Page 2 of Wedding Crasher

‘No, no, no … Mr?’

Marla glared and waited for him to supply his name. The smirk on his face told her he knew so too, yet he wasn’t complying. She clenched her teeth and ignored his rudeness with considerable difficulty.

‘Look. There must be some mistake.’ She smiled, despite the fact that she actually wanted to knock the grin right off his face.‘These premises,’ she waved her arm towards the shop currently bearing his ruler-straight new signs. ‘These premises have been sold to a cupcake bakery. You know … for cupcakes? Cakes? For birthdays. And weddings. And all sorts of otherhappyevents.’ She emphasised thehappyin the hope that he would finally cotton on to the thumping great problem. The blank expression on his face told her otherwise.Maybe diplomacy was overrated, after all.

‘Happy events. Not sad. And certainly not events fordead people,’ she hissed, her fists clenched into tight balls on her hips.

A look of understanding dawned across Guinness Guts’ face. Or,damn the revolting toad to hell, was it amusement? His piggy eyes travelled slowly from her purple skyscraper Louboutins all the way up to her auburn waves.

‘Look, Red. I’ve no clue about any of this stuff. You’ll be wanting Gabriel when he gets here tomorrow. He’s the organ grinder. I’m just the monkey.’

He made a frankly alarming attempt at something Marla could only guess was supposed to be a monkey impression, then slurped his tea and reached for a half-eaten packet of chocolate digestives.

Marla fought down the urge to grab the biscuits, hurl them to the ground and grind them into the pavement beneath her shoe as she cast her eyes to the skies and drew in a measured breath. Guinness Guts. Monkey Man. Revolting Toad. Whoever this man was, talking to him any more today was obviously a pointless exercise.

‘Right. Fine.’ She huffed, throwing her shoulders back. ‘Well, you can tellGabrielto expect me bright and early tomorrow morning. And FYI, we don’t need any organ grinders around here. We alreadyhavea perfectly good organist in the village, thank you very much.’

Guinness Guts nodded and tugged on an imaginary forelock. ‘Gotcha. Not required. But hey, listen …’ He jerked his head towards the shop window with a grin that revealed biscuit crumbs stuck between his teeth. ‘We make good neighbours, you know. Very quiet.’

Marla shot him a withering look and stormed back to the chapel. Emily, who had been watching from the brick porch, flattened herself against the wall to let her friend steam by. Inside, Marla sank onto the nearest spindle-backed chair and scrubbed hard at her temples.

‘This cannot be happening, Em. If they open up there, we could be ruined. No. Scratch that. Wewillbe ruined.’

Emily sat down across the aisle from Marla. Pin tucks of anxiety folded across her forehead as she twisted her rings around on her slender wedding finger. She couldn’t think of a single useful counter argument – as new neighbours went, a funeral parlour was just about as bad as it got for a wedding chapel. She clutched at the only available straw. ‘Maybe this Gabriel guy will be a bit more approachable tomorrow.’

Marla snorted. ‘You reckon? If he’s anything like his henchman, then I seriously doubt it.’ Her heart was hurting, as if someone had grabbed hold of it and given it a Chinese burn. The chapel wasn’t just her business. It was her everything. She might not believe in marriage for herself, but she sure as heck believed in it for other people, especially those who chose her quirky American-style wedding chapel as the venue for their big day. She’d poured her heart and soul into the business from the first moment she’d laid eyes on the vacant little chapel. The ‘for sale’ sign had stopped her in her tracks, and she’d known without doubt that Beckleberry was the perfect village for her business and her big fresh start. And she’d been right, up to now at least. It had proved the perfect distraction from her own shambolic love-life, and she was far too business savvy to allow her personal feelings towards marriage to stop her from turning the empty, unloved little building into one of the most in-demand wedding venues in the UK. She glanced up at the clock. 12.30 p.m. Past the yardarm.Thank God.

‘I need a stiff drink. Does Dora still stash brandy in the kitchen drawer?’

Emily nodded, then stood up and held out her hand. ‘Come on. I’ll make us some coffee with a nip of the hard stuff and we can make ourselves a plan.’

They both jumped as the back door of the chapel banged open.

‘Did someone mention a plan? Faaaabulous! For what? When? Tell me everything.’

Jonny’s made-for-the-West-End voice rang out around the chapel as he unclipped the lead from around the neck of Bluey, Marla’s impractically huge and lovable Great Dane.

Decked out in a black shirt that clung lovingly to each perfectly sculpted ab, Jonny looked every inch the gay icon he was – in their sedate corner of Shropshire, anyway. He also happened to be the best wedding celebrant and creative director Marla could ever have dared wish for. She’d known the moment that he arrived for his job interview in full Elvis garb that he was the ideal man for the job, but she hadn’t realised at the time that he’d also come to be one of her closest friends too. They were each other’s perfect foil; she loved him for his exuberance andjoie de vivre, whilst he adored her understated sense of humour and determination. He’d moved his life lock, stock and barrel from Brighton to sleepy Beckleberry on the strength of Marla’s job offer, leaving behind a string of broken hearts and empty karaoke spots in his wake. In truth he’d been ready for the move, because he’d reached a stage in his life when the footloose-and-fancy-free lifestyle had run its course and left him wanting a little substance with his sex.

Emily decided to go for shock tactics and shepherded him to the window to judge the scale of their problem for himself.

‘A plan to get rid of this bunch of jokers,’ she whispered, gripping his muscled arm so hard that her knuckles popped out white against her skin.

Jonny gasped in horror as he took in their new neighbours’ sombre signs, while Bluey loped over to sit beside his beloved mistress. Marla leaned her head against his and counted backwards from ten while she waited for the inevitable explosion. Jonny was nothing if not predictable, and liked nothing better than a good strop. He was the only person she knew who was desperate for a slot onJeremy Kyle.

‘A fucking Funeral Directors?? Next door to us? Errr, helloooo?’ Jonny snapped his fingers in the air, diva style. ‘I don’t fucking think so!’

Marla sighed as he strutted off towards the front doors. Much as she’d like to unleash Jonny on Guinness Guts, he would probably only make the situation worse.

‘Hang on, hang on. I’ve already tried that. There’s nobody in charge over there until tomorrow.’

‘Hmmph.’ Jonny’s broad shoulders slumped. ‘Well, when they do get here, they’ll wish they hadn’t bothered, because I’m going to kill them with my bare hands.’ He made a throttling gesture with his hands, his eyebrows lost somewhere in his hairline.

Marla threw her shoulders back and painted on a determined smile. She was the boss, and her troops needed rallying. ‘Come on, guys. Let’s go and put the kettle on and get cracking on that plan.’

When the going gets tough, the tough put the kettle on. Marla might have spent her formative years in America, but after almost a decade in England, tea was a tradition she had well and truly taken to heart. Weddings permitting, the small staff of the chapel took a well-earned break most afternoons to drink tea and swap gossip. They’d been rather looking forward to adding cupcakes to that ritual, too.

Somehow, tea with a side order of formaldehyde didn’t hold quite the same appeal.

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