How to Say Goodbye Read online

  KATY COLINS learned there is always a second chance in life.

  Jilted before her wedding, she sold all she owned, filled a backpack and booked a one-way ticket to the other side of the world.

  Her solo travels inspired her to pen ‘The Lonely Hearts Travel Club’ series and saw her dubbed the ‘Backpacking Bridget Jones’ by the global media. And, in a stunning twist of fate, Katy found her happy-ever-after by marrying the journalist who shared her story with the world.

  She now lives in the middle of England with her husband, John, and two young children.

  You can find out more about Katy, her writing and her travels at www.katycolins.com or @notwedordead on social media platforms.

  Also by Katy Colins

  Chasing the Sun

  The Lonely Heart Travel Club series:

  Destination: Thailand

  Destination: India

  Destination: Chile

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Katy Colins 2019

  Katy Colins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008202231

  Dad, I think you’d like this one.

  ‘That it will never come again is

  what makes life so sweet’

  - EMILY DICKINSON

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Katy Colins

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  I straightened my chiffon scarf so the small forget-me-nots lay flat against my crisp, white shirt. A quick tug of my sleeves, brushing off imaginary fluff, a pat of my hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, and I was as ready as I would ever be. My rubber-soled shoes allowed me to silently do the last check of the small room. Every seat was presentable – the flowers arranged just so – and the windows and mirrors were spotless. Not a fingerprint or smudge in sight. The lights were set to the correct level, the gaudy air freshener that had been here when I’d arrived was where it belonged – in the bin – the synthetic lily of the valley scent no longer catching at the back of your throat. I smiled at the calming space. It looked perfect.

  It had been another late night, preparing for today and the other services I had this week. I could hear my boss Frank’s voice warning me that I was going to end up burnt out if I wasn’t careful. I’d already had niggles with my neck and shoulders that he was convinced were stress-related, despite my insistences that I was fine. I’d catch up on sleep this weekend, I promised myself.

  The sound of car tyres pulled me away from giving one of the red ribbons I’d looped though the end of the pews a final flourish. The family hadn’t specified a colour scheme but, as Mr Oakes had been a lifelong Liverpool FC fan, I thought they’d appreciate the gesture.

  I straightened up and nodded to Leon, who was giving the sound system a once-over. He was my favourite of the team. He understood what I was trying to achieve without too much questioning, usually a slight raising of his bushy grey eyebrows or pressing his thin lips together would be all he’d say about some of my more ‘out there’ ideas. I ran a finger over the lectern. Clean as a whistle.

  ‘Leon, before I forget, did you get my message about next Wednesday? The Rivers family want to change their dove release from before to after the memorial slot.’

  Leon nodded. ‘Don’t you worry. When would I ever let you down?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I was about to mention something else when a soft tinkle of an alarm began playing.

  ‘That’s our two-minute warning,’ I said, fishing my phone from my pocket, switching it to silent and double-checking the time.

  Earlier I’d received a call that the cars had left precisely on time. I’d asked the drivers to take a slight detour that I hoped would bring some comfort to the family, if it went to plan. I had already checked the online route map for any last-minute traffic jams, diversions or roadworks, and had breathed a sigh of relief – everything looked clear.

  I’d also made sure to check the weather app in case we needed to provide more umbrellas – Spring had been all over the place. I’d learnt quickly that small things like bottles of water in the cars and even sunscreen could make a huge difference. People didn’t remember to take things like that with them on days like these.

  ‘Seriously, Grace.’ Leon nodded at my phone, unable to hide a smile. ‘An alarm?’

  ‘You get on with your job and I’ll get on with mine,’ I replied politely.

  ‘I forgot, organisation is liberation,’ he parroted. I think it was meant to mimic me. A flourish of blush spread across his cheeks at the look I gave him.

  I let it go and cleared my throat.

  ‘It’s time.’

  He composed himself, gave a solemn nod, then pressed play. The room was suddenly filled with the sound of Gerry and the Pacemakers’ ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. It played at just the right volume from the hidden speakers that had recently been installed at my suggestion, the sound optimised so that the acoustics were the same for all the guests.

  ‘Show time,’ Leon whispered and pulled open the doors.

  We took our positions. We were mere background players from then on. There to observe, supervise and, above all, ensure everything went to plan. The family slowly walked in, steely determination etched o
n their pale faces.

  A light oak-veneered coffin was carried over the threshold. Heads bowed, feet shuffled, the odd gasp of breath was just audible over packets of tissues rustling. As the service got underway, I scanned my eyes around the congregation. Mr Oakes had clearly been a popular man. I’d gone to the liberty of printing off extra orders of service just in case the numbers given by his family were off slightly, and I appeared to be proven right. Nearly every seat was taken.

  I sensed Leon smiling at me.

  ‘You’re miming the words again,’ he whispered. I looked away to hide any sign of blushing. I had a habit of doing that.

  Mr Oakes’s son, Edward, made his way to the lectern. Each slow step was painful to watch. He tugged at his shirt collar and fidgeted in his black suit. Clearly a trip to the dentist or a gruelling job interview would be a walk in the park compared to this. Some people revelled in being centre stage, no matter what the occasion. Edward Oakes was not one of those people.

  He took two deep breaths to compose himself. The microphone whined that he was too close, a jolting sound that clearly didn’t help with his nervous state. He jerked back and wiped his glistening forehead.

  ‘I’ve been asked to give a reading and then introduce the piece of music Dad loved so much.’ He swallowed and tried to focus his red-rimmed eyes on the card in his trembling hands. I ran through the short, concise speech in my head. His mother had chosen the text and the song was one they’d danced to on their wedding night.

  He cleared his throat once more and began to read.

  *

  Before long, guests exited the room, blinking back the bright spring sunlight and exclaiming what a good service it had been.

  ‘He would have been proud.’

  ‘It summed him up perfectly. He’d have been sorry to have missed it.’

  I bowed my head as they filed past.

  ‘Grace? Thank you.’ Mrs Oakes had come up to me and was now gripping my elbow. Her mascara had smudged and her voice trembled with emotion but she was doing a remarkable job of holding herself together. I wondered how long she would cope, keeping up this pretence.

  ‘You’re more than welcome. I hope everything went well?’

  She let out a loud sniff. I subconsciously patted in my back pocket for the packet of tissues I always kept with me. She kept in the threat of tears and gave my arm a rub.

  ‘He would have been delighted. I noticed the red ribbons. A lovely touch. I didn’t know we’d mentioned him being a Liverpool fan – he was mad for them.’ She flicked her eyes heavenward and smiled sadly. ‘We were driven past his favourite pub on the way here, where he used to go and watch the games on the big screen. The landlord and the staff all lined up as we went past. It was very touching. I didn’t even know they’d been told the news.’

  I’d go and thank the team for pulling that off. I’d had a long chat with the landlord, who’d insisted he do something to mark the passing of one of his locals.

  ‘I’m so pleased it all went to plan. You had quite the turnout too. Your husband was clearly a much-loved gentleman.’

  Mrs Oakes blinked at the guests still making their way out from the ceremony room. For a second it seemed like she’d forgotten why she was here. ‘He was.’

  ‘I won’t keep you, but if there is anything else you need then please don’t hesitate to give me a call.’

  She smiled and sniffed again. Her game face going on. ‘Oh and thank you for your lovely note, it was very thoughtful.’

  I had popped it through her letterbox yesterday evening, wanting to let her know that I was thinking of her. The night before you bury your husband was never going to be a pleasant one.

  ‘You’re welcome. My phone number is on there if you ever can’t get me at work. Take care of yourself, Mrs Oakes.’

  I left her surrounded by her family and friends and allowed myself a slight rush of pride as I walked over to my car. Another success. Mrs Oakes and the other families that I helped would never know the lengths I went to in order to deliver on the day. I was proud of the unseen ways in which I ensured a personal and heartfelt tribute to the people in my care. I took it upon myself to see the side of people that others don’t see. I knew how important this was. It made the late nights, extra work and long shifts worth it – knowing I had done as much as I possibly could.

  This was not a dress rehearsal, after all. You only get one chance at the perfect goodbye.

  Chapter 1

  ‘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!’