Page 55 of Wedding Crasher

‘What’s this?’ she smiled, caught off guard.

‘Open it,’ he said, nodding towards it without his usual flourishes and drama.

Marla picked at the blue tissue paper carefully, flicking her eyes up to Rupert’s and finding him pensive. She folded back the tissue paper and revealed a beautiful silver photograph frame engraved with Bluey’s name across the bottom. Tears prickled behind her eyes at the memory of him, and also at the unexpected thoughtfulness from Rupert. She looked up when he touched her hand.

‘I thought it might look nice on your fireplace with your family photographs. I really am truly sorry, Marla,’ he said. ‘I feel so guilty.’

Any lingering unease about Rupert’s part in Bluey’s demise melted away as she looked into his sorrowful eyes. ‘It was an accident, Rupert. An awful, horrible accident. Please don’t feel guilty, there’s no need.’ She twisted her fingers to hold his and gave them an encouraging squeeze as the waiter arrived with their puddings.

Back at her cottage a couple of hours later, she slid her favourite shot of Bluey into the frame and placed it carefully alongside her other photographs.

‘He looks good there.’ Rupert appeared from the kitchen, two glasses of brandy in his hands. ‘I’ll take these upstairs.’

Marla nodded, slowly turning off the lamps and crossing to draw the curtains. The lane outside was silent and still, and she could hear the sound of moving around upstairs in her bedroom. Her heart leapt for a second, thinking it was Bluey until her mind played catch-up and reminded her of the cruel truth. She didn’t let herself think about the fact that she really wished it was her dog and not her lover waiting for her upstairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Over at the funeral parlour the following day, Gabe shook the hand of Gladys Macintyre’s son-in-law and gently handed her daughter a third tissue. Much as he was accustomed to dealing with bereaved relatives, he never grew immune to their grief and suffering. ‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ he assured them. ‘I’ll take care of absolutely everything for you on the day, and I’ll care for your mother as if she were my own while she’s here with me.’

Gladys’ daughter sniffed loudly and pulled him into a hug. ‘You’ve been so lovely, Mr Ryan,’ she squeaked, and her husband patted her back and took her arm as she stepped away.

‘Call me if there’s anything at all. Day or night. You have my numbers,’ Gabe said, opening the door for them to shuffle out onto the pavement. He raised a hand to them as they drove slowly away, and then turned to Melanie at reception.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

He cast a doubtful look at the neck brace Melanie had worn on and off since the accident had happened several weeks ago.

‘It’s fine Gabe, honestly. It looks worse than it is.’

It was a small miracle that she hadn’t been badly injured, or worse. A big dog and a small car was a bad combination. He’d been concerned enough to call at her home the day afterwards to check on her, and although he was sure that he’d seen the net curtains twitch, no one had answered the door. Odd really, but just as he’d been on the verge of starting to wonder if she was inside and too ill to make it to the door, a text had blipped in from the lady herself.

Hi Gabe,

Thxs 4 ur help yday. Am fine, just at A&E to get neck strain double checked.

C U on Monday

M x

How fortunate that she’d chosen to text him at that precise moment. A less trusting man might have found it too convenient, but Gabe was determined to think the best of her. Melanie was a good worker, and she was loyal to the hilt. Too loyal sometimes maybe, but could that really be considered a fault?

Anyway, her explanation for being at the funeral parlour at that late hour had turned out to be perfectly watertight. After all, it was the first time she’d ever locked up for him. It was only logical that she might have had a little panic and nipped back to check she’d shut the door properly. She was conscientious, that was all.

The dog had come from nowhere, she’d said.

Impossible to stop in time, she’d said.

It was patently clear that she felt wretched about it, and as far as he knew Marla didn’t wish there to be any further investigations. Why stir the already-muddy waters with the suggestion that she may have been going a smidge over the speed limit? Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to look Marla in the eye either, given that he was the one who had sent the damn fireworks.

His father would no doubt have muttered ‘least said, soonest mended, son’ and in this case, he would have been one hundred per cent right. The harsh reality was that no amount of recriminations and arguments would bring Bluey back.

The other inescapable truth was that the whole sorry incident had made the fractious situation between the chapel and the funeral parlour even worse. He’d sent the fireworks, and then Melanie, the receptionist he’d hired, had killed Bluey.

Not to mention the fact that he’d knocked back Marla’s advances on her doorstep. He’d suffered for it every night since – memories of how she’d felt in his hands had been the only thing on his mind. She’d robbed him of sleep, turned him into a teenage boy. The old dear in the village shop had glared at him with unconcealed disapproval when he’d been in for the second box of man-size tissues last week.

Something had to give, and unfortunately, it was probably going to be his wrist.

Melanie stuck her head around the mortuary doorway a couple of hours later.

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