How to Say Goodbye. Katy Colins
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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.
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.
Abbie is feeling fabulous at – Serenity Hair. A selfie in a hairdresser’s chair with freshly blow-dried blonde locks. ‘Huge thanks to the talented Andre for his serious skills! Bring on girls night tonight!’ Seventy-two likes. Fifteen comments, all massaging her ego.
From childhood to teens to thirty-three years old, I’d sported the same mid-length mousy brown hair. I stuck religiously to the recommended regular trim every six to eight weeks with Chatty Claire.