Something to Live for - Softcover

Roper, Richard

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0525539891 ISBN 13: 9780525539896

Verlag: G P PUTNAM SONS, 2020

Inhaltsangabe

Previously published as How Not to Die Alone

Smart, darkly funny, and life-affirming, for fans of Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine, Something to Live For is the bighearted debut novel we all need, a story about love, loneliness, and the importance of taking a chance when we feel we have the most to lose.

"Off-beat and winning...Gives resiliency and the triumph of the human spirit a good name." --The Wall Street Journal

All Andrew wants is to be normal. That's why his coworkers believe he has the perfect wife and two children waiting at home for him after a long day. But the truth is, his life isn't exactly as people think . . . and his little white lie is about to catch up with him. Because in all of Andrew's efforts to fit in, he's forgotten one important thing: how to really live. And maybe, it's finally time for him to start.

"Roper illuminates Andrew's interior life to reveal not what an odd duck he is, but what odd ducks we all are." --The New York Times Book Review

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Richard Roper is a nonfiction editor at Headline in the UK, where he works with authors such as James Acaster, Joel Dommett, Andrew O'Neill, and Frank Turner. Something to Live For is inspired by an article he read about people whose job it is to follow up after people die alone. It is his debut novel.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

- Chapter 1 -

 

Andrew looked at the coffin and tried to remember who was inside it. It was a man-he was sure of that. But, horrifyingly, the name escaped him. He thought he'd narrowed it down to either John or James, but Jake had just made a late bid for consideration. It was inevitable, he supposed, that this had happened. He'd been to so many of these funerals it was bound to at some point, but that didn't stop him from feeling an angry stab of self-loathing.

 

If he could just remember the name before the vicar said it, that would be something. There was no order of service, but maybe he could check his work phone. Would that be cheating? Probably. Besides, it would have been a tricky enough maneuver to get away with in a church full of mourners, but it was nearly impossible when the only other person there apart from him was the vicar. Ordinarily, the funeral director would have been there as well, but he had e-mailed earlier to say he was too ill to make it.

 

Unnervingly, the vicar, who was only a few feet away from Andrew, had barely broken eye contact since he'd started the service. Andrew hadn't dealt with him before. He was boyish and spoke with a nervous tremor that was amplified unforgivingly by the echoey church. Andrew couldn't tell if this was down to nerves. He tried out a reassuring smile, but it didn't seem to help. Would a thumbs-up be inappropriate? He decided against it.

 

He looked over at the coffin again. Maybe he was a Jake, though the man had been seventy-eight when he died, and you didn't really get many septuagenarian Jakes. At least not yet. It was going to be strange in fifty years' time when all the nursing homes would be full of Jakes and Waynes, Tinkerbells and Appletisers, with faded tribal tattoos that roughly translated as "Roadworks for next fifty yards" faded on their lower backs.

 

Jesus, concentrate, he admonished himself. The whole point of his being there was to bear respectful witness to the poor soul departing on their final journey, to provide some company in lieu of any family or friends. Dignity-that was his watchword.

 

Unfortunately, dignity was something that had been in short supply for the John or James or Jake. According to the coroner's report, he had died on the toilet while reading a book about buzzards. To add insult to injury, Andrew later discovered firsthand that it wasn't even a very good book about buzzards. Admittedly he was no expert, but he wasn't sure the author-who even from the few passages Andrew had read came across as remarkably grumpy-should have dedicated a whole page to badmouthing kestrels. The deceased had folded the corner of this particular page down as a crude placeholder, so perhaps he'd been in agreement. As Andrew had peeled off his latex gloves he'd made a mental note to insult a kestrel-or indeed any member of the falcon family-the next time he saw one, as a tribute of sorts.

 

Other than a few more bird books, the house was devoid of anything that gave clues to the man's personality. There were no records or films to be found, nor pictures on the walls or photographs on the windowsills. The only idiosyncrasy was the bafflingly large number of Fruit 'n Fibre boxes in the kitchen cupboards. So aside from the fact that he was a keen ornithologist with a top-notch digestive system, it was impossible to guess what sort of person John or James or Jake had been.

 

Andrew had been as diligent as ever with the property inspection. He'd searched the house (a curious mock-Tudor bungalow that sat defiantly as an incongruous interlude on the terraced street) until he was sure he'd not missed something that suggested the man had any family he was still in touch with. He'd knocked on the neighbors' doors but they'd been either indifferent to or unaware of the man's existence, or the fact it was over.

 

The vicar segued unsurely into a bit of Jesus-y material, and Andrew knew from experience that the service was coming to a close. He had to remember this person's name, as a point of principle. He really tried his best, even when there was no one else there, to be a model mourner-to be as respectful as if there were hundreds of devastated family members in attendance. He'd even started removing his watch before entering the church because it felt like the deceased's final journey should be exempt from the indifference of a ticking second hand.

 

The vicar was definitely on the home stretch now. Andrew was just going to have to make a decision.

 

John, he decided. He was definitely John.

 

"And while we believe that John-"

 

Yes!

 

"-struggled to some extent in his final years, and sadly departed the world without family or friends by his side, we can take comfort that, with God waiting with open arms, full of love and kindness, this journey shall be the last he makes alone."

 

 

Andrew tended not to stick around after the funerals. On the few occasions he had, heÕd ended up having to make awkward conversation with funeral directors or last-minute rubberneckers. It was remarkable how many of the latter you would get, hanging around outside, farting out inane platitudes. Andrew was well practiced at slipping away so as to avoid such encounters, but today heÕd briefly been distracted by a sign on the church noticeboard advertising the troublingly jaunty ÒMidsummer Madness Fete!Ó when he felt someone tapping him on the shoulder with the insistence of an impatient woodpecker. It was the vicar. He looked even younger close up, with his baby-blue eyes and blond curtains parted neatly in the middle, as if his mum might have done it for him.

 

"Hey, it's Andrew, isn't it? You're from the council, right?"

 

"That's right," Andrew said.

 

"No luck finding any family then?"

 

Andrew shook his head.

 

"Shame, that. Real shame."

 

The vicar seemed agitated, as if he were holding on to a secret that he desperately wanted to impart.

 

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

 

"Yes," Andrew said, quickly deciding on an excuse for why he couldn't attend "Midsummer Madness!"

 

"How did you find that?" the vicar said.

 

"Do you mean . . . the funeral?" Andrew said, pulling at a bit of loose thread on his coat.

 

"Yeah. Well, more specifically my part in it all. Because, full disclosure, it was my first. I was quite relieved to be starting with this one, to be honest, because there wasn't anybody here so it sort of felt like a bit of a practice run. Hopefully now I'm fully prepared for when there's a proper one with a church full of friends and family, not just a guy from the council. No offense," he added, putting a hand on Andrew's arm. Andrew did his best not to recoil. He hated it when people did that. He wished he had some sort of squidlike defense that meant he could shoot ink into their eyes.

 

"So yeah," the vicar said. "How'd you think I did?"

 

What do you want me to say? Andrew thought. Well, you didn't knock the coffin over or accidentally call the deceased "Mr. Hitler," so ten out of ten I'd say.

 

"You did very well," he said.

 

"Ah, great, thanks, mate," the vicar said, looking at him with renewed intensity. "I really appreciate that."

 

He held out his hand. Andrew shook it and went to let go, but the vicar carried on.

 

"Anyway, I better be off," Andrew said.

 

"Yes, yes of course," said the vicar, finally letting go.

 

Andrew started off down the path, breathing a sigh of relief at...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G P PUTNAM SONS
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2020
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0525539891
• ISBN 13: 9780525539896
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar