Page 12 of Wedding Crasher

He leaned against the bar and waited as the landlord placed a shot in front of a guy who looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Gabe didn’t mind the delay. He was still trying to work out the answer to Dan’s question.

On a purely practical level, the last thing he wanted was a dispute with his neighbours. God knew he needed the goodwill of the community to help his fledgling business off the ground.

But there was a lot more to this than practicalities.

There was a farmore pressing reason for Gabe to pour oil onto the troubled waters between him and Marla Jacobs.

Because the simple, inescapable truth was that from the moment Marla Jacobs had opened the chapel doors and deliberately insulted him, Gabe had known with utter certainty that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

It was just a shame that she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

A few feet away from Gabe, Tom was leaning against the bar, his BlackBerry in one hand, a glass tumbler in the other. He wasn’t usually given to drinking after work, but then today wasn’t the usual kind of day. He looked from the flashing message icon on his mobile to the whisky, and after a moment’s pause he tipped the twelve-year-old malt down his throat. Fortified, he clicked the message open with a grimace.

Hey u!

Don’t forget we’re due at docs at 6.15. Don’t be late, receptionist is a jobsworth and don’t want to miss appt!

Luv Em xx

Yeah, he knew what a jobsworth the receptionist was. He also knew what a drama-queen Emily could be, and that she didn’t trust him to remember their appointment without reminding him at least ten times. He was starting to feel more and more backed into a corner with every passing day, and he didn’t like it one bit.

He nodded at the landlord for another whisky.

Emily sat in the darkening lounge and listened for long seconds to Tom fumbling to get his key in the lock. His inaccuracy and muttered curses spoke volumes of his lack of sobriety.So that was where he’d been.Drowning his sorrows or Dutch courage, she wasn’t sure which and she was beyond the point of caring.

She watched his face as he came into the room on unsteady legs, his hand on the wall for a second as he reached out and flicked the lamp on. Being bathed in light did little to enhance his cause. His dishevelled hair looked as if he’d spent the last half an hour scrubbing his hands through it and his loosened tie was off centre.

‘Emily,’ he smiled and opened his eyes wide in the style of a drunk person attempting to appear sober. ‘I’m late,’ he muttered. ‘Fucking boss called a meeting.’

His words rolled together as he dropped on the sofa opposite her.

‘In the pub?’ she asked, her heart beating too hard in her chest. She needed him to talk to her. To really talk, like they used to, talk like lovers rather than strangers on a train platform.

‘I haven’t been to the pub,’ Tom tried.

‘You reek of whisky, Tom.’

He shook his head. ‘Just to toast the deal. Had to do it. Fucking boss.’

‘So you said.’ Emily forced her voice to stay calm. ‘And did your fucking awful boss make you have another one? And then another? Because you’ve had so much you can barely stand up.’

Tom looked affronted, the kind of indignant that only a skinful of alcohol can induce.

‘Or maybe, just maybe it was your fucking awful wife that made you turn to whisky, Tom.’

He shook his head and scrubbed his hands in his hair. ‘I don’t want to piss in a fucking bottle,’ he mumbled. ‘And I don’t want to crack one off into a paper cup with … seventies porn.’

Emily stared at him. He sounded like a teenager who didn’t want to do his homework, and she resented being cast as the nagging mother. ‘So it was the quality of the pornography that bothered you? Well, you should have said, Tom, I’d have picked you up a copy ofPlayboyfrom Bob & Aud’s.’

Tom half laughed, most probably because Bob & Aud’s local shop was just about the most conspicuous place possible to buy top-shelf mags.

‘Don’t laugh at me, Tom. Don’t you dare laugh at me for wanting your baby.’

The exaggerated smile fell from his face, to be replaced by something perilously close to pity. He’d gone from teenager to pantomime dame within seconds. Fury burned bright in Emily’s heart, because it was the only thing she had besides tears.

‘Keep your pity, Tom. Save it up along with your precious semen for someone who’s interested, because as of right now, that person isn’t me!’

He reached out for her and missed as she stood from the chair and stalked from the room, and she heard him curse as he slipped from the sofa to the floor. Served him right. She’d never felt less loved or understood by the man she’d married, and it hurt even more than not being able to conceive his child.

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