Page 85 of Wedding Crasher

Marla tapped her basket, desperate to get out of the store and back to the safety of the cottage. The teenager ignored her completely as she removed her gum and stuck it to the underside of the counter.

‘Another late night, eh, sex god?’ she smirked, and flicked her eyes between Gabe and the pile of newspapers on the counter in front of her. Both Marla and Gabe followed her cue and looked down at the front page ofThe Shropshire Herald.

There was Gabe practically nose to pneumatic breast with a scantily clad, red-haired lap dancer straddled across his lap.

Oh God, I straddled those same hips myself yesterday.

A second, grainier picture, a wedding of some sort. She squinted at the groom and gasped, winded.

He was married?

Marla scanned the headlines.

Murky past of local undertaker exposed!

Convicted drug offender! Sex addict! Ex-wife reveals all!

‘What the fuck?’ Gabe made a grab for the top copy as she whirled around to face him.

‘It would seem that you have a thing for redheads,’ Marla muttered, sick to her stomach. She threw some money on the counter as she picked up a paper and made a dash for the door.

‘Marla!’ Gabe caught up with her on the footpath outside and reached for her arm.

‘Marla, wait, please …’

‘Get your hands off me,’ she ground out as she shook his hand off, furious at the tears that amassed behind her eyes.

‘I can explain.’

Marla laughed, despite the bitter bile in her mouth. How dare he have the audacity to stand in front of her with those beautiful eyes full of anguish?

‘Yeah, I bet you can. Save your pathetic excuses for someone who’s interested, Gabe.’

She turned on her heel and ran, glad that she couldn’t hear footsteps behind her this time. If he’d have followed her, she may well have hit him and shattered one of his oh-so-perfect cheekbones.

Her heart leapt around in her chest as she hurled herself through her front door and threw the bolt across. Tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks as she leaned her back against the door and trembled with rage.

She wasn’t sure who she was most angry at. Gabe for being so damn typical, or herself for being such a gullible fool. Again.

Her hands shook as she forced herself to read the article properly.

Sordid life of undertaker at centre of local feud.Sleaze, drugs and strippers …

Marla dismissed the drugs thing out of hand; she was smart enough to see that one unconfirmed teenage caution for possession of a spliff had been sensationalised for the sake of a good headline.

Even the stripper didn’t faze her that much. The picture was unsavoury, but Gabe was a man, and she wasn’t a prude. Sex addict? She wouldn’t have had him down as someone who frequented strip bars, but what did she really know of him, anyway? Going on his performance yesterday, she could safely conclude that sex was something he was well-practised at.

But the wedding photograph? That really made her guts churn, as if someone had stirred them with a big wooden spoon.

Gabe had been married – perhaps he still was.

How funny that he’d never thought to mentionthatparticular gem when he’d chased her like a dog after a bone. Even after she’d shared her secrets with him, how her parents’ flippant attitude towards marriage had scarred her, he’d not thought to mention that he’d already started his own collection of wedding rings on his bedside table.

But then if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to add her as another notch on his bedpost, would he? If the sleazy pictures on the front of the newspaper were anything to go by, he ought to be careful that his damn bed didn’t collapse altogether, Marla thought sourly.

Christ, she could have caught some hideous disease from him.

She started up the staircase towards the shower, every step too much trouble.

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