Everything I wanted to say sounded insincere and cliched the second I’d written it down. It was as if the very act of picking up a pen rendered me incapable of writing a sentence without resorting to something that I’d seen in a film or watched on a soap opera. What I really wanted was to say something from the heart – something that would do justice to the memory of my friend. But nothing I could ever hope to write could achieve this most impossible of tasks. I’d been at work when I got the call from Hannah’s mother. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I was wondering whether I might be able to speak to a Mr Christopher Cooper?’ My first thought was that I was being cold-called by one of those dodgy companies that are always flogging replacement mobile handsets. I seemed to get a dozen or so of these kinds of calls a week and each one only served to make me wish that I had an air horn at the ready so I could blast it down the phone. I was a split second away from cutting her off altogether when she told me she was calling with regard to ‘a Mr Paul Rogers’ and that was when I finally realised that the woman’s voice (grave, middle-aged and well spoken) was unlike that of any cold-caller I’d ever encountered.
What do You think about Life And Soul Of The Party?
