Page 41 of Wedding Crasher

And they did. They enjoyed each other’s company, and the perfectly sized portions that Alfonso had carefully prepared. It was a rare treat, and an injection of old-fashioned romance into their old-fashioned love affair. At their time of life romance wasn’t high on either of their priority lists. They were just happy to have a warm hand to hold in bed, daily episodes ofCountdown, and a nightly nip of whisky in their tea.

‘Dessert, a-Dora-ble?’ Ivan said, eyeing up the tiramisu that had just arrived at a nearby table.

Dora frowned and patted her stomach. ‘I really shouldn’t.’

Ivan played the game. He was well used to it after almost seventy years together. ‘You’re as lovely now as you were on our wedding day. Have some pudding.’

‘Oh go on then,’ Dora grumbled. ‘Just to keep you company.’ She opened her sweet menu gleefully, blissfully unaware that further on down the High Street, Gabriel’s receptionist Melanie had deliberately chosen not to pass on the message she’d asked her to give him about the wedding that was due to take place at the chapel at one p.m.

‘Come on Charlie old boy, your public awaits you.’

Dan opened the funeral parlour gates and drove sedately around into the street, his precious cargo behind him. Charlie’s many friends and family fell silent as the hearse eased its way amongst them, and several veteran soldiers, their medals glinting in the warm sunshine, removed their hats and saluted their brother-in-arms. Gabe emerged out onto the street with Eleanor, Charlie’s widow, on his arm. She’d chosen to say a private farewell to her husband, and had just accepted a nip of Jameson as Dutch courage to help her through the ordeal of burying him.

Gabe took a respectful step away and the crowd bowed their heads as Eleanor placed her wedding hand flat against the glass, a final moment to draw strength from the man who’d shared her life for the last sixty years.

Just up the road in the pub, a posse of bright and raucous wedding guests drank up and streamed outside, in fine voice as they belted out the chorus of ‘Chapel of Love’.

Seconds earlier, Marla had caught sight of the funeral procession in the street and flung herself out of the chapel doors, just in time to see the wedding party tottering towards her in a flurry of rainbow-coloured feather fascinators and mini-skirts.

Inside, Emily and Jonny escorted the groom away from the windows in the nick of time with the promise of a fortifying brandy. A Mexican wave of silence rippled through the wedding guests as they came to a halt outside the chapel and caught sight of the sombre gathering amassed further along the pavement. Each party looked dazed by the presence of the other – a gaggle of effervescent peacocks faced down by an austere flock of ravens. They turned in unison at the sound of a car’s engine, and watched in fascinated horror as the bride’s Rolls-Royce arrived to complete the tableau. Its white ribbons fluttered in the breeze as it came to rest nose-to-nose with the hearse.

Marla was going to literally kill Gabriel Ryan for this.

She met his eyes across the crowd, and even from this distance she could see her own fury reflected at her.

The man had some nerve.

The bride’s chauffeur opened her door and helped her out onto the pavement, a celebratory confection in white. Marla could hardly bear to watch as her expression slipped from joy, to confusion, to shock, before finally settling on horror as she stared at the floral ‘husband’ tribute that lay in the hearse next to Charlie’s coffin.

For a few seconds, everyone stood motionless, as if someone had turned off the music in a game of musical statues.

The sunbeams that bounced off the crystals on the bodice of the bride’s dress were reflected by the tears that shimmered on her cheeks as she met Eleanor’s eyes.

Charlie’s widow was the first to recover herself enough to make a move. She braced her bird-slender shoulders in her neat black suit and walked slowly to stand in front of the bride. She unsnapped her handbag and pulled out a starched white handkerchief.

‘Dry your eyes, pet. You don’t want to greet your new husband like that.’

The bride took the handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks.

‘Thank you. I’m so sorry about … about your husband.’

Eleanor nodded, and reached out to touch the bride’s bouquet of blood-red roses.

‘Roses were Charlie’s favourite. He was never much of a gardener mind, but he loved roses.’

The bride eased a stem from the bouquet and held it out to Eleanor, who accepted it with faraway eyes.

‘It rained on our wedding day, you know. Absolutely poured down. Charlie’s mother said it was a bad omen, but then she always was a sour old crow.’

The bride laughed gently through her tears.

‘She was wrong, though,’ Eleanor said. ‘The day I married Charlie he held an umbrella over my head to keep me safe, and he carried on doing that for sixty-two years.’

She reached out and placed her hands over the bride’s clasped ones.

‘Go on now pet, you’ve kept that young man of yours waiting long enough.’

Inside the chapel a little while later, the bride’s eyes shone with happy tears as she surprised her new husband with a new line in their chosen wedding vows.

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