my life.

And now?

I’m ashamed to realise that instead of thinking about Ryan’s funeral, I’ve been imagining myself on a date with a man who knows absolutely nothing about the savage realities of military life.

The idiot has stopped talking and for the first time in more than an hour the silence between us feels awkward.

‘You’re not how I imagined a corporate lawyer,’ I blurt out.

‘Says the lady undertaker. Sorry … there’s nothing I’d rather do than sit and talk to you for the rest of the day. But it looks like you’ve got a customer.’

I turn to see a man peering through the window of Happy Endings, then rattling on the door.

Business at last!

And a timely reminder that my priority is work.

Not relationships.

‘I’d better dash. Come on, Chopper. Thanks for breakfast. Good luck with the paintballing, and drive that thing,’ I point at his scooter, ‘more safely in future.’

‘Bye for now.’ He hesitates. Then, ‘Look, let me give you my number. Perhaps we can have dinner.’

I punch his details into my phone. Rude not to. Not as if I’m ever going to call him. But as I walk briskly across the street, rubbing the finger that used to wear a wedding ring, I acknowledge the idiot is charismatic in a man-child kind of way. Far too old to be riding a child’s toy, but at least he has good manners.

And Barclay is a pretty cool name.