Saint Lila of the Upper East Side

(Note to Readers: Once again, profound apologies for the lack of updates. Hopefully, we're back on track now! Thanks for reading. And don't forget, if you're new, start at the oldest entry and work your way forward.)

I didn’t tell anyone about that meeting with Michael Rhodes. As with many things pertaining to Michael, I’m still not sure why, exactly.  All I know for sure is that I barely slept for the next two nights, leading up to my meeting with Lila Finley. I told myself it was nerves – Lila Finley is a New York society legend. I knew her only by reputation, and it was a sterling reputation at that. Little was known about her early life. She seemed to appear on the social scene out of nowhere when she married oil tycoon Alistair Finley at the tender age of eighteen. But she had soon made an indelible impression among the Who’s Who of Manhattan with her intelligence, wit and charm. Generous to a fault, she was the patron saint of kids, choreographers and curators. But, by all reports, she was not a woman to be trifled with, and I knew that if I made a bad impression, it could hurt my career in untold ways.

So, that’s what I told myself was the reason for my sleepless nights, - not a pair of intense green eyes, with a disturbing air of disapproval about them, that seemed to appear every time I closed my eyes. No, I refused to believe that Michael Rhodes was having any kind of effect on me. It was a case of the nerves, that was all.

On Saturday morning, I ransacked my closet for something appropriate to wear. It’s not like I hadn’t been to my share of penthouses. Hell, I lived in one until Richard the Bastard took all our money. But I had such butterflies, it was ridiculous. I tried on outfit after outfit. Roxie watched me for a while, but soon grew bored and headed for the living room, leaving me to sift through the growing mountain of suits and dresses. I finally settled on a conservative floral print dress, with a navy-blue cardigan, and my favorite Louboutin strappy sandals (left over from when I had real money). Smart, professional, but approachable.

It was an absolutely gorgeous late Spring day, and as I walked from my apartment on York and 83^rd to Lila Finley’s home at Fifth and 87^th, I reflected on how much my life had changed in just a few short years. I knew I would be walking past my old building at Fifth and 84^th, and it still hurt sometimes to do so. I could have taken a different route, heading North while still further East, but for some perverse reason, I felt compelled to take the same route every time, right past the door I had walked out of more times than I could ever count. The seven avenues and one block that separated my new apartment from my old one may have only equaled about half a mile, but the distance between my new life and my old one was far greater.

With these thoughts running through my mind, I guess I was feeling a bit melancholy by the time I reached Lila Finley’s building. I absently gave my name to the doorman, and he directed me to the concierge, who called up to the penthouse. Within minutes, I was forcing a smile for the elevator operator as he keyed in the code to take me up.

I was feeling a bit ambivalent. I told myself this meeting meant nothing, that it was just one client.  But what a client it would be to land! Arranging Lila Finley’s funeral would more or less allow me to write my ticket in Manhattan society. I would be back on top, in a very big way. But, was that what I wanted? I liked my life and I liked my friends. My life was more real than it had ever been. And, yet, walking past my old building . . . I think you get the picture here, right? The truth was, I didn’t want to care, but I did.

I took a deep breath as the elevator came to a halt. I had, for a moment, forgotten how things worked in a building like this, and so I was not quite prepared for the doors to open directly into Lila Finley’s entry foyer. “Miss Frances Fellowes,” the elevator operator intoned, for all the world like he was some stuffy Victorian Era butler. The effect was slightly ruined by the smirk he had on his youthful face when I glanced at him. That smirk grew, and it took me a moment to realize that he was waiting for me to get off the elevator. Great, I thought as I stepped quickly out into the foyer. Now he probably thinks I’m some sort of country mouse who’s never seen a luxury high-rise. I shook my head slightly as the door closed, took another deep breath, and turned to face . . . well, I didn’t know what I was going to face.

My sense of drama is begging me to describe the scene I encountered in the most gothic terms possible: the darkened apartment, with only slivers of light escaping through the cracks of the heavy velvet curtains; inches of dust on the dark, mahogany furniture; the musty smell of years of neglect; and an old, gravelly, disembodied voice calling to me from the shadows to, “Come just a bit closer, my dear.”

Yeah, Lila Finley’s apartment was nothing like that, and Lila Finley was as far from a Miss Havisham as Roxie is from a Rottweiler. When I turned around, I was nearly blinded by the light coming from the 360-degree exposures. The windows had sheers and tasteful Roman Shades; the furniture was an impeccable blend of traditional and modern, without a speck of dust anywhere to be seen; the only smell was a gentle fragrance from the bouquet of fresh Spring flowers on the small round table in the foyer; and Lila Finley’s voice was strong and cheerful as she entered from the living room, a wide smile on her face, saying, “You must be Francie! My word, it’s been 20 years since I’ve seen you. What a lovely young woman you’ve become!”

I gaped. Seriously, I stood there, opening and closing my mouth like a fish. The astute reader will have realized by now that this is not an uncommon look for me, however unflattering it may be.  I didn’t know what to say. I had been expecting a frail elderly woman. But Lila Finley was as vibrant and immaculate as her apartment. There was no possible way this woman could be dying. Was there?

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. Lila (as she quickly insisted I call her) ushered me through the living room, directly out onto the terrace, where a pleasant-looking woman, introduced to me as Elena, was setting out trays of lemonade, cakes and finger sandwiches. Before I knew it, I was reclining in a chaise, gazing out over Central Park, and absently munching a tiny egg salad sandwich.

“I hope you don’t mind being out on the terrace,” Lila began, once we were both settled. “We can sit in the living room, or my office, if you prefer, but it seemed such a shame to waste a beautiful day like this inside.”

“Not at all,” I said, honestly. “It’s lovely.” I took a swig from the lemonade and forced myself to ask the one question to which I really didn’t want an answer: “Will your grandson be joining us?”

“Midge? No, I told him I wanted to see you alone.”

I had been in the process of taking another drink, and choked ever so slightly. “Midge?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face.

Lila laughed to most endearing, musical laugh. “Oh, yes. Don’t ever tell Michael I told you, but he was the tiniest thing growing up – so small for his age. His older brothers called him ‘Midget,’ and somewhere along the line, it got shortened to ‘Midge.’ The name simply stuck, I’m afraid.” Lila shrugged and smiled. “I’ve promised time and again to stop calling him that, but old habits are hard to break.”

I grinned (probably a tad evilly) as I filed this supremely blackmailable fact away for future reference. I assured Lila I would never say a word, and then ventured the other question that had been on my mind since my arrival.

“I hope you’re not offended by this, Mrs. Finley,” I began.

“Lila.”

“Of course, Lila. It’s just, you said it’s been twenty years since you saw me, but I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Lila said, with another charming smile. “It was your father’s funeral. You and your sister were so young. I remember you, though. So poised and mature even then. I was quite charmed by you. I loved hearing about all of your accomplishments over the years.”

“My accomplishments? I don’t understand. How did you—“

“From Felicia, of course.”

“You knew my mother.” This was a surprise to me, as I had only ever heard of Lila Finley by reputation.

“We were on a number of committees together,” Lila explained. “She spoke often of you and your sister. She was very proud of you.”

I stared out over the park, a little overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of emotion that hit me. I thought about my mom every day, but I tended to regulate those thoughts. But right now, there was no constraint and I was feeling a fresh wave of loss. I felt a light touch on my hand, and turned to look at Lila.

“I was so sorry to miss Felicia’s funeral,” Lila said. “I tried everything to get a flight back from Cairo, but nothing was available. I wanted to be there for her – and for her girls.”

“Thank you,” I said. My dormant memory kicked in then and I quickly added, “And thank you for your lovely arrangement and the donation to the Met.”

“Of course, dear.” Lila gave me a moment to gather myself. Then she broached the subject that had brought us there in the first place. “I admire you for what you have done to  get your life back together after what that man did to you. Your business is quite a clever idea.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure Michael told you that I would like to engage your services.”

“He did,” I replied, a little uncomfortable. For a short time I had forgotten that this vibrant woman thought she was dying. It didn’t seem possible. Lila Finley was a force of nature. I could not imagine any force in nature that could stop her.

“Michael thinks I am being foolish.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said quickly. Then I wondered why I was defending the man who had pretty much trashed my career choice and, by extension, me. It seems Lila was thinking much along the same lines.

“You are kind to say so. Especially when I am certain Michael was more than a little blunt in his conversation with you.” Lila smiled again. “He doesn’t approve of you.”

“So he said.” I shrugged. “He’s not hiring me.”

“That’s right,” Lila said with approval. “I am. And since Michael doesn’t approve of me much right now, I’d say you and I will get along famously.”

Now I did have to defend him, because our short conversation had made it clear that Michael Rhodes loved and admired his grandmother, and I said as much.

“Oh, I know Michael loves me,” Lila assured me. “But, as I said, he thinks I am being foolish in believing I will die soon, and in engaging your services.”

“Why –“ I hesitated. “Why do you believe that you are dying?”

“You mean aside from the fact that I’m 75 years old? Let’s face it, I fewer days ahead of me than behind.”

I smiled involuntarily. “But that doesn’t mean that your death is imminent.”

“I like you, Francie,” Lila said. “You don’t sugar coat things. You’re up front and professional. Michael and those quacks he takes me to are afraid to even say the d-word.”

“I’m sure Michael doesn’t want to think about losing you,” I offered. “That’s a difficult thing to accept. It’s part of why I do what I do – it’s easier for families to allow someone without a personal connection to handle the most difficult details.”

“And that’s why I want you here,” Lila said simply. “When the time comes, Michael will need you.” She sighed. “I don’t know when I’m going to die, Francie. But I am an old woman, and my heart is weak. Whenever the time comes, I would feel better knowing I had left everything in order. Will you help me with that, Francie?”

I looked Lila in the eye and knew there was only response I could give. “Of course, Lila. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

Feel free to visit my website: www.kristenmareecleary.com, or follow Francie on Twitter @franciefellowes)

Some Enchanted Evening

(Note to Readers: Apologies for the long gap in entries, but Francie, and her creator, have been super-busy. Hopefully things will be back on track now. Remember, if you haven’t read Francie’s story before, or it’s been a while, start from the oldest entry and work your way forward. Enjoy!)

Enchanted? Well, that’s one word to describe the night I met Michael Rhodes. But, I can think of a few more suitable ones – cursed, forsaken, blighted. I could go on, but I donated my thesaurus to the Goodwill. Suffice it to say that Michael Rhodes is the biggest Pain in the – Anyway, you get the idea.

I met Michael about a year ago, not long after the birthday that brought Roxie into my life (now, there was an enchanted evening!). It started with a voicemail on my cell that went something like this, “Miss Fellowes, Michael Rhodes. I need to meet with you to discuss your . . .  ‘services.’ I’ll meet you this Thursday at the New York AC on Central Park South. 7 PM. Give my name when you arrive.”

Actually, that’s exactly how the message went, complete with pause and airquotes on “services.” And it wasn’t like he asked to meet me. No, he ordered me to be at the New York Athletic Club on Thursday at 7 – as if I were some underling he could just order around at will. Strike One! Seriously, if that didn’t say everything I needed to know about Michael Rhodes . . .

So, why did I go to the New York AC that Thursday at 7? To this day, I’m not really sure. I told myself I was going for the sole purpose of telling this arrogant jerk exactly what I thought of his summons. And, that was part of the motivation, certainly.  But, if I’m honest with myself, I know there was more to it than that. Arrogance aside, it seemed like he wanted to hire me, so I couldn’t very well let a business opportunity pass me by. I don’t have to like my clients. After all, I just have to work with them for a short time. It occurred to me that his was a young voice, and (arrogance aside), I hoped it wasn't for himself that he needed my services. At any rate, anyone who was a member of the New York AC was bound to have connections that would prove useful for my business. And. honestly, I was curious. I don’t know – there was something in his voice that was just . . . intriguing. So, one drink at the bar and a fifteen-minute conversation was surely a small sacrifice for the gratification of either satisfying my curiosity, signing a new client, or telling off a jerk.

Oh, if only it were that simple. I got to the club at 6:45 Thursday evening, gave his name, and was shown to a private table at the rear of the lounge. 7PM came and went, and no Michael Rhodes. At 7:15, I asked the waiter if he had called (since I had no way to call him), and the answer was no. Strike Two! I waited another ten minutes, and was just picking up my purse to leave, when a ridiculously handsome man approached my table.

“Miss Fellowes?” he asked, holding out his hand. My mouth went dry and I temporarily forgot that I didn’t like this man. I automatically took his hand and shook it, not saying anything. Yeah, I know, real professional, but I’m telling you – you should have seen this guy. Tall, fit, short but wavy brown hair, and intense green eyes that seemed like they could see through you. I wasn’t quite prepared for that. To be honest, I had been so angry with his arrogance on the phone, I think I had convinced myself that he must be short, fat and bald, with a tendency to sweat profusely. So not.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting across from me. “I got stuck in a meeting downtown and I left your number at the office.”

I recovered myself quickly enough that I don’t think I looked like a total ass, and said, “You couldn’t have called the club?”

To give him his due (and I really hate to), he looked nonplussed by this and said, “Oh, yeah, I guess I could have. Sorry.”

Confident that I had him wrong-footed now, I said, “You mentioned that you wished to discuss my services.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat, and then stuck his shiny black leather shoe into it: “First, let me say that I think what you do is unseemly at best and parasitic at worst.”

Strike Three! “Oh, you are so out,” I muttered, rising and grabbing my purse again.

“Excuse me?” he asked, seeming genuinely confused.

I realized that I had, of course, been umpiring in my head, so his confusion about my choice of words was understandable. But, could he really not understand my reaction? “I am not going to sit here and be insulted,” I said, and I began to walk away.

He called to me to wait. I didn’t. I got to the door, and suddenly felt his hand on my arm. I turned, looked at the hand, and then looked at him. He got the message, and let go, but he persisted in trying to get me to stay.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. At least hear me out. I do need your services. Or at least, my grandmother does.”

I was seething by that point, but I decided to hear what he had to say, and followed him back to the table. “I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother, “ I offered. Even I heard the slightly sullen tone in my voice. “How much time does she have?”

A wry smile tugged at Michael’s lips, and I felt my heart skip a beat. Stupid hormones. “In my medical opinion,” he replied, “she’s going to live forever. But, she disagrees.”

“Are you her doctor?”

“No, I run her foundation.” My confusion must have been apparent, because he added, “My grandmother is Lila Finley.”

Now I’m certain my jaw dropped at that point. Lila Finley? “The Lila Finley?”

“You’ve heard of her.”

“Of course I’ve heard of her. So has every museum, theatre company and children’s charity in the City. Your grandmother is the most philanthropic woman in New York.”

“Person.”

“What?”

“My grandmother is the most philanthropic person in New York – man or woman.”

“Right, OK.” I took a minute to marshal my thoughts. This was definitely not what I was expecting tonight. “I don’t understand, though, I hadn’t heard she was ill.”

“She’s not.” Michael sighed. “Not really. She’s 75 and she was just diagnosed with a minor heart condition. I think she’s just feeling her mortality a bit.”

I still didn’t understand. “So, why come to me?”

Michael sighed again. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. What I said before – maybe it was a bit harsh, but it’s true. I don’t really believe in what you do.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m just trying to be honest here.”

“Yeah, well, let me be honest – I’m about two seconds from walking out, and I won’t turn back this time.”

“Listen, what I think isn’t important.  My grandmother has heard about what you do and she asked me to contact you. She wants to plan her funeral and she wants the best to assist her. Apparently, you’re the best.”

His tone told me quite clearly that he disagreed with the idea that I was the best at anything. Still, he was right – what he thought wasn’t important. His grandmother was the client, not him. And to land a client like Lila Finley would be one hell of a coup. So, why did his disapproval bother me so much?

“I’ve certainly worked with people on their own services before,” I said, trying to keep my focus on professional matters. “But you say your grandmother is not dying. Is that what her doctors say as well?”

“Her doctors feel she needs to take it easy and take care of herself, but no, they don’t feel she is in any imminent danger.”

“Then why—?”

“Because it’s what she wants.”

And in the end, it was that simple. Michael and I discussed terms (and the terms were generous), and I agreed to meet Lila Finley at her Fifth Avenue Penthouse that Saturday afternoon. And over the next few months, I discovered that one – yes, enchanted – evening could change a person’s life forever. 

The Funeral "Meet" Market

OK, so don’t think less of me for saying this, but funerals are a great place to meet men. Seriously. I never would have thought it, but I’ve met a few guys over the years through my work. And I’m not the only one. I have seen hook up after hook up at the funerals I’ve arranged. I won’t say, “love connections,” because that’s probably overdoing it a bit in most cases. But you’d be surprised how many people leave a funeral in a different car (or cab) than they arrived in.

Maybe it’s New York. I don’t know. But, let’s face it: dating in the City can be scarier than a drunk, six-foot-five Judy Garland at the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade (do they really make ruby slippers in a size 13?). Navigating the dating scene in New York is not for the faint of heart. Seen Sex and the City? Doesn’t even do it justice. Everyone has an agenda – and the agenda is never the same. Half of the guys seem to want a phone number and nothing more (even names are optional), five minutes after dropping their best (worst) pick-up line. Meanwhile, half of the girls want a detailed resume, three letters of reference, and the name of your childhood dog before agreeing to a first date.

Hmm, speaking of dogs, maybe now is a good time to mention Roxie’s role in my own dating life. Everyone said that having a dog would be an amazing way to meet men. Not having had a dog since the dearly departed Cadfael, I had no way of knowing if that was really true. Tamsin seemed to believe it, though, and even went so far as to buy Roxie a little pink t-shirt that said, “Mommy’s Single” in little rhinestones. I have to admit, it was adorable, but I’ve never had the guts to put it on her. At any rate, I don’t think it would really matter, anyway. As delightful a little girl as my Roxie is, she’s a quirky one. OK, she’s nuts. And, when it comes to men, she’s a total wackadoo. I’m not kidding. Last fall, I had to replace some guy’s Ray-Bans which had somehow fallen into the East River. I say somehow. It probably had something to do with the fact that, when he tried to shake my hand, she tried to take his off (by the way, comedy gold watching a little ten-pound rugrat try to reach a six-foot-tall guy’s wrist). In the ensuing panic, which involved him shrieking like a four-year-old girl and jumping away from Roxie’s tiny snapping jaws of death, his sunglasses flew from the top of his head into the drink. And I was out a couple of hundred bucks.

I did date this one guy for a while, Rob. Nice enough guy. Worked for the Manhattan DA’s office. We met through mutual friends at a Yankee game, and dated for about four months. It was good, until he decided to stay the night at my place. Now, I should say, I do have boundaries for Roxie. She a spoiled little devil, but there are rules. And, one of those rules is – only Mommy sleeps in Mommy’s bed. Unfortunately, Roxie apparently takes that rule a little too literally, as evidenced by a somewhat humiliating (for Rob) trip to the ER in the middle of the night. He stopped calling me after that. I guess I can see why – I understand it’s a very sensitive, uh, area. After that, there were new rules. Well, just one new rule - when Mommy has company, Roxie sleeps in the living room!

So, yeah, demented dogs – not really the best matchmakers. And that brings us back to funerals. And, yes, I do know those are not my only options, but what can I say? I don’t know what exactly it is about funerals, or wakes. Certainly emotions are high, but it would have to be a pretty tacky person who preys on the truly devastated mourners. No, the real hook-ups tend to come with what I like to call the “periphery” mourners. These are the friends and extended family members of the bereaved who have come out of a sense of duty or compassion, but aren’t directly affected by the death themselves. So, once they’ve made it through the receiving line and paid their respects, they find themselves at loose ends. They can’t just leave, but they don’t really know anyone. So, they seek out a pretty girl (or guy, as the case may be) and strike up a conversation, using the skills finely honed in the clubs and bars of Manhattan.

Seems a little crass, I know, but I don’t think anyone really does it deliberately. Well, OK, that’s not strictly true – there have been a few times I’ve wondered at a person’s true motive for being at a service. But, for the most part, I think it’s just people looking for a way to make an uncomfortable situation a little easier to deal with. And, I have to admit, a new service I added seems to have contributed to a recent rise in funeral parlor hook-ups. My professional mourners have proven useful not just at the poorly attended funerals, but also at the ones that are overrun with visitors. Most of us have been to services at some point that have been so full, you spend your whole time on the line waiting to pay your respects. Part of the problem is that, inevitably, there are people ahead of you who have decided that now is the perfect time to catch up on the ten years that have passed since they’ve seen the bereaved. Enter the “Pushers” and “Pullers.”

I got the idea from a college friend of mine who’s in the Foreign Service. We were at a wake for one of our classmates who had been killed in a terrible accident. We stood on line outside the funeral parlor for an hour and a half, and then inside for another hour or so, before we could pay our respects to our friend’s mom. While we were waiting, my friend commented that they needed “Pushers” and “Pullers.” I was busy making mental notes about flowers and the placement of the mass cards, so I didn’t register what he had said at first, but then I was intrigued.

“What do you mean, ‘Pushers’ and ‘Pullers?’” I asked.

“We have them in the Foreign Service,” he said. “Keeps people from getting too chummy with the Ambassador at receptions. Junior Officers hover near the receiving line and, when someone starts trying to monopolize the Ambassador’s time, they step in and say, ‘Hi, I’m Mary. Can I show you the Picasso?’ or ‘Can I show you to the bar?’ Pretty good system actually.”

“Pretty good system,” I murmured, distractedly. I was only half listening again, as I was now absorbed with watching the funeral director restock the memorial cards a few feet away. They were of the inferior cardboard variety, and I couldn’t help but think that I would never have allowed cards like that at one of my services. I felt instantly ashamed by the thought and turned my attention to signing the guest book, which I had finally reached.

From the guest book to the front of the line took another forty minutes, and by then, I was exhausted from standing, and more than a little annoyed (and more than a little ashamed by the fact that I was feeling annoyed). I paid my respects and, since the viewing hours were nearly done, I just took a few minutes to look at the photo collages and then left.

It was on the train ride home that the little cartoon light bulb went off over my head and I finally took in that conversation. Pushers and Pullers. That was the perfect new service to offer my clients! Soon enough, my professional mourners had more work than they could handle – at empty funerals, they fill the pews, and at busy ones, they keep the line moving. Now it is a little trickier at a wake or funeral to “push” and “pull.” I do occasionally have services in private homes that might actually have a Picasso to look at, or a bar set up. But, most often, in funeral parlors, there’s a dearth of distractions. My Pushers and Pullers have a tough time encouraging people to look at floral arrangements and photo collages. And, frankly, “Can I show you to the casket?” really doesn’t work.

So what, if anything, does this have to do with meeting the opposite sex? Well, like I said, the addition of this service seemed to correlate with a rise in funeral hook-ups. It seems that conversations started up over a pretty floral arrangement or a photo collage can lead to, well, you get the idea. It’s been a side effect that my friends and employees have thoroughly enjoyed. Believe it or not, a couple of my Pushers and Pullers met their spouses (or life partners) that way.

But, after all that, that’s not how I met Michael.

The Name on Everybody's Lips is Gonna be Roxie!

Welcome to "Funerals By Francie." If you're new to this online novel, or haven't visited in a while, please start with the oldest post first. You can follow Francie on Twitter (@franciefellowes), and you can visit www.kristenmareecleary.com for more information. Enjoy!

One of the good things about good friends is that they can be relied on to remind you to live your life. When you’re getting a business off the ground, there’s a tendency to develop tunnel vision – nothing matters but the success of the business. And, if you’re not careful, that tunnel vision can become a way of life. Three years into my new career, I had developed a really bad case of tunnel vision. If it hadn’t been for my friends insisting that I go out with them once in a while, I would have had no social life whatsoever, never mind a love life!

Case in point – April 26, last year. I was sitting at my desk, in my apartment, pouring over account books, trying my hand at creative accounting. Things had been slow for about a month, and I was starting to feel the pinch. I was so absorbed in the negative numbers before me, that I almost didn’t hear the phone. When I finally answered, it was Tamsin on the other end.

“Hey, love, what are you doing?” she asked as soon as I picked up.

“Bookkeeping,” I replied. “Want to help?”

“Not at all. Now, put the calculator down, get dressed, and be ready by half four.” Tamsin had a familiar determination in her voice that immediately raised my suspicions. It was a moot point, though, because I had way too much to do today to be drawn into whatever scheme she was hatching.

“Sorry, T,” I said. “I’ll have to raincheck. Too busy.”

There was a short pause, and then Tamsin asked, “Do you know what today is?”

Mystified, I replied, “Thursday, why?”

“What date?”

I was starting to get a little annoyed, and snapped, “It’s the 26^th.” Then I stopped. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How could I forget?”

“Because you work too hard,” was Tamsin’s succinct reply. “But, lucky for you, I didn’t forget. Now, get dressed, throw on some makeup, and be ready by half four. You only turn 25 once, and I’m going to make sure your birthday is something to remember – even if I had to remind you!”

I started to protest again, although this time it was a bit half-hearted. But Tamsin had a counter for any weak argument I could think of for why I should continue to work on my birthday, and finally I relented. “OK,” I said. “I’ll get ready and I’ll meet you at ha – at 4:30.”

“Fab. The car’ll be downstairs.”

So, at 4:30, Tamsin picked me up in her Bentley, and her driver set off to destinations unknown (that’s one of the perks of hanging out with Tamsin – no waiting for cabs). When I asked where we were going, I just kept getting, “You’ll see. It’ll be great” as a response.

As we crossed the river into Brooklyn, I started to get really confused. Tamsin rarely visited the outer boroughs, so I couldn’t imagine what were doing here. But Tamsin remained annoyingly tight-lipped throughout, so I had to just wait and see where we were headed.

The car soon pulled up outside a beautiful brownstone, and as soon as it stopped, Tamsin hopped out. I followed her up the front steps, and watched her suspiciously as she rang the bell.

“T, seriously, what gives?” I asked. I didn’t get an answer. Instead, I got another surprise as Keeley opened the door to the brownstone. “Keeley?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”

Keeley didn’t answer me. Instead, she looked at Tamsin and said, “Good, you got her. She forgot, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Tamsin said as she followed Keeley into the house. I had no choice but to follow as well.

“If you mean I forgot to meet you at some strange brownstone in Brooklyn, no I didn’t,” I protested.

“You forgot your birthday,” Keeley replied. It wasn’t a question, and I couldn’t deny it, so I just continued to walk through the rather attractive house toward what seemed to be the kitchen. It was, in fact, the kitchen, but we didn’t stop there. Instead, we headed out into the tiny backyard, where an attractive brunette sat on the patio, surrounded by three tiny balls of fluff.

Upon closer inspection, those tiny balls of fluff turned out to be two impossibly small, impossibly adorable puppies, nestled close to a Yorkshire Terrier who looked bored and indifferent to what was transpiring around her. I couldn’t quite tell the breed of the puppies; they were a curious black and grey color, but I couldn’t place the features. But they were criminally cute.

My attention was diverted from the puppies by Keeley’s introduction of the attractive brunette. She turned out to be Miranda Lane – yes, that Miranda Lane, currently starring as Velma in Chicago. Keeley had been in the chorus for about six months, and had landed the part of Miranda’s understudy a few weeks ago.

“You have a lovely home,” I said after the introductions had been made. “But I’m not sure exactly why I’m here,” I added, looking pointedly at Tamsin and Keeley.

Keeley shrugged and picked up a puppy. She walked up to me, grabbed my hand, and placed the little furball in it, saying, “Happy Birthday.”

I instinctively brought up my other hand to secure the puppy before it could wriggle free, and it started licking my thumb. “Come again?” I asked, not liking where this was headed.

“Happy Birthday.”

“You didn’t tell her?” Miranda asked.

“Tell me what, exactly?”

“Keeley adopted one of the puppies for you for your birthday,” Miranda explained, clearly confused.

“Did she?” I glared at Keeley. Tamsin remained suspiciously quiet.

Keeley squirmed slightly, but she didn’t back down. She did, however, drag Tamsin under the bus with her. “Tamsin and I thought it would be good for you. You love dogs. You’re always playing with people’s dogs in the park.”

“And you’re always banging on about that mutt you had when you were a kid,” Tamsin added, feeling the heat of the glare turning her way.

“Cadfael was a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel,” I retorted defensively.

“Right, whatever, he was a little ankle biter.”

I raised an eyebrow in an effort to look haughty. I’m fairly certain I failed miserably. But I did taunt Tamsin a bit, saying, “Cadfael’s lineage goes back farther than yours!”

Tamsin managed to look haughty without the least bit of effort. Another skill instilled by the Earl and Countess, no doubt. “I can trace my family back to William the Conqueror,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, well,” I responded, my sails rapidly deflating. “Cadfael’s family was waiting on shore when your family landed!”

We both burst out laughing at the absurdity of the debate, and then the little ankle biter in my hand bit my thumb. With a yelp, I jerked my hand back, which sent the puppy airborne for a second, before I realized what I was doing and grabbed hold of it again.

“Sorry!” Miranda cried, reaching for the puppy.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, a bit distracted. I had just looked the puppy in the eye for the first time, and there was a little glint there – as if she knew exactly what she had done, and she was proud of it. Shaking my head, I asked, “What breed is this, anyway?”

“Well, the ‘designer’ name is a ‘Snorkie,’” Miranda replied. “But there’s no lineage here – these two little monsters can trace their heritage back about three months to a midnight rendezvous between my Lola and the neighbor’s Schnauzer.”

“A Snorkie?” Really? That can’t possibly be a real name. It sounded like a piece of diving equipment for kids – or a Saturday morning cartoon from the eighties. I decided that, if this little puppy was coming home with me (yes, of course I was taking her, was there every any doubt?), she needed a different name for her breed. OK, she also needed an actual name, but that comes later. So, after minimal consideration, I decided that my new puppy would be known as a “Schnauzie.” Much better. And more grammatically correct too.

*   *   *   *

“So, this was the big surprise for my birthday, huh?” I asked Tamsin when we were back in the car, this time with Keeley. The Schnauzie stayed behind as she was still a little too young to leave her mother. I would take her home in a few weeks.

“No, that was just Part One. Have you thought of a name yet?”

I realized that Tamsin was only asking because she wanted to keep me from asking what Part Two was. After all, Tamsin’s idea of dog ownership generally involved riding to hounds, or walking the moors with a mastiff. She didn’t do lapdogs.

“No, I need to think about it. So, where—“

“You’re not going to give it some stupid name like, Cadfael, are you?”

“That was a great show!” I blurted out. But I grinned. My mom had indulged my childhood obsession with Masterpiece Theatre, and had agreed to let me name our dog Cadfael against her better judgment. But, considering the alternative was Felicity’s choice, “Tinkerbell,” (he was a boy dog!), it probably worked out for the best. “Anyway,” I continued. “I have to give it some careful consideration before I decide on a name. She’ll have to live with it for the rest of her life.”

“It’s a dog, not a baby,” Keeley muttered.

I was going to respond, but I finally noticed that we were back in Manhattan and were approaching the World Financial Center complex. “Uh, T,” I asked. “Were exactly are we going?”

Tamsin ignored the question, intent instead on her I-phone. The car stopped and Tamsin got out, beckoning us to follow. “I’ll call you when we’re ready,” she told her driver.

Keeley and I followed Tamsin down the esplanade, and found ourselves in the North Cove. Tamsin walked purposefully toward a large yacht that was moored at the end of the marina. It was getting dark, but light and music poured out of every window, and I could make out people on the decks and inside. Reaching the gangway, Tamsin shook the hands of the crew members standing on the dock, and turned to me.

“Happy Quarter Century, Francie,” she said, with a grin. “Let’s party!”

“No way.” I said in disbelief.

“Can I just say,” Keeley said, grinning as she followed us up the gangway, “that I bless the day you brought Tamsin into our lives!”

When I reached the top of the gangway, I grabbed Tamsin’s arm and turned her around. She smiled and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“You’re the best,” I said, and hugged her. “Thank you.”

It was a great night, full of friends and laughter. And, yes, a fair amount of booze. In fact, at about one in the morning, after one too many kamikaze shots, I found myself on the small stage in the lounge area of the yacht, belting out a medley of Chicago tunes in honor of Keeley. I had just butchered “He Had it Coming,” and had screeched out the first line of “The Name on Everybody’s Lips is Gonna Be Roxie,” when I suddenly stopped and yelled, “That’s it!”

And that was about it. I don’t really remember much after that. But, according to Tamsin (who has always had a higher tolerance than me), I apparently babbled somewhat incoherently about a monk, a fairy and a Schnauzie, and then was hustled off to the bedroom of the yacht to sleep it off.

But, from that intoxicated moment, I had the name of my new best friend. And a year later, I can’t imagine life without her. Of course, she’s as much of a diva, and as much of a troublemaker, as her namesake! But I love her. How could I not? Look at that face!

Will Mourn for Food

Welcome to "Funerals By Francie." If you've never read this online novel before, or haven't visited in a while, please be sure to start with the oldest post first. You can follow Francie on Twitter (@franciefellowes), and you can visit www.kristenmareecleary.com for more information. Enjoy!

So, I’ve mentioned my sudden loss of friends after my sudden loss of money. And, like I said, in some ways I suppose I’m grateful for how things played out. At least now I know the people I call my friends really are my friends, and aren’t just hanging out with me because they think they can get something out of me. Today, other than Tamsin, the friends I’m closest to are from backgrounds so distinctly different from my own that I probably never would have met them if it weren’t for my unusual career choice.

That’s the one thing money can’t buy – friends. I’ve had plenty of clients over the past few years who had boatloads of money, but only a handful of people showed up at their funerals. This was generally either because the person was very old and had outlived most of their friends, or because the person was a right bastard and the only people who bothered showing up were just looking for proof of death. Either way, it’s kind of sad to turn up at a service and see just two or three people in the chairs. It reminds me of The Great Gatsby – Gatsby had so many people pouring out of his house every weekend for his lavish parties. Then, when he died, the only mourners were Nick, Mr. Gatz and Owl Eyes. The Life of the Party died alone and unmourned.

After the second or third such service, I realized I couldn’t stand to see people sent off to their reward unmourned. It was just too sad. Tamsin said I was being too soft (I love her, but she’s not particularly sentimental). Strangely enough, this was one time when Felicity came through for me. We were having one of our rare phone conversations – she had just been dumped by the first rich boyfriend, and was looking for reassurance that she would find another. She may also have been looking for a loan, but I’ve known her too long to be fooled by her schemes, so I kept the conversation away from that dangerous area. I was still struggling to get my business off the ground, and was in no position to be bankrolling anyone else (not even my twin sister). Anyway, during the conversation, I mentioned how sad that day’s funeral had been. Only the deceased’s lawyer had been there.

Felicity didn’t seem all that interested, but suddenly she blurted out, “You should have hired some actors.”

“What?” I asked, not sure I’d heard her right.

“Actors,” she repeated. “You should have hired some actors to be the mourners.”

“Actors?” I asked. I suddenly felt like I had the day Tamsin had first suggested going into the funeral planning business. It was such a bizarre suggestion, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. “Actors as mourners.” This time it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. There’s tons of out of work actors waiting tables in New York. They’d probably love the chance to do something else once in a while. Why not add the hiring of professional mourners to your list of services? Can’t be any weirder than what you already do.”

And thus, as Felicity giveth, so Felicity taketh away. As usual, she just couldn’t resist taking a dig at my career. Still, I was too intrigued by the suggestion to get annoyed with my sister. “How would I go about that?’ I wondered.

Felicity surprised me again, saying, “Call my friend Keely. She just moved to New York to try her luck in the theater.” The sneer in Felicity’s voice indicated her opinion of the theater versus film and television work. But, considering her entire Hollywood career had consisted of a couple of Doritos ads, a role as an extra in Sex and the City 2 (which ended up on the cutting room floor), a few catalog shoots, and countless waited tables, she didn’t really have a leg to stand on there.

I quickly got Keely’s number from Felicity before she could change her mind, and after dodging a few leading questions about money, and telling her that, no, I didn’t know how to get in touch with Derreck Pennington, her high school sweetheart (and heir to a major oil fortune), I got off the phone with the confidence that it would be a while before I had to have another awkward phone conversation with my sister.

* * * *

“You want to hire me to do what?” Keely Dennis sat across from me at a tiny coffee shop near her apartment in Clinton (or Midtown West, as the realtors are fond of saying). She was a stunning girl in her early twenties and, unlike Felicity, she had serious acting training – and serious talent. At just 16, she had won a position at Julliard and had moved to New York with her mom from a small town in the Berkshires. Every now and then (especially when she said words like “want” and “what”) the New England accent she had worked so hard to shed slipped back in. I had only met her once, during an ill-conceived visit to Felicity in LA, but I had liked her.

“Well, sometimes my clients don’t have a lot of friends or family, and I can’t stand to see an empty funeral parlor, or deserted pews in the church.” I waited for Keely to laugh in my face, but she didn’t. She just stared at me with her shockingly blue eyes for a very long time.

“So,” she finally said, “what would I have to do?”

“Not much. It would only be for a couple of hours. One, maybe two days. Show up at the wake if there is one, and the funeral. Look suitably mournful. Have brunch. Go home.”

This time Keely did laugh. “I think I can look ‘suitably mournful,’” she said. “Not to be crass, but what kind of pay are we talking about here?”

“Well,” I considered carefully. “It’ll be an additional service, and I’m not sure everyone will want to go for it, so I can’t put the price too high. I could maybe swing 10 bucks an hour per mourner, plus the brunch. If the service proves popular, we could probably up that.  I’ll add in a travel allowance if you have to travel outside the city.”

“Per mourner?” Keely asked. “How many mourners are you looking for?”

For some reason, we both just burst out laughing at that point. Maybe it was because we realized that we were taking part in possibly the world’s weirdest business negotiation.

“Well,” I said, once I had stopped laughing. “I thought maybe you could ask around. See if anyone else might be interested. Different clients will probably have different requirements for mourners. Plus, it’s a short notice type of gig, so people might not always be available.”

Keely sat back and took a long drink of coffee. She stared again with those unnerving eyes, but this time with a hint of a smile. Finally, she said, “Sounds like fun . . . in a strange and slightly disturbing way. I’ll ask some of my friends and see what they think.”

And, just like that, I had my mourners. At first, there were just four –Keely, James, Selena and Rebecca. A lot of people thought it was just too weird, and that went for my clients too. But, the service caught on, and soon my mourners were in high demand. The service has proven so popular, I’ve been able to double the pay too, making it a very attractive job. Keely began referring more and more struggling actors my way. Now, I have more than twenty professional mourners on call at any given time. I usually only need a handful at once, but occasionally I get a request for a dozen or more.

But, it always comes back to the “Core Four” for me – they came through for me at the start, and didn’t bail, even when it was looking like a really stupid idea after all. But, they did more for me than that – they welcomed me into their little group, making me feel like a part of something for the first time in a long time. They even welcomed in Tamsin, who was a little skeptical at first about hanging out with actors. I’m not sure if that was because she so disliked Felicity, or because of some unconscious snobbery bred into her by the Earl and Countess, but she really resisted meeting my new friends in the beginning. Then we happened to run into James at Whole Foods on a rainy Saturday afternoon. One cup of cappuccino and a torrid holiday weekend in Cabo later, Tamsin was suddenly singing s very different tune. James and Tamsin didn’t last (probably because, on the plane ride back, James broke the news to her that he was going back to his partner, Dave), but Tamsin, surprisingly, forgave him and now we’re a pretty tight-knit, if unconventional group. Who’d have thought?

It Helps to Know Where the Bodies Are

A funny thing happens when you lose all your money. As cliché as it sounds, you really do find out who your friends are. When you grow up with money, there’s a party every weekend. Hell, there’s a party every night if you want one (and Felicity usually did). Everyone loves you – as long as you stay one of them. When Roger disappeared with our money, suddenly phone calls went unreturned, emails mysteriously ended up in your BFF’s spam folder, you find yourself “unfriended” so fast you can’t help but wonder if a plague has struck Facebook, and everyone who, a week earlier were offering their condolences and saying, “Is there anything I can do?’ is telling you, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

Tamsin is really the only friend who has stuck with me through it all and, in a way, I’m grateful for the otherwise clean slate. In the years since Mom’s death, I’ve made better friends than I ever had growing up, and among people I never would have met before (another time I’ll talk to you about my little family of struggling actors/professional mourners!).

Tamsin moved to New York permanently the summer after Mom died, and she was the one I leaned on during the worst times. Actually, I don’t know why I’m using past tense – I still lean on her! She’s amazing, and more like a sister to me than Felicity ever has been. And, it doesn’t hurt that she is incredibly well-connected. I mentioned her usefulness in getting my business off the ground. Well, Tamsin is quite the force to be reckoned with, and has strong-armed more than one client into hiring me over the years!

But, I would never have been successful if I only had Tamsin to rely on. Besides, Mom taught me to be self-sufficient. And Roger, for all he was a miserable bastard, taught me to use any means necessary to get what you want. And that’s what the title of this entry means. It’s not actually business-related (although losing a “client” is very bad for business – one day I’ll tell you about the case of the stoned hearse driver who ended up in Fairfield, New Jersey instead of Fairfield, Connecticut!). What I’m referring to is good old-fashioned scandal. Because, of course, when you are a part of a select group, as I was a part of New York society, you become privy to lots of secrets. You’re one of them, after all, so why wouldn’t they tell you who’s cheating their husbands? Who’s cheating on their taxes? Who’s got a Swiss bank account their wife doesn’t know about? Who’s got a Swiss Miss their wife doesn’t know about?

The funny thing is, when they forget about you, you don’t forget about them, or their little (and not so little) secrets. And, frankly, it’s for times like this that they invented the phrase, “Payback’s a bitch!” I admit it - I used what I knew to do my share of strong-arming. Nothing really bad, mind you. And, I never would have actually revealed any of those secrets. After all, my mom also taught me a little something about integrity. But my victims, uh, rather, my prospective clients, didn’t know that! All it takes is a simple conversation along the lines of, “So sorry to hear about the passing of your uncle/aunt/stepfather/border collie (yes, I’ve done a few of those!). Is the dental hygienist coming to the service? By the way, who’s handling the arrangements?” Simple as that!

The truth is, anyone who really knew me would have known their secrets were safe with me, but most of these people never took the time to get to know someone. So many relationships back then were so superficial. And, knowing that they themselves would have resorted to the same blackmail (such an ugly word!), I don’t think it ever surprised anyone that I took that strategy. I’m not necessarily completely proud of it, but I don’t apologize for it either. These people fell all over my mother in her life, and then dropped me like the proverbial hot potato after her death. So, I did what I had to do to survive.

These days, most of them are so pleased with the results, they refer me to all their friends, families, and wealthy clandestine lovers. The past is forgiven – at least on their part. I haven’t forgotten their treatment of me in those early months, even if they have. But I accept their referrals nonetheless. After all, in the words of Tony Soprano (or is it Michael Corleone?): “It’s not personal. It’s just business.”

Funerals By Francie - The Beginning

Hi, my name is Frances Fellowes. You can call me Francie. And you should call me. At the worst moment in your life, I can be your best friend. You see, I run a rather unusual business: “Funerals By Francie.” If you couldn’t guess by the name, it’s a funeral planning business. And it’s a pretty successful one too, if I do say so myself. My clients have included some of the top names in New York society. I’m not a funeral director. What I do goes far beyond that. I will coordinate every aspect of your event, from dealing with the funeral parlor, to selecting flowers to booking a five-star funeral brunch. Now, some people think this is a little weird, but I ask you – if you’re going to spend a fortune on a sweet sixteen or wedding, why wouldn’t you want the same style and glamor at the final event you’ll ever attend? I mean, really, how do you want people to remember you? In The Boy from Oz, Hugh Jackman (as Peter Allen) said when he died he wanted to go out with a big production number. I can make that happen, complete with a Broadway chorus line (for an extra fee).

So, how did I get involved in such an unconventional profession? Well, I suppose to understand that, you need to understand a bit about my background. Growing up, I never thought about doing something like this. Actually, growing up, I never thought about doing much of anything. I was a trust fund baby, and I had a pretty idyllic childhood. Well, with the exception of losing my dad when I was six, that is. I don’t remember much about my dad, but my mom more than made up for the lack of a father figure in my life. My mom, Felicia Fellowes-Drayton, was the toast of New York society, but she was just as happy spending the evening playing with me and my twin sister Felicity as she was at an art gallery opening or a $1000-a-plate fundraiser at the Waldorf. We lived in an amazing penthouse on Fifth Avenue, attended the most exclusive private schools, and took the type of vacations the Travel Channel would make documentaries about.

We were happy. But, Mom was lonely. She loved us, and loved being with us, but after Dad died, Mom never really got involved with men. She said Dad was her soul mate, and she could never recapture what they had, so why bother trying? Felicity and I tried to set her up a couple of times when we were in high school (I wanted to see Mom happy, but I think Felicity was more concerned with making sure Mom was too occupied to notice her sneaking out at night). Mom would go on the dates, and then graciously decline any offers to get together again.

That changed when Felicity and I turned 18. That September, I headed off to Oxford to study Art History  (that’s the type of degree trust fund babies who never need to work a day in their life study in college, after all). As I headed 3000 miles away across the Atlantic Ocean, Felicity headed an equal distance in the opposite direction – to LA to try her hand at acting. Felicity’s a lousy actress. She really just went to LA to perfect her tan and continue her partying away from prying parental eyes. Once we were out on our own, I guess that penthouse just felt really empty. Until one day when it was filled with a presence that would have a greater impact on my life than I ever imagined. Less than a year after I left for school, Mom married Roger Drayton, owner of a small financial management firm, who she met at a charity brunch at the MoMA .

Roger seemed like a decent enough guy. He treated Mom well, and she was happy with him. He was nice enough to Felicity and me, too, never trying to act like he was suddenly our dad. And, when Mom got sick, he took care of her, and made sure she had every possible treatment she could get. Of course, the thing about money is it can’t buy you health. Less than a year after my mom was diagnosed with uterine cancer, despite being at the best hospital, with the best doctors, she died. I have vague memories about the days and weeks that followed – I came home from school (I was only a few months shy of getting my degree) and I took charge of planning the funeral. Roger was too overcome to do anything, and Felicity couldn’t be bothered. I was just glad she came – I wasn’t totally sure she would. I went through the motions, accepting people’s condolences and vaguely registering their compliments on the quality of the service and the brunch.

There’s one thing I remember with perfect clarity, though. The day after the funeral, I got a phone call from the funeral director, telling me that my check had bounced. I knew that had to be a mistake, so I went to the bank, ready for battle. I couldn’t believe it when they told me my account was overdrawn – by thousands of dollars! I called Roger, who had taken over the management of Mom’s money when they got married, but he didn’t pick up. Ever again. You may have seen this coming faster than I did, but, yes, Roger scammed us all. The day after the funeral, he disappeared, and it was only then that we found out that he had cleaned out my mom’s accounts, and even managed to find a way to break the trusts in Felicity’s and my names. So, in the space of a few days, I had lost my mother, and every penny I had.

We tried for months to track Roger down, but he’s probably on some sandy beach somewhere, drinking a piña colada, laughing at how stupid the Fellowes women were to trust him. Felicity booked straight back to LA and set about finding a rich boyfriend, so she was sorted pretty quickly. Not feeling comfortable bartering sex for financial security, I needed to think of something else, and fast.  Debts were mounting, and I came to the inevitable conclusion that I would have to sell the penthouse. There was no mortgage on the place, but the maintenance fees were through the roof. There was no way I could keep it. It was hard to part with the place that had been such a happy home, but I had no choice. In the end, I even had to sell it for less than market value because I couldn’t afford to keep it on the market too long. By the time I cleared the debts, and gave Felicity her share, I had just enough left to get a small one-bedroom co-op, much farther east of the park than I think I had ever been before (to be honest, I probably could have counted on one hand the number of times I had been east of Lexington Avenue before then).

And then came the inevitable conclusion: I needed a job. Turns out a partial degree in Art History (I never did go back to school) doesn’t really qualify a person to do very much. I had no degree, no work experience, and no real skills. Except one.

“You throw amazing parties,” my friend Tamsin pointed out to me one summer afternoon, over drinks at The Boathouse in Central Park. “You should be a party planner.”

“Do you know how many party planners there are in New York?” I asked irritably. I had just had another fruitless day of job hunting, and was in no mood for stupid ideas. “No one is going to hire me when they can have their pick of a thousand people with actual experience.”

“What about weddings?”

“A thousand and one.” And I jerked my head in the direction of the bar where, sure enough, a perky blond with a clipboard was engaged in an earnest conversation with an eager young couple about color schemes.

We brooded in silence over our drinks for several minutes. Well, I brooded. Tamsin contemplated the handsome bartender. At least, that’s what I thought she was doing, until she blurted, “You know, your mom’s funeral was the best I’ve ever been to.”

“Huh?”

“Your mom’s funeral—“

“I heard you. What are you talking about?” And how many vodka tonics had she drunk?

“A lot of people said so. You probably didn’t notice because, well, you know.”

I had noticed. In the back of my mind, I had registered the compliments on the arrangements at Campbell Funeral Home, the flowers from Floralia, the service at St. Ignatius Loyola, the brunch at The Plaza. I look at Tamsin speculatively and asked, “What are you getting at?”

Tamsin looked uncomfortable. “OK, listen, I know it’s weird, but . . . well, what if you become a funeral planner?”

“A what?” Seriously, how much had she drunk this afternoon?

“A funeral planner.”

There was another long silence. Not a brooding silence this time. More like a stunned silence, actually. “A funeral planner,” I finally said.

“Yeah.”

“A funeral planner?”

“Yeah, why not?” Tamsin leaned forward, clearly warming to the idea. “Funerals are just as important as any other event, aren’t they? But people don’t think to put the same effort into planning them.”

“Maybe because they won’t actually be there to enjoy them,” I pointed out.

“But their family will be. And their friends.” Tamsin shrugged a Donna Karan-clad shoulder. “And let’s face it. The type of people we grew up with are all about showing each other up. Who among them wouldn’t want to have the funeral everybody’s talking about for months afterward?”

I stared at Tamsin for what seemed like forever. The idea was crazy. But, at the same time, she had a point. We had both grown up in worlds of privilege, me in New York Society, Tamsin among England’s titled aristocracy (her dad’s an Earl). And there was one thing no one could deny. People in those worlds liked to impress. But, would they really pay for someone to plan their funerals?

Turns out, the answer was yes. A week after that afternoon at The Boathouse,  Tamsin gave me the phone number of a friend of a friend, whose 99-year-old great-grandmother was dying. They wanted to give her a proper send-off, they said, and Lady Tamsin Greer had raved about my services (apparently Tamsin had spun them some tale of me having handled the funeral of a minor royal. “A white lie,” she insisted. “For a good cause.”). And so my unusual career began, and, five years later, my company, “Funerals By Francie” is the premier funeral planning service in Manhattan. Go figure!

Francie Fellowes is the main character of the online novel, Funerals By Francie. Her story is fictional and any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental.