How to Say Goodbye

Chapter 7

When you break up with someone it’s normal to ricochet between emotions; all the books told me that. Except this wasn’t a clean cut break-up. He’d just disappeared, and there were still so many things left unsaid. I’d tried. I really had. I hated feeling like that, struggling to pick myself up and get back on track. Usually baking helped, but I couldn’t summon up the energy to give one of Ms Norris’s recipes a go. Cleaning was the next best solution, but even that didn’t seem to be working.

I decided to call Maria. She was the only person who knew about Henry, and I could trust her not to judge me. Others wouldn’t understand. Surely I should feel OK by now. But it was like my head and heart hadn’t read the rulebook which contained the exact date you should move on after a traumatic break-up. As time had passed, I’d forced myself to see less and less of Maria, as seeing her meant being reminded of him. Every time we met, his name wasn’t far from slipping into our conversation. That’s just the way it was.

I dialled her number.

‘Grace? Wow. Long time! How are you doing, hun?’

I let out a breath I’d been holding. Her warmth radiating down the line immediately washed away any of the doubts I’d had at making this call out of the blue.

‘Hi! I know, it’s been a while…’

‘Everything OK?’

I sighed deeply.

‘Stupid question. Of course not. Why else would you be calling me?’ Her light tinkle of a laugh softened the dig.

‘Are you around for a catch-up? I could really do with seeing you… as soon as possible.’

I could hear a rustling of papers in the background. I winced. I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous that she would want to see me, especially after such a long absence.

‘Oh, hun, I’m so sorry but I’m really busy at the moment. Work is manic, you know how it is.’

Of course she was busy, what was I expecting?

‘Maybe I can move things around and give you a call back so we can organise a get-together soon? It would be good to see you again.’

I felt dejected. There was once a time when we were so close that she would have cancelled whatever was in her diary for me. Clearly too much time had passed. I tried to stay positive that she was a woman of her word; once things calmed down for her she’d be in touch. Until then I needed to keep busy and I knew exactly what to do to fill the time.

*

I curled my feet up under me, pulling my laptop closer, and logged in to Facebook. I needed to start my prep on Abbie Anderson.

As a model, she had a significant online presence, so I imagined it would be easy to discover lots of details we could incorporate into her funeral. I typed her name in the search bar and hovered my finger for a second before clicking.

I was soon looking at the life of a dead woman. Her profile picture was a flawless selfie, and luckily her account was not set to private. The last photo she had been tagged in before she died was a group shot. Four smiling faces around a dining table, each holding their wine glass up to the camera. A woman with a selfie stick in her outstretched arm to capture them all.

Shona Fitz nee Limbrick is feeling happy with – Greg Fitz, Abbie Anderson, Callum Anderson. Just found this on my phone! What a great night!! Had to share!!

Callum’s name didn’t come up in bold blue like Abbie or the others, which meant he wasn’t on Facebook. I stared at the photo, imagining their life, being a guest at one of their dinner parties. Owning a selfie stick. The men probably moaning as the women giggled at the effort of drunkenly trying to steady their hand to get everyone in the shot. It had received ninety-four likes.

There was an album from their honeymoon a few years ago. Seychelles, baby! I clicked on it. Abbie wearing a barely-there white one-piece with impractical holes cut out of it, posing effortlessly on a plump cream sun lounger, an idyllic white sandy beach and turquoise clear waters in the background. A shot of her drinking a martini with dramatic bug sunglasses on, looking away from the camera. Callum diving into an infinity pool, beads of water on his tanned torso as he froze mid-air. The two of them, noses pink from the sun, cuddled together, and grinning over a table full of seafood. They looked so utterly happy together. He looked so different from the man I’d met.

I couldn’t help myself, clicking on the photos that she was tagged in. Abbie wearing a burgundy mini dress with what looked like a cape attached to it. Her legs up to her armpits. I tried not to compare the size of my non-existent thigh gap with hers. Abbie in blood-red spike heels and leather-look leggings. Her face painted in white powder with a drop of crimson falling from her bottom lip. Plastic fangs in her mouth. A black velvet choker around her slim neck. Sharp collarbones and jutting ribs.

If looks could kill!! Ready for a hair-raising night to raise money for Princess Power!

Princess Power was a local charity for young women with terminal cancer.

Abbie’s slim, tanned arm wrapped around two attractive men wearing hot pink Hawaiian shirts. Thick gold cuffs on her wrists, her hair slicked back against her skull and a fierce pout at the camera.

Hula night, bitches! – With Owen Driscoll and @ ModelsZone

Her modelling agency, by the looks of it.

The same guy, Owen, the one with the sculptured cheekbones and glossy black hair, appeared a few more times in selfies, arty black and white modelling shoots and goofy backstage candid pics. They looked great together. Abbie had checked them into different places across Europe, probably when they were working on shoots together.

Another shot: Abbie in cargo shorts and a coral vest top, cheering at the camera from the ruins of Macchu Picchu.

We made it! #Blessed #YOLO

Abbie underwater, snorkelling past a shoal of fish, the same bright colours as her bikini.

Trying to Find Nemo! #JustKeepSwimming

Abbie jumping on an enormous plush hotel bed in a cute denim playsuit.

Paris is always a good idea!

There was a short video clip of her bending her lithe body into some impressive shapes on a beach in Turkey, taken by a drone by the looks of the crazy angles. She’d tagged in a yoga retreat company.

The only way to find zen – with @yogawarriors. Can’t wait to return next year!

It was like a car crash on the other side of the motorway. I couldn’t look away. My fingers danced on the cursor wanting to see more and more. Within twenty minutes, I’d inhaled seven years of her life.

Right, I needed to work out ways to incorporate what I’d learnt into a perfect goodbye. I pulled out a notepad and began to jot a few ideas down. She clearly enjoyed yoga and a holistic lifestyle, so maybe we could dot incense sticks around the chapel? Having such a strong online presence, maybe we could create a photo montage as a visual memento? She clearly loved to travel, so maybe this could be something to work with?

I glanced around my bare flat, aware of a strange gnawing feeling in my chest. There wasn’t a photo, personal knick-knack or random bit of clutter in sight. I bet Abbie had lots of interesting trinkets from her exotic adventures dotted around her house, each with a fascinating story. My cleaning to-do list stared back at me forlornly from the coffee table. The budget-but-practical IKEA furniture suddenly seemed impersonal and even the two duck egg cushions that came with the sofa (in the January sales) looked drab. It was as if I was seeing through someone else’s eyes for the first time. I blinked rapidly and told myself to stop overthinking things. These items were chosen for their durability, not their ability to catch dust.

What I couldn’t escape from was that I was the same age as Abbie – we even had the same birthday – yet it was clear to see from her Facebook page that I’d barely led a fraction of the life that she had. I shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I couldn’t compete with her glamorous job, exotic travels, handsome husband and enormous posse of good-looking male and female friends. I shook my head. Two women, the exact same age, living in the same town, but completely worlds apart.

Abbie looked like the type of woman who always had perfectly polished toenails, who wore perfume every day – not just for a special occasion. She clearly had the upper arms of a yogi, volunteered her time for charity, and had seen the world, ticking off country after country that I could only dream of visiting. I bet she could speak at least one foreign language, made fresh healthy juices each morning, and was the person you realised was absent from social events.

Her perfect smile radiated off my laptop screen, eyes crinkled in a genuine laugh at the camera lens. You could tell by looking at her that she was someone you wanted on your team. She seemed so confident with who she was and the life she led. I had to keep reminding myself of the fact that this woman was no longer alive – it seemed impossible to get my head around it, and I hadn’t even known her. What must her husband and family be going through, losing such a vibrant woman with a clear zest for life?

I clicked on my own Facebook profile, using this newfound critical eye for detail to really take a good look at myself. What would someone uncover about me once I was gone? My closest friends were an eighty-three-year-old woman and a forty-something shopkeeper.

I sighed deeply.

This was Henry’s fault. I’d had close friends, a fun and exciting life in London and a promising future planned, before he ruined everything. I couldn’t help but pull at one of the threads on my sleeve at the thought of him, tugging it around my finger, watching it turn the tip an angry purple colour. I shouldn’t go there. I needed to concentrate on myself and what I could control. That was what Doctor Ahmed always said.

I shook my head. This wasn’t about Henry. This was about Abbie Anderson and giving this vivacious, inspirational woman the send-off she deserved. For the first time, I felt overwhelmed with the uncertainty of how exactly I was going to go about this.

Chapter 8

As expected, Linda had been very eager to hear about my Ask a Funeral Arranger event. I’d given a noncommittal, vague answer about how it had been a little quieter than expected, omitting the fact that only two people had turned up, one who already had a funeral plan with us and the other who was much too young to sign up for one.

‘Great. So you did get some sign-ups?’

‘Er…’

She raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t fooling her.

‘Seriously. Not one bit of interest?’

I couldn’t cope with the smugness radiating from her and the way she held her biro to her pursed lips, tapping at the smirk painted on them.

‘Oh, yes, well, I mean there was one man who seemed keen to know more…’ I lied.

‘Really?’

‘I’m just about to give him a call to confirm his appointment actually…’ I trailed out. She refused to take her eyes off me. Why had I said that? Why not admit it had been a total waste of time? I picked up my phone and for a moment thought about calling up the talking clock and pretending, but that was even more pathetic. I scrolled through my contacts list. Who could I call? Who would be receptive to me trying to sell them their own funeral? I settled on a gentleman I’d met a few months ago at a funeral service.

Please don’t pick up, please don’t pick up.

‘Hello?’ A gruff voice answered. My stomach dropped.

‘Hello, is that Mr Baxter?’

‘Yes?’

‘Oh hello, my name is Grace Salmon. I’m calling from Ryebrook Funeral Home and wondered if you had a moment to talk about your funeral?’

‘What? You what? It’s who?’

I couldn’t work out where he was, but there was music and laughter in the background. He was quite an elderly gentleman. I raised my voice.

‘It’s Grace Salmon! Is now a good time?’

I caught Linda sniggering into her raised fist as I shouted down the line.

‘Salmon? What? I can’t hear a bloody thing,’ he muttered. ‘Are you selling me something?’

This was not going well.

‘No. Well, yes. I wanted to speak to you about arrangements for your funeral, to see about making an appointment to discuss plans to lock it in at today’s prices.’ I winced. Linda made this seem so effortless.

‘My funeral? I really can’t hear a thing…’

I was losing him. To be fair I’d never had him in the first place, but I needed to keep him on the line a little longer. I thought of a different tack, one I’d seen Linda use.

‘You want to take the burden of planning your funeral away from your loved ones, don’t you?’

There was a pause. What sounded like the tinkle of a fruit machine and hearty male laughter.

‘Mr Baxter? Are you there?’

‘I don’t know who this is but I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.’

‘No, sir, I’m not –’

‘Wait. Is this Gerald? Ah, you got me there.’ He broke into a loud guffaw. ‘Calling about my funeral, you cheeky git. He set you up to this, didn’t he?’

‘No, I don’t know anyone called Gerald…’

Linda was making spluttering noises, trying to keep her suppressed giggles in. Mr Baxter wasn’t listening to my protestations.

‘You tell him from me that I’ll get him back for this. It’s a good one, though, funeral planning. I’ll have to remember that.’

He’d hung up before I could convince him that I was genuine.

‘OK, well, I’ll see you soon then,’ I said brightly into the empty phone line, and placed the receiver down. ‘He’s going to have a think about it,’ I said to Linda, before turning round to face my screen and hide the blush on my cheeks.

‘Ladies – Abbie Anderson?’ Frank broke Linda’s spluttering of giggles as he walked over to our desks. He was eating a satsuma, juice dribbling between his chubby fingers.

‘Sorry?’

He had a tiny flake of pith trapped in his beard.

‘I’ve just taken a call from a local rag reporter about an Abbie Anderson. A model, apparently? They wanted to know if we were dealing with her service.’

‘That name rings a bell.’ Linda began rooting around her messy desk.

‘Yes, we are,’ I said. She stopped lifting up pieces of papers and stared at me. ‘Her husband and her sister-in-law visited me to start the process.’

Frank was cut off from whatever he was about to say by a loud huff.

‘I’m sure I made that appointment,’ Linda frowned.

‘Oh, well, you weren’t here when Mr Anderson arrived so I took it on. I didn’t want to turn him away.’

Frank held up a hand. ‘Just as long as we make sure to factor in that there’s media interest. She was quite a famous model, apparently. And the press loves a story of a beautiful young woman taken too soon.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘We need to make sure the family are briefed and that the business is showcased at its best.’

I nodded decisively. The pressure was on. Frank took a lot of encouraging to get on board with some of my suggestions as it was; if there were going to be journalists covering Abbie’s funeral then I knew he’d want to err on the side of caution even more.

‘I’m sure you’ll do a great job, Grace. Just please remember to keep it simple and classic, our signature style.’

‘Sure thing…’ I replied, weakly.

Frank plodded off to his office. The moment his door was closed Linda angrily tapped her false nails against her keyboard.

‘I should have been looking after the Anderson funeral. But, oh well.’

‘We can work together on it if you like?’ I offered, knowing full well what her answer would be.

‘No. It’s fine. You heard what Frank said. If the press are going to be there then you’ll be under enough pressure to make sure everything runs smoothly, you don’t need my input too.’

‘Well, I –’

She cut me off by picking up the ringing phone. I suddenly felt like Abbie’s funeral was going to be one of the biggest I’d ever looked after.

Chapter 9

I got changed into the thickest and comfiest pyjamas I owned, feeling exhausted, and climbed into bed. The cool sheets were like a hug. I opened my laptop and decided to keep my head focussed on things I could control: namely, Abbie Anderson’s funeral.

I thought about Frank’s warning to keep her service simple. But I didn’t want to give anyone I cared for a traditional, impersonal send-off. I felt like I’d gotten to know Abbie during the past few evenings spent lost in her world. I didn’t need proof of just how important the perfect goodbye was. The personal services mattered; I tried not to worry about what the repercussions with my boss may be.

Abbie’s Facebook feed had filled up since I’d first found her page. Messages of remembrance, photos and inspirational quotes – usually involving angels – had been posted onto her timeline. As I looked at the photos, many including Callum, I felt this strange, deep ache in the pit of my stomach, thinking of their marriage cut short. Their future plans dissolved in a split second. But it was also a kind of envy; a resentment for what he and his beautiful wife had shared, and anger that Henry had robbed me of our future too. He’d cruelly promised me the world, and then left me clinging onto his empty words; a destiny that would never materialise, just like Callum and Abbie’s future.

I couldn’t help myself. I was soon lost in Abbie’s perfect life. A place where there was only sunshine, big smiles and happiness. No drama, no painful former relationships and no angry thoughts. Maybe if I had a life more like Abbie’s, I would feel happier? Things would be different. Better.

My Facebook feed brought up the local newspaper’s page. I clicked to read more. Abbie’s beautiful face was shown, alongside an image of a mangled car wreck. It was a short article about her death and upcoming funeral, asking for witnesses to the crash to come forward. Underneath the main picture was one hundred and seventy-two likes.

Layla Kent had written: ‘Gone too soon my sweet angel.’

Someone called Tessa Haynes had commented: ‘Still feels so unreal.’

Another person called Mark McKinney had typed a crying emoji then gone on to rant about how that road had always been a death trap. ‘The council need to do sumfin about it.’

Below that was a comment from someone whose name looked familiar. The handsome man who’d been tagged in her modelling photos, Owen Driscoll. ‘Miss you, Abbie Anderson.’

I clicked on his name, which opened up his profile page. It was set to private so all I could see was his profile picture and very basic information. His cover photo was a hand holding a bottle of lager in front of a tropical beach. He was a model, like I’d suspected, working at the same agency as Abbie.

I found myself back on Abbie’s page once more. You meet people in life who just seem to sparkle; I just happened to meet her in death. I was like a fan-girl, wanting to soak it all up. Three of Abbie’s photo albums were from fashion shoots or ‘Modelling lols’, in her words. Her beautiful face, long slim legs and petite frame were perfectly suited to the flamboyant dresses covering her. Her body curved away from the camera slightly to maximise the cut of the gown and shape of her figure.