Page 71 of Wedding Crasher

Marla cringed at Jonny’s typically harsh words. ‘Go easy, Jonny. Maybe he intended to tell me they were from Gabe, but then felt awkward when I was so thrilled.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Jonny laughed sourly. ‘Why are you determined to see the best in him?’

Marla shrugged. ‘I just know him better than you do. And anyway, since when did you become a fully paid-up member of the Gabriel Ryan fan club?’

‘I’m not. I just don’t like people lying to you.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Emily asked, her chocolate eyes soft with sympathy.

Marla rubbed a hand across her forehead, then knocked what was left in her wine glass back in one go.

‘I don’t know yet. But one thing’s for sure. I’m not marrying Rupert.’

Marriage was number one on her ‘things not to do before I die’ list, so how the hell had she ended up with a bona fide fiancé? Let alone one who was already lying through his teeth before he’d even got a ring on her finger?

Over at Emily’s cottage, Tom poured Dora a second sherry.

‘Thank you Dora,’ he said, relieved beyond measure to have someone to talk to. Dora had turned up unexpectedly in her usual forthright manner, no doubt more than aware that Emily was in the pub with Marla and Jonny. She’d bustled in, asked for sherry instead of tea, and sat him down for a good talking-to. He hadn’t realised how much he needed to get things off his chest until he’d started to speak and had been unable to stop.

‘So, the baby,’ she said, sipping her sherry and watching him closely. ‘You’re happy about it?’

He lifted both shoulders and sipped the scotch he’d poured for himself. ‘We’d been trying for a while.’

Dora nodded slowly. She still remembered how painful those days and months had been for her, and formed the basis of her visit tonight. Age had bestowed wisdom upon her shoulders, enough to see that Emily and Tom had been given a chance at the family she’d never been blessed with herself. She didn’t want them to miss it. ‘Thomas, is this baby yours?’

Tom took a second good slug of whisky, momentarily blindsided by the baldness of Dora’s opening question. Emotions warred for supremacy in his head. Anger, whether at Emily or himself; he wasn’t even sure anymore. Love, for Emily and for the tiny life growing inside her, regardless of whether it shared his DNA. Confusion, and fear. Fear of losing everything, fear so big that he took a third glug of his drink. ‘I don’t think it is, no.’

Dora looked at him beadily over the rim of her wine glass. ‘I thought not.’

‘You did?’

‘Emily has the weight of the world on her shoulders. She should be happy as a pig in muck, but she isn’t, and I don’t think she has been for a while.’

Tom’s heart hurt. His wife had been struggling, and everyone had been able to see it. He was a fucking moron.

‘Love’s a funny thing, Tom,’ Dora said. ‘It’s easy to take for granted.’

He nodded. Guilty as charged. He’d prioritised just about everything in front of Emily, work especially.

‘Ivan and me wanted children when we were your age,’ Dora said, her eyes wistful.

Tom watched Dora and saw the same pain amplified there that he’d seen on Emily’s face month on month. ‘It’s the only thing I’d change, Thomas. If I could go back, it’s the one thing I’d do differently. The chance to have a family is a blessing.’

Tom reached for the whisky bottle. ‘What are you saying, Dora?’

‘You love each other, Thomas. Let that be enough.’ Dora looked him straight in the eye. ‘Let this baby come. Love your wife.’ She sipped her sherry. ‘Love them both.’

Tom looked at Dora with new, appreciative eyes. He hadn’t asked her to come to the cottage. She’d come because she could see they were in trouble and wanted to help. He owed it to her to listen, and he owed it to Emily to take her advice. He hugged Dora warmly as she left, knowing that something inside him had changed a little; that the fear and anger he’d harboured had subsided to let hope in.

Alone again a little while later, he unzipped the suit carrier that hung on the back of the spare bedroom door and felt around inside the jacket pocket of his linen wedding suit. It was still there, folded in half, just as it had been that night on the mantelpiece.

He clutched the pale green note and stared at it as if it might explode in his fingers.

The night he’d found it, he’d so wanted to destroy it, but something had held him back. Was today the day he would actually read it?

Wasanyday the right day to find out the real reason your wife planned to leave you?

His fingers touched the cool cotton of his jacket. If he reached into the pocket of the trousers, he knew he’d find powder-soft Antiguan sand from the beach they’d married on. He’d never got around to having the suit dry-cleaned, for fear that it would wash away some of the magical memories of that day.

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