Page 10 of Wedding Crasher

‘Everyone is, Marla.’

Marla sighed. ‘Not me. I’ve no desire to tie myself down to some man, only to see it all go wrong a few years later and end up as another divorce statistic. No thanks.’

She winced as a shadow passed over Emily’s face.

‘Oh God, Em, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you, obviously.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘It’s just a personal thing, that’s all. I’ve had more step-parents over the years than I have fingers to count them on. Us Jacobs just aren’t cut out for all of thatforever and ever, amenstuff.’

Emily sighed. ‘I don’t think divorce is a genetic thing, honey,’ she said. ‘You can’t go through life avoiding commitment on the off chance that you’ll get your heart broken.’

‘I’m not saying I’m off men altogether,’ Marla said, scraping a curl of ice-cream onto her spoon. ‘I just don’t see the point to all the forever and ever drama.’

‘I’d keep that line out of the chapel’s press-pack if I were you,’ Emily laughed.

Marla lifted her shoulder with a smile, well aware that her own values flew in the face of her livelihood.

‘Well, that’s a shame, really,’ Emily wheedled. ‘Because if youwerein the market for romance, I think I’ve caught our new neighbour making eyes over the coffins at you.’

Marla brandished her spoon across the table. ‘Enough, Em.’

‘But I have!’ Emily laughed. ‘Come on, admit it … he’s easy on the eye, isn’t he?’

Marla studied her fingernails. ‘I haven’t noticed.’

‘Rubbish! Let’s pretend for a second that he isn’t an undertaker, and he isn’t your arch enemy …’ Emily’s eyes danced. ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

Marla looked her friend straight in the eye. ‘Honestly? No. No, I wouldn’t.’

And she meant it. The way her body reacted whenever Gabriel Ryan was around frightened the living daylights out of her. Even without all of the barriers Emily had listed, Marla’s biggest problem with Gabe was that he stole away her powers of self-control without even trying, and they were just about all she had to hold on to.

Half an hour later, Marla sloshed a measure of brandy into a tumbler and threw one last log on the fire. She’d finally managed to prise Emily away from the ice-cream and into a taxi, and had spent the last twenty minutes clearing and straightening the kitchen until the cottage was back to peaceful perfection again. Bluey loped in, well-fed and content to flop down onto the sofa he more than filled, and Marla curled herself into the armchair beside him. Companionable bookends, as always. This was all she wanted, all she needed. She reached out and stroked his gentle face as she sipped the nightcap in an attempt to settle her stomach. It seemed to be constantly jumbled up with nerves these days. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Gabriel Ryan had roared into the village. It had taken three years of hard work to carve out her place here in this community, and the sense of safety and peace it afforded her was precious beyond measure.

Gabriel. Even his name was a misnomer.

The man was no angel, that much was for sure. Hell’s angel, more like, with that filthy great motorbike and James Dean sex appeal. Strange really, for an undertaker. But then, as a marriage-phobic wedding coordinator, who was she to judge?

Her eyes wandered over the small collection of family photographs on the fireplace.

Her sex therapist mother, birdlike in a flower garland and jewel-bright sarong, on holiday somewhere with Robert, one of Marla’s varied collection of stepfathers. He’d been by far the best of the bunch, and for a while back there Marla had almost believed that her mother had finally settled. She’d been wrong of course, but by then Marla loved the gentle-giant English doctor she’d come to look on as almost as much of a father as her own dad. She’d felt the loss of him from her life like a bruise on her heart when her mother had declared herself unable to tolerate another English winter and decamped back to the States, and stayed in touch as much as their schedules allowed. But Marla had let contact slide when it became obvious that he seemed unable to stop himself from asking for news of Cecilia, even when hearing of her mother’s newest beau was clearly painful.

A picture of her father stood alone in the next frame alongside it. Another serial aisle-walker, she’d long since lost track of his numerous wives and, no doubt, offspring, scattered across the States. He’d been a benevolent figure in her childhood, and an absent one in her adulthood. It wasn’t that Marla wasn’t fond of him, more that she knew very little of him besides his predilection for upgrading his wife for a younger model every few years.

Between them, they’d painted a very clear picture to Marla on love and romance.

Don’t pin your hopes and dreams on one person, because soon enough you’ll want to pin them on someone else. Or worse, they’ll pin their hopes and dreams onto someone else and leave you behind to ask around for crumbs of news of them from mutual acquaintances.

Her mother would no doubt have a field day if she ever got to analyse the jarring juxtaposition between her daughter’s personal and professional opinion on the sanctity of marriage. A deep, hidden yearning for a husband would no doubt be her dramatic conclusion, and she couldn’t have been more wrong. For Marla, it was simple. She was playing to her strengths. Her American roots, her organisational skills, her ability to identify a niche market. It could have been any number of things; it just so happened to be weddings.

Bluey yawned, a clear signal that it was time for bed, and Marla fussed his ears as she stood up. He was all the male she needed.

‘Just you and me, big guy. Just you and me.’

‘A petition? Against a funeral parlour? That’s bloody hilarious, mate.’

Dan laughed as he knocked back the last of his pint and raised his glass towards the landlord for a refill.

Gabe didn’t laugh with him. It wasn’t that he was worried that the petition might actually work. In fact, he was pretty certain that it would come to nothing, given that as far as he could see, it was based on nothing in the first place. But the fact that it existed at all was drawing unnecessary eyes his way, and that was the last thing he needed. He’d hoped to set up shop quietly, to slide into place in the community as if he’d always been there. His business wasn’t about trumpet fanfares, or razzamatazz launches with crazy Elvis impersonators; it was understated and unobtrusive, just there ready and waiting for those who needed him.

‘It’s a pain in the arse, man. People are shoving their noses against the window to get a look at the long-haired Irish bloke who’s blown trouble into town.’

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