How To Be Rich & Popular

The way to be really popular, is to have someone you love die.

Of course, this is quite a hefty pay-off, so it isn't for everyone, but guaranteed: the doorbell won't stop ringing.

Marg let in her latest gentleman caller, Jim, who'd brought a bunch of flowers. Marg put them in the sink with the others. There wasn't a lot of room. She sniffled her thanks, and assured him that, yes, Harold would have been so pleased, he'd always loved yellow.

Jim had also brought a card. Marg lingered over the heartfelt message inside for a moment, and then put it on the windowsill, next to the one from Shireen, from work. Everyone in the office had signed that one.

Jim didn't stay, thankfully, in fact he didn't even take off his anorak. Unlike Bill next door, who had stayed for three milky cups of coffee before she managed to shoo him away.

Jim said the usual things: anything I can do, and I really am so sorry, then he left, having made as little eye contact as possible.

Hardly was he out of the door than her old friend Doris arrived. Marg would've liked to find an excuse not to let her in, but the woman had a big dish of something, and it would've been rude to accept it without being hospitable, wouldn't it?

This malarkey continued well into the evening. It was exhausting. They weren't all 100% compassionate, either. There was a reasonable percentage of nosiness. Do you really think he's gone then? Was that really his body the coppers found down in Belle's Wood?

It was tricky, keeping up the right flow of tears, and a believable amount of indignation when people leaned in for details, their spectacles flashing.

Speaking of pay-offs, there may well be another benefit if the loved one is your spouse.

At last, Marg shut the door, locked and bolted it, and drew all the curtains. She warmed up two servings of Doris' casserole, buttered some wedges of bread to go with it and made a pot of tea. Then she arranged it all neatly on a tray and creaked her way up the stairs with it, switching off the lights as she went. Harold opened the door to the back bedroom in response to her soft, secret knock. Marg flopped down on the edge of the bed.

"It's been non-stop," she said.

Harold dug into the casserole with gusto.

"I'll swap you," he said, hunger and boredom making him gruff.

"It's too late for that and you know it," Marg scolded.

"How long am I to be stuck up here?" Harold complained.

"Hisht," she said. "At least until the funeral. Then we'll move away. Somewhere nice. Near the coast."

"Will you record it?"

"What, the funeral?"

"Yes, I want to see if the kids say anything nice."

"I'm not sure it's the Done Thing, Harold. We'll see."

+

Thank you for reading. Orla might return tomorrow. I couldn't make her chapter Go today, but it's close.