Five Wakes and a Wedding. Karen Ross
this time. Close enough to flash me a smile. And for me to grin at his T-shirt, which declares, Always be yourself. Unless you can be Batman. I’m probably imagining his smile, but he’s certainly around a lot. Training for some sporting event, perhaps. Anyway, back to my message …
Mr Banks generously used his powers of persuasion to ensure I could get the lease, and without this initial help, my business would never have got beyond the dreaming stage. In case you’re wondering, I previously worked for an established funeral director in Queen’s Park but this is my first solo venture and I am hugely excited about it all.
Gloria says The Beauty Spot is one of Primrose Hill’s most successful shops, so Zoe must have inherited her father’s business acumen along with an appetite for hard work and the ability to be both popular and profitable. I hope that as we get to know one another, she might teach me some of the secrets of maximising income without ripping anyone off.
I hope you will wish me well and I look forward to meeting you in the near future. I am also very keen to participate in the activities of the Primrose Hill Traders Association. Could you please advise me of the procedure for joining? Is there a meeting coming up some time soon that I could attend? Finally, I am sure you are very busy, but if you fancy a break, then I would love to have a chat with you. Shall we meet in the wine bar? Drinks on me!
Best wishes,
Nina Sherwood, Happy Endings
I send the email and try to convince myself I’m having a good day at work. Now for those cremation urns …
The next morning, I wake to discover two significant additions to our household.
First off, I hear footsteps crashing up and down a flight of stairs so I get out of bed, shrug into my dressing gown, nudge my bedroom door and realise Edo is here. On his way to the little room at the top of the house. He’s juggling an assortment of bin bags and holdalls plus a red and white ‘NO ENTRY’ sign that is still attached to the mid-section of a lamp-post.
By the time I am decently dressed he’s on another trek, this time laden with a bunch of canvases. I observe that Edo’s favourite colour is purple. And that he has at some stage persuaded at least four different women to pose for him while naked. One of them – a curvy redhead with spectacular breasts – has her cellulite-free thighs teasingly splayed around the ‘NO ENTRY’ sign.
‘Morning,’ I say. ‘Are you storing your stuff in the attic?’
Edo looks puzzled. ‘Didn’t Gloria tell you I was moving in? That’s why I didn’t get to the shop in time to help you yesterday. Sorry about that.’
Um, no. Gloria’s said nothing. ‘Want some coffee?’
‘Awesome!’
I get my head around Edo’s news as I make my way to the kitchen. He did say the place he found after he moved out of Happy Endings was a bit too dirty and a touch too noisy for his liking. Typical Gloria to say he could stay – she’s both generous and impulsive, and it’s her house, of course – but I’m surprised she didn’t at least discuss it with me first.
An even bigger surprise awaits me in the kitchen.
A dog.
Eating breakfast.
Actually, he appears to be on his third breakfast.
The creature is almost the size of a Shetland pony. It looks as if it’s been dreamed up by Disney, but is acting out a script from Tarantino – working title The Andrex Puppy on Drugs.
The pristine kitchen I remember from last night is a wreck. Two chairs have been overturned. The floor is covered in a collage of broken breakfast bowls, with several million breadcrumbs and a gooey patch of what looks like blood but is hopefully nothing more sinister than strawberry jam added for texture. A steady trickle of milk is dripping onto the floor from an overturned carton on the table. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, the roll of paper towel we keep on the kitchen table in lieu of napkins has three Shetland-pony-sized chunks bitten out of it.
The dog gives me a cursory glance then shamelessly returns to the plate of ham, cheese and salami that’s occupying his attention. In fairness, his table manners seem to be improving with every chomp. He’s figured out he’s the perfect height so that his head – and jaws – can get to the food without the need even to flex his paws, let alone knock food to the floor. Perhaps he’s cleverer than he looks.
A split second later, just as the dog’s inhaling the final scrap of meat, Edo arrives in the kitchen. ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘Maybe this was a mistake.’
I give him a look.
‘There was this bloke in the pub last night.’ Edo has got himself a part-time job pulling pints. ‘Said he and his partner had come to the conclusion their place was too small for Chopper. That’s his name, Chopper. They took him to Battersea, but the people there admitted that if they couldn’t rehome him, he’d be put down. The guy was literally sobbing into his beer, so I called Gloria and she said it would be okay. Then today, I wanted to get off to a good start and be a good housemate, so I put breakfast together before I moved my stuff in. Which turned out to be a mistake. Do you know anything about dogs?’
‘Only that they appear to enjoy granola and salami. But I guess I’ll learn.’ The truth is, I’ve always wanted a dog.
‘He’ll be my responsibility. I promise this will never happen again. I’ll clear up all the mess. And he’ll sleep in my room. I’m going to make him a bed out of wooden crates. And then I thought I might paint him.’
‘Purple?’ I enquire.
Edo’s enthusiasm is somehow infectious. Even though Chopper has wrecked our kitchen, he is trying earnestly to make amends by hoovering the floor with his tongue, which is the size of a rump steak.
‘How old is he, anyway?’
‘The guy said he’s a year old. And fully grown.’ Even as he says it, Edo sounds doubtful. He looks at me, then back to the dog. ‘I’m really grateful to you and Gloria for agreeing I can move in, you know. I’ve promised to help out around the house, with odd jobs and that. And I’m going to be paying rent, of course.’
Immediately, I feel guilty. Gloria insisted I should only pay half-rent until Happy Endings is on its feet – an offer I gratefully accepted. She’s probably delighted Edo needs a place to live, and can help make up the shortfall.
‘I’ll clean up the mess,’ I offer. ‘Then maybe, once we’ve had breakfast, we can take Chopper out for a walk.’
After breakfast, 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