Page 18 of My Killer Blind Date

Elsie doesn’t speak, but shakes her head with a gentle ‘no.’ She’s in her mid-twenties and dresses in plaid skirts, black stockings and high-collared white blouses. I have yet to see her without the giant velvet black bow in her hair. She seems cool in a quirky way. But she’s so quiet – shy? guarded? over it? – I might never know. It’s fine, though. She didn’t overlap with Zoe, so I don’t have to crack this particular nut.

‘OK, no worries,’ I say. ‘Busy day today?’

Elsie just smiles gently. At least, I think it’s a smile. Her lips barely move.

‘Well … see you around!’ I leave the office. The foyer is drenched in the smell of flowers, a scent I happen to find sickening, so I raise the coffee tray to my nose as I walk through.

From Elsie’s office, I go down the short hall that abuts the foyer and knock on my boss’s door. When I hear the deep ‘come in,’ I open the door, tray first. ‘Good morning, Mr Anderson! Coffee?’

‘No,’ says Mr Anderson in his rich radio baritone, waving at the coffee as if to erase it from existence. ‘Come in, come in, and please, do call me Bill.’

‘Right! And sorry I’m la—’

‘Today’s work.’ He extends a sheaf of papers, and I have to set down the tray of coffees to take it. I leaf through as Bill turns back to his computer and types, painfully slow, with index fingers only. As expected, body pickup papers. Three pickups today. Busy, but maybe between number two and three I can wander down to the crematory …

My phone vibrates, and I check it as discreetly as possible. George is ‘thrilled,’ ‘dyingggg,’ and ‘told-you-so’-ing me so hard it’s surprising my cell phone hasn’t literally exploded. Unfortunately, her details about Liam are sketchy at best. I scan the texts as they arrive.

I think he’s a finance guy??? Idk? But I think that’s all art collectors???

Arjun says he plays ultimate frisbee!!! Maybe the four of us can do a frisbee double date??? Let’s talk more tomorrow at your fitting!!!

I grimace. I know George, and if I’m not careful, she’ll make the date happen, like, tomorrow.

How about we talk double dates after your wedding? I text back.

Wait so does this mean you have a date for my wedding??? Please say yes!

I send her back some eye emojis, which sit in that perfectly gray space between encouraging and vague.

‘Your first pickup is a house call,’ Bill says, nearly giving me a heart attack as I conceal my phone under the paperwork and return my attention to him. ‘A house call,’ he repeats, then observes me quietly for a few seconds as if to gauge my reaction. ‘You know about house calls, right?’

I nod, trying to fortify myself. I’ll be collecting the body of someone who died at home, who’s likely still in their bed, with who knows how many family members watching my every move. No big deal. Totally fine. Not nervous at all.

‘Questions?’ says Bill.

‘I mean … I’m aware I haven’t done one of those yet,’ I say lightly as if mentioning an ice cream flavor I have yet to sample. ‘But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.’

‘Not on your own. House calls are two-person jobs. Sometimes there’s stairs to deal with. You know, awkward spaces, lots of maneuvering. The gurney won’t always fit where you want it to. And …’ He points a finger at the papers. ‘This one’s on the third floor.’

I nod even more furiously as images of angling a dead body up a narrow apartment stairwell fill my head. Like the couch Zoe and I had to lug up two flights of stairs on move-in day. At one point, the couch was completely vertical, with Zoe wedged underneath it. Let’s just say that the couch did not make it into the apartment intact. And while a corpse won’t know the difference of a couple extra knocks, if the family’s watching …

‘There used to be more home pickups, you know,’ Bill muses, momentarily softening his gaze into the distance. ‘Back when my dad ran this place, it was the majority of our business. It was a better time. People prefer to die at home. Now it’s all hospitals.’

‘Hospitals are the worst,’ I say.

‘Indeed.’ Bill refocuses on me and tents his hands under his chin. ‘It’s delicate, home pickups. Talking through things with the family, making sure they’re comfortable. You’re taking their loved one away right in front of them, Margot. It takes a special touch.’ He gives me a long look, as if probing my soul to see if I have that special touch. He makes a low ‘hmm’ in this throat. I can’t tell if it’s approval or doubt.

‘I’ll do my very best,’ I promise. Honestly, though? These families have no idea how lucky they are that there is a body. ‘Um … so who’s going with me?’

‘Normally, Buddy is our guy. But he’s on medical leave right now, so it’ll have to be Devin. He should head up here any moment.’ As if by magic, there’s a light rap at the door.

Yes! Finally, a stroke of luck! Let’s see who this elusive Devin is …

‘Ah. Mr Donaghy. Come in,’ says Bill, beckoning with his hand.

I turn slowly, and there he is, looking straight at me with dark eyes.

I don’t even have to try to assign him a fish. Obviously, he’s a black dragonfish. No question. It’s not just because of his lank midnight-black hair that he wears in a snaky ponytail and is totally reminiscent of the eel-like body of the fish. It’s the look in his eyes that’s both haunted and hungry. Someone who spends too much time in dark, solitary, dead places. He looks around my age, mid-twenties, but carries himself like he’s lived a lot longer.