Rosa went out of the bathroom, so Titch could sort herself out. The cropped-haired blonde soon reappeared, saying, ‘I kind of prefer Whittaker and all it stood for. Do you remember when I very first met you and said I’d introduce you to the few single cocks of Cockleberry Bay?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Rosa laughed. ‘You were reckless, and the cocks were all feckless, back then.’
‘I don’t recall you being a complete angel to be fair,’ Titch said, straight-faced.
‘What a difference a couple of years makes, eh?’ Rosa sighed. ‘It will be my last year of being in my twenties next birthday too – how did that happen?’
‘Yeah, you old bint,’ Titch teased her. ‘I guess the joy for me about getting pregnant as a teenager is that at least Theo will hopefully be off my hands before I’m forty. Anyway, only regret the things you don’t do, I say. We lived it, girl, and we still are. Anyway, back to Danny Green.’ Titch smirked. ‘There’s nothing wrong with fancying him, is there? Even with Lucas, you surely still have your own little fantasies?’
‘I don’t feel that way about him any more,’ Rosa said swiftly.
‘Oh? Truly, Rose? I think if you have that fire in your loins and that soul connection with somebody, it never really goes, does it?’
Rosa bit her lip and suddenly burst out with: ‘How often do you have sex with Ritchie at the moment?’
‘Hmm…around once a month if he’s lucky, but I may be ramping it up soon to help get the baby giraffe out.’ Titch put her hand on her friend’s arm. ‘Sex and babies aren’t good bedfellows, Rose. You’re either too tired, too busy, or too scared of having anything near you that may create another little monster. And ignore me harping on about Lucas, it’s clear that you and Josh are made for each other.’
‘Saying that, we did manage it the night before he went to New York. I thought the least I should do was put out before he went away for nearly two months.’ Rosa forced a smile. ‘But yeah, sex aside, we are an exceptionally good team, and thanks for saying that. I love you, Titch.’
‘I love you more, and I feel fine again now. Amazing what a little power-nap on the bog can do. There’s no need for you to stay, honestly. You go and have an hour or two to yourself.’
‘What about the order that’s come in?’
‘I’ve promised Ritchie I won’t lift, so I won’t. I shall just unpack the boxes out the back and bring stuff through individually.’ Titch went to the kitchen and downed a glass of water. ‘Go on, Mrs Smith, get down those stairs,’ she instructed Rosa. ‘I’d have a kip if I were you, while you have the chance. I know, let’s reconvene at Little Devils at one and hope that Pablo Escobar hasn’t torn off either of our offspring’s limbs.’
CHAPTER 8
Bailey’s Funeral Care was located at the very top of Cockleberry Bay’s Main Street. Inside the pristine front office was an antique red-leather-topped desk and a comfortable seating area with a glass coffee-table. Brochures outlining all shapes and sizes of coffins and headstones were neatly stacked in the middle of it. A sign above the desk pointed to a door marked Chapel of Rest. A small kitchen and toilet were situated to the rear of the office, where another door opened out to a car park housing a battered hearse, which looked old enough to be pulled by horses.
A tall, white-haired man in his mid-fifties, wearing a long black coat and sucking on an empty Meerschaum pipe, was standing in the window, chatting on his mobile. With his debonair good looks and somewhat spooky appearance, he could quite easily have passed as a younger version of the famous Dracula actor, Christopher Lee.
‘So yes, I’ve sent you an email but I just wanted to confirm that it should read Webb & Son, please.’ The man’s voice was deep and precise. ‘Yes, black writing on a white board. And “Son” is to be singular, not plural. I have one son and last time the signwriter misheard and put an s on the end, and by the time I got back from a funeral, it was up and there was no time to take it down and…my son, just the one son, hasn’t joined me yet but… Oh, you’re in a hurry, sorry to go on. Nobody’s ever in much of a hurry here.’ Both men then laughed.
‘Thank you very much,’ Christopher Webb finished, ‘and yes, tomorrow is perfect – and you’ll fit it by midday? Good stuff, good stuff. Goodbye now.’
He went over to his desk and sat down, then, taking off his rimless glasses, he rubbed his eyes, all the while continuing to suck on his pipe. It had been the hardest thing in his life to give up tobacco, but if just sucking in air was now his only vice, then so be it. He certainly didn’t want to use one of those vape things which caused a trail of smoke so massive, it looked like your head was actually on fire.
The front window of the upstairs flat offered a great view over the narrow street which made its steep and winding way down to Cockleberry Bay’s beach. In fact, if he stood on a chair, he could not only see the Corner Shop, but if he craned his neck to the left, he could also just about see the sea. ‘Sea views,’ the estate agent had said. Bloody liars, the lot of them, but he was happy: happy that he was now living so close to his only son and daughter, both of whom he felt he had failed in some way, although part of that had come about through tragic circumstance.
What with Rosa’s mother being an alcoholic and not alerting him to their daughter Rosa’s existence, and him selfishly sending his son away to boarding school when he couldn’t handle the trauma of his now ex-wife abandoning them when Nate was just five, neither Mary nor Christopher had been the parents their children deserved. However, thanks to Rosa, he and Mary had found a way to try to repair the damage. It was Rosa who had taken the decision to find her birth father, but being the man he was, Christopher Webb bore Mary no ill will for not telling him that Rosa was his. They had been given an opportunity to put things to rights – and by moving here now, he hoped that would soon be the case.
What was it about Mary – or Polly Cobb as he had known her back in the day – with her long black hair flowing down her back and her beautiful, far-seeing mermaid-green eyes? They had met just the once, over a year ago, when it had all come out that he was Rosa’s father. Physically, Mary was unlike any woman he had been attracted to since their encounter nearly thirty years ago. And even their subsequent telephone conversations about their new grandson Little Ned had been stilted and a bit weird. But there was something, something about her that he felt drawn to. And if he was put on the spot, he would have to admit that the reason he had sold up his place in North Devon to move across to the South was for more than just to be closer to his children.
‘Right!’ he said aloud, smacking his hand down on the desk and sending his spectacles bouncing onto the tiled floor as he did so. ‘I’d better get on.’ With his assistant of the past ten years understandably not willing to commute from North Devon, he had a great deal to sort out, especially as he was meeting his very first client here in a matter of minutes.
Without all his systems in place, he knew the first funeral would be a logistical nightmare to arrange, but he could use it as a good marketing ploy too. He would drive the hearse with coffin and flowers down and up Main Street, before heading to the crematorium or church. The locals would then be very much alerted that despite Eddie Bailey’s sad demise, Webb & Son were very much back in the business of death.