The Soulmate(47)

45


PIPPA

NOW



The Pantry is bustling. It’s impressive for a weekday. Certainly, it wouldn’t have been an unfamiliar sight in the middle of summer, but down here many cafes and restaurants rely on the weekend and school holiday trade from Melbourne.

I am sitting at a back table by the window, in front of a sandwich I didn’t order but that I’m enjoying desperately. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in days and there’s something calming about a full stomach. It doesn’t entirely relieve my anxiety, but it helps a bit.

‘If they knew about the connection between Max and me, they would have said so.’ That’s what Gabe said to me last night, after the police had left. ‘It just felt like they did because we’re nervous. You don’t have to worry.’

Easy to say.

This morning, when Gabe had taken the girls off to preschool, he’d been an entirely different man from the nervous, shaken one of the evening before. He’d decided that the police visit was a good thing, and that the most likely scenario was that they would have closed the case by the end of the day, ruling it a suicide. Even if Max had been here in Portsea, Gabe said, he’d have left by now. He was probably back in Melbourne, planning the funeral. Gabe seemed so confident. I envied him.

‘Be right with you,’ Dev says as he sails past, holding a couple of bowls of mussels.

I don’t often do wills face to face. I’ve never done one in a cafe while the client serves the lunch rush. But there’s something about the unorthodox arrangement that I like. He has two staff holding down the fort – one in the kitchen and one serving – but when it gets busy he chips in to help.

Dev’s will is one of the most straightforward I’ve done for a while. It almost makes me wonder why he’s bothering. Of course, my official position is that everyone needs a will. Official because that’s how I make money, but also because that’s how I live my own life.

I made my first will when I was twenty. I did it myself, online – bequeathing my clothes, my car and my five thousand dollars in savings to Kat. I’d also outlined my wishes for my funeral. Back then I’d wanted ‘Stayin’ Alive’ by the Bee Gees played at my funeral – I thought it would be ironic and make everyone smile. I’d amended that and most other things in my will since.

‘Assets?’ I say, when Dev slides into the booth opposite me. I hold my fingers over the keyboard of my laptop.

Dev is single, never married, no dependents. He owns The Pantry (with a hefty mortgage), his car, an apartment in Melbourne which is currently rented out. He has a modest amount of savings. I doubt we’ll need the full hour, even with all the interruptions. I’ve already decided I won’t charge him. Besides the free food this is bound to get me, I’ve learned that Dev is the mouthpiece for this entire area. If he sings my praises, it will spread like wildfire. And if everyone he talks to brings me straightforward wills like this, it will be money for jam.

‘In the event of your death, what are your wishes for The Pantry?’ I ask. ‘For example, you could have the business sold and the proceeds released to the estate, you could close it down, you could nominate someone to run it and the profits could be held in trust by the estate.’

‘It can be sold,’ he says. ‘Everything can be sold.’ A middle-aged woman in activewear enters and he waves at her. ‘Marg! We have raspberry and white chocolate muffins still warm from the oven.’

Marg groans. ‘I’ve just been for a six-kilometre walk!’ She orders the muffin.

‘And who will be your beneficiaries?’ I ask, when I have Dev’s attention again.

‘My brother, Sunny.’

I make a note of it, then look up. A pair of young women at the next table are watching us. Dev must have noticed too because he looks over at them. ‘Another coffee, Steph? Takeaway cup?’

Steph laughs in a way that makes me think she might fancy Dev. I consider him with fresh eyes. He’s not bad-looking. Medium height and build. Russet-coloured skin and a killer watt smile. His most attractive feature, perhaps, is the way he pays attention to people and loves to give them what they want.

Dev calls out Steph’s order to Gisele at the counter and then looks at me.

‘And you, Pippa? Another coffee?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve had too much caffeine already today. I’m a bit jittery.’

‘A chamomile tea for Pippa,’ he calls to Gisele. ‘For the jitters.’

‘Would you like to be buried or cremated?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘I don’t care.’

‘Funeral arrangements?’

Another shrug. ‘Whatever is easiest and cheapest.’

There’s something about his simplicity that I find humbling. I think about my own wishes. To be cremated, mingled with Gabe’s ashes and sprinkled over the lawn at the Botanic Gardens where we met and married. It felt so romantic when we decided. Now it feels silly.

‘What about a letter of wishes?’ I ask finally.

He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head to indicate he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

‘It’s for things that don’t fit neatly into a will. For example, someone might include something such as I’d like my children to maintain an interest in the family business, or My wife can keep living in the house until her death and then it reverts to the estate, or I’d like “Stayin’ Alive” played at my funeral.’