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again.
    â€œAt a very, very reasonable price. Less than half what a professional would charge, if you get my drift. Cash straight up. No cheques or Mastercard. No blabbing to the taxman, in other words.”
    A variety of expressions played across the polymeric planes of Hille’s face. Kate sensed in every fibre of her being the delicacy of the moment.
    â€œHow much?” said Hille finally.
    â€œThirty-five an hour, twenty bucks for half. I’m always here, whenever you — or any client — need me. No forms to fill out, no official record. No awkward contact with your doctor or … alternative health care provider. Hille, no one need know your specific concern. ”
    â€œEven if it’s grave ?” said Hille.
    Not bad, thought Kate and had another look at Hille. “Whatever is said in the Grave Concern office stays in the Grave Concern office, between you and me.”
    â€œBut Kate, my whole problem is the money.”
    Kate had to admit this was a logical objection. Desperately, she sifted her memory for the haphazard gleanings of half a century. Brain defragmentation was in order, and quickly. Long ago, for some job, she’d been required to read a sales manual, a full chapter of which, she now recalled, was devoted to the art of Overcoming Objections. Okay, here it was: Acknowledge and recast the objection, then restate the benefits .
    She looked Hille straight in her large, Lasik TM ed eyes. “Hille, I understand your concern, but what we’re talking about here really isn’t money. No, no, no. It’s four lattes at the Beanery for priceless guidance that will last a lifetime.” Kate looked pointedly at Hille’s hands. “A fraction of a manicure , Hille, for peace of mind . Think of it.” (And here Kate took a flying leap.) “Admit it to yourself, Hille, because you have essentially already admitted it to me: there’s much more to all this than just boob cash. That is so not the issue.”
    Hille looked down at her Glamorous Garnet nails. “It’s like you can see right inside someone,” she said.
    Yes! Kate raised her gaze to the ceiling, whence descended another brainwave. A name for this new branch of the business — the Grave Concern Head Shop. A proprietary offshoot, if you like. A commercial sideline that would never appear on any government form. The Grave Concern Head Shop would remain Kate’s little secret — just between her and Lucy van Pelt.

    Since the kiss against the fence after Student Council in the grey damp of a late winter afternoon, Nicholas had known for sure Kate was the One. Then J.P. came on the scene to ruin it all. The trouble as Nicholas saw it: He lacked J.P.’s exotic flavour. Kate knew Nicholas too well. Kate’s house, after all, backed onto Nicholas’s lane. They’d played in the same puddles as toddlers. Walked the same streets to school every day since they were five. In Grade 2, to show his interest, Nick had punched her arm. Hucked snowballs in Grade 3.
    Grade 6. The morning of Valentine’s Day. On either side of the narrow, packed path across the school’s field, the snow was hip deep. Nicholas slowed down. Stopped. Following behind, wary of an ice ball or face-washing, Kate slowed, too. Ultimately, though, she had no choice but to come up to where he stood. From behind his back, Nicholas thrust out a hand. Kate flinched. But no physical pain ensued. Instead he held something out, a heart-shaped box. Chocolates. She’d seen them on the shelf at Fossey’s Drugs. She stood frozen, the box in her gloved hand, mouth agape. Nicholas turned and walked on to school.
    By Grade 10, Nicholas had gained a modicum of subtlety and patience. One day, as they fell in together walking home at lunch hour, Kate brought up the subject of J.P., whom Nicholas had recently befriended. What did they do together? she asked. Played pool, smoked dope, listened to music,