Читать книгу Love Your Neighbour: A laugh-out-loud love from the author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 7

Jonny clanged his fork against the side of his wine glass.

‘Order, mon chers, order!’

He looked from one face to another as they gathered around Marla’s kitchen table. It had been a little over a week since Gabriel Ryan had thundered into the village on his motorbike, and this was the first official meeting of the hastily cobbled-together committee to get him thrown out again just as fast.

Emily paused with her fork full of lasagne midway to her mouth, and Dora, the chapel’s octogenarian cleaning lady, fiddled with her hearing aid until it whistled furiously. As the self-proclaimed campaign leader, Jonny shot her a mutinous look. Dora’s husband, Ivan, smiled benignly at his wife.

‘You hum it, I’ll play it, dear,’ he muttered, and helped himself to a third glass of Merlot.

‘So,’ Jonny said with a theatrical flourish. He nodded pointedly at Ruth, village florist and gossip central, to start taking notes in the pad he’d thrust into her hands when she sat down. Taking a great slug of wine, she darted her eyes around the table, then picked up her pen and clicked the end a few times in a show of efficiency.

Satisfied that his every word would be recorded for posterity, Jonny cleared his throat and planted his hands on his snake hips.

‘Right, so. We all know why we’re here. The fucking Munsters are trying to set up shop next door to the chapel, and it’s our job to get shot of them. Like, pronto.’

He glanced around at the suddenly hushed group, who looked slightly shell-shocked by his rousing opening gambit.

Ruth raised a hesitant hand.

‘Er, Jonny? Do I have to write the “fucking” bit down?’

‘Christ almighty, Ruth!’ he exploded. ‘Just get the general gist down, this isn’t CSI fucking Shropshire!’

‘Why is he reciting the alphabet?’ shouted Dora, her hearing aid now whacked up to full.

‘He isn’t, Dora. It’s a cop show,’ Emily supplied.

‘Oh. Oooh, you wouldn’t half make a lovely Bergerac, Jonny.’

‘Drove a Jaguar, you know.’ Ivan nodded sagely.

‘“Bergerac”?’ Jonny seethed, askance. ‘Fucking “Bergerac”? Pure Captain Jack Harkness or no one, thank you very much Dora.’ If he could have donned a military overcoat and heavy boots to ram his point home, he would have.

‘Captain Hairnet? Never heard of him,’ Dora muttered, a gleam in her eye as she ran her hand over her freshly set hair.

‘What did he drive, Jonny?’ Ivan said, squinting at the wine bottle to see if there was any left. ‘Might jog my memory.’

‘A goddamn bloody space ship!’ Jonny all but shouted, sending Dora’s hand straight to her ear to adjust her hearing aid again.

Ivan nodded. ‘I know who you mean, now.’ He leaned across to stage whisper to Dora. ‘The one with the big ears, darling.’

Dora’s face cleared into a smile that displayed her neat rows of false teeth to perfection. She looked at Jonny and tapped the side of her nose. ‘Beam me up, Scotty.’

The mutinous expression on Jonny’s face as he felt for his cigarettes made Marla drop her head into her hands, and Bluey flop his massive head onto her knees under the table in silent solidarity. This was hopeless. Gabriel Ryan was going to open up his funeral parlour regardless, and there was precious little they, or anyone else, could do to stop him.

‘What we need is a plan of attack,’ Jonny said, recovering himself and flapping a hand at Ruth to put her wine glass back on the table.

‘Write that down. I’m thinking we should start with a petition. After all, lots of local businesses around here benefit from the chapel. Look at you, for instance, Ruth. You’ve never been so busy.’

Ruth looked up from her pad with a vigorous nod.

‘It’s true, Marla. The chapel’s brought in so much new work. I mean, I do almost as many weddings these days as I do, er … funerals …’ She tailed off, having inadvertently highlighted the fact that she could only benefit from Gabe’s arrival. She was dying to meet the man himself. The villagers had talked him up into a cross between Heathcliff and the devil incarnate, and if that beast of a motorbike she’d seen parked outside his place was anything to go by then they might not be too wide of the mark. Thoroughly overexcited, she knocked back the rest of her wine.

‘We could follow it up with a public meeting in the chapel,’ Emily suggested.

She tucked a stray strand of her neat, jet-black bob behind her ear and glanced up the table towards Marla. She desperately wanted to help, not just because Marla was her closest friend, but because the chapel was her lifeline. The idea of losing it horrified her. Tom was away so much that she’d be unbearably lonely without work, and truth be told, it was becoming her bolt-hole even when Tom was at home.

A fact that she wasn’t quite ready to dwell on.

‘Thank. You. Emily,’ Jonny said, banging his fist down on the table between each word in gratitude for a rational suggestion. ‘Stellar idea.’

Marla’s grateful smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. The locals could be a fickle bunch. It had taken them a good year to accept the chapel into their midst, especially since the majority of weddings they held were not for local couples. The chapel’s kitsch appeal and Jonny’s colourful style as a celebrant ensured that it attracted more than its fair share of the weird and wonderful, usually rolling into town with a wedding party of even more weird and wonderful guests. It was never dull, and Marla loved it.

She gave herself a stern telling off for being so defeatist and vowed to try harder.

Besides, Jonny was right. Local businesses did benefit. The chapel had given the local tourist trade a massive shot in the arm, but would it be enough for them to actively come out and support her now?

Ivan raised his hand.

‘Think you should know, old boy. That Irish chappie has asked my Dora to clean a couple of times a week. Seems a decent sort, actually. Ate Dora’s shortbread, and it’s bloody awful.’

He nodded knowingly around at the others, clearly not feeling a jot of disloyalty towards Marla, nor to his wife for the slight to her cooking skills.

Jonny shot daggers at Dora.

‘Well, I hope you’ve told him to stick his job where the sun doesn’t shine.’

‘She starts Monday week,’ Ivan supplied merrily as he drained his glass in one gulp.

‘I don’t friggin’ believe this!’ Jonny howled. ‘Is there anyone here who isn’t planning to jump ship?’ An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Ivan scrubbed a hand over his tufty grey hair and twiddled with his bow tie.

‘He’s asked me to look after his garden. Bit of maintenance, like. Told him I might as well, seeing as I do yours and it’s only next door.’

Marla, who’d stayed quiet throughout the meeting, finally spoke up.

‘Look guys, it’s okay, really.’ She turned to Ruth. ‘Ruth, of course you should do their flowers.’

Ruth smiled gratefully and wrote it down in case anyone forgot Marla had said it.

‘Ivan, Dora, it’s absolutely fine about the cleaning, and the gardening. If you don’t do it, someone else will.’

‘We can be your moles,’ Dora offered, with a gleam in her eye.

‘Hallelujah. We’re saved,’ Jonny muttered sourly.

Marla admonished him with a gentle frown and patted the older woman’s hand.

‘Hey, we’ve made an encouraging start, haven’t we?’

She stood up and started to gather the plates. ‘A petition and a public meeting seems like a good way to get the ball rolling.’ She was tired suddenly and ready to have her home back to herself. ‘Let’s call it a night, okay?’

Emily carried the plates through as everyone else pulled on their coats and shuffled out in varying states of sobriety. Marla loitered on the doorstep whilst Bluey went for his constitutional evening stroll around the tiny garden. He was far too big a dog for Marla’s cottage, but he was inherently lazy and content to be the unlikely master of his mini-manor. When she came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, Marla found Emily bent double, rooting through the freezer. She emerged with a triumphant smile and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

‘Still hungry?’ Marla asked.

‘Not really, but isn’t ice-cream essential for American girly chats around the kitchen table?’

‘You’ve watched too many re-runs of The Golden Girls,’ Marla laughed as she placed a bottle of wine next to the ice-cream on the table. Emily’s eyes moved from the wine to the ice-cream with a heavy sigh.

‘This is my staple dinner when Tom’s away.’

Marla found spoons and glasses and sat down. ‘Which seems to be quite a lot these days?’ She twisted the lid off the chilly Pinot Grigio.

‘You noticed.’

Marla nodded and filled their glasses.

‘He’s just busy with work. You know how it is.’

Emily peeled off the ice-cream lid and sighed.

‘Who am I kidding? He’s avoiding me, Marla.’

‘Surely not. Why would he do that?’

‘Because we’re trying to have a baby.’

Marla nodded, her face a study of sympathy. She’d been aware of Emily and Tom’s decision to add to their family from fleeting conversations and casual remarks, but looking at her friend’s miserable expression it was obvious she’d played it down, or else played it close to her chest. ‘Well … I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that avoiding you isn’t going to help make that happen.’

Emily’s shoulders slumped. ‘That’s the problem. It isn’t happening.’

Oh. Marla hated to see her friend so low, and cast around for something encouraging to say. ‘They say it can take a while to catch, Em.’

‘Yeah, I know. But it’s been over eighteen months now.’ Emily started poking her spoon gloomily into the ice-cream.

Marla couldn’t believe her friend had kept this secret so long. ‘Have you seen the doctor?’ she asked.

Emily shook her head with a cynical laugh. ‘Why do we, as women, know that it’s okay to ask for help, but men see it as an insult to their manhood? Well, Tom does, in any case.’

Marla reached over and squeezed Emily’s hand. ‘Give him time, Em. He loves you. He’ll come around.’

‘You reckon? Think, Marla. When was the last time you even laid eyes on Tom?’

Marla cast her mind back. Actually, she couldn’t remember. Tom used to visit the chapel almost daily, but now she came to think about it she hadn’t seen him more than a handful of times in recent months.

‘Exactly.’

‘I never realised, Em. What are you going to do?’

Emily looked helpless. ‘I’ve booked us in to start tests – or for Tom to give a sample, at least. I haven’t dared bring it up again since I told him, because it always ends up in a row.’

‘I’m sorry, honey,’ Marla soothed. ‘Bloody men. Mars must be a boring place with all of that testosterone swilling around making civilised conversation impossible.’

Emily rolled her eyes. ‘I bet they play a lot of darts and live on beer and pizza.’

‘Give me Venus anytime,’ Marla said. ‘Wine and ice-cream is much more fun.’

Emily clinked her glass against Marla’s. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she agreed, pushing the ice-cream tub across the table. ‘So. Marla.’

Something about the sudden speculative gleam in Emily’s eyes put Marla on her guard. ‘Umm?’

‘Have you never met the one?’ Emily pressed.

‘The one?’ Marla fidgeted in her chair, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking. ‘You’re such a hopeless romantic, Em.’

‘Is that a yes?’

Marla shrugged. ‘I’m just not looking for Mr Right.’

‘Everyone is, Marla.’

Marla sighed. ‘Not me. I’ve no desire to tie myself down to some man, only to see it all go wrong a few years later and end up as another divorce statistic. No thanks.’

She winced as a shadow passed over Emily’s face.

‘Oh God, Em, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you, obviously.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘It’s just a personal thing, that’s all. I’ve had more step-parents over the years than I have fingers to count them on. Us Jacobs just aren’t cut out for all of that forever and ever, amen stuff.’

Emily sighed. ‘I don’t think divorce is a genetic thing, honey,’ she said. ‘You can’t go through life avoiding commitment on the off chance that you’ll get your heart broken.’

‘I’m not saying I’m off men altogether,’ Marla said, scraping a curl of ice-cream onto her spoon. ‘I just don’t see the point to all the forever and ever drama.’

‘I’d keep that line out of the chapel’s press-pack if I were you,’ Emily laughed.

Marla lifted her shoulder with a smile, well aware that her own values flew in the face of her livelihood.

‘Well, that’s a shame, really,’ Emily wheedled. ‘Because if you were in the market for romance, I think I’ve caught our new neighbour making eyes over the coffins at you.’

Marla brandished her spoon across the table. ‘Enough, Em.’

‘But I have!’ Emily laughed. ‘Come on, admit it … he’s easy on the eye, isn’t he?’

Marla studied her fingernails. ‘I haven’t noticed.’

‘Rubbish! Let’s pretend for a second that he isn’t an undertaker, and he isn’t your arch enemy …’ Emily’s eyes danced. ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

Marla looked her friend straight in the eye. ‘Honestly? No. No, I wouldn’t.’

And she meant it. The way her body reacted whenever Gabriel Ryan was around frightened the living daylights out of her. Even without all of the barriers Emily had listed, Marla’s biggest problem with Gabe was that he stole away her powers of self-control without even trying, and they were just about all she had to hold on to.

Half an hour later, Marla sloshed a measure of brandy into a tumbler and threw one last log on the fire. She’d finally managed to prise Emily away from the ice-cream and into a taxi, and had spent the last twenty minutes clearing and straightening the kitchen until the cottage was back to peaceful perfection again. Bluey loped in, well-fed and content to flop down onto the sofa he more than filled, and Marla curled herself into the armchair beside him. Companionable bookends, as always. This was all she wanted, all she needed. She reached out and stroked his gentle face as she sipped the nightcap in an attempt to settle her stomach. It seemed to be constantly jumbled up with nerves these days. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Gabriel Ryan had roared into the village. It had taken three years of hard work to carve out her place here in this community, and the sense of safety and peace it afforded her was precious beyond measure.

Gabriel. Even his name was a misnomer.

The man was no angel, that much was for sure. Hell’s angel, more like, with that filthy great motorbike and James Dean sex appeal. Strange really, for an undertaker. But then, as a marriage-phobic wedding coordinator, who was she to judge?

Her eyes wandered over the small collection of family photographs on the fireplace.

Her sex therapist mother, birdlike in a flower garland and jewel-bright sarong, on holiday somewhere with Robert, one of Marla’s varied collection of stepfathers. He’d been by far the best of the bunch, and for a while back there Marla had almost believed that her mother had finally settled. She’d been wrong of course, but by then Marla loved the gentle-giant English doctor she’d come to look on as almost as much of a father as her own dad. She’d felt the loss of him from her life like a bruise on her heart when her mother had declared herself unable to tolerate another English winter and decamped back to the States, and stayed in touch as much as their schedules allowed. But Marla had let contact slide when it became obvious that he seemed unable to stop himself from asking for news of Cecilia, even when hearing of her mother’s newest beau was clearly painful.

A picture of her father stood alone in the next frame alongside it. Another serial aisle-walker, she’d long since lost track of his numerous wives and, no doubt, offspring, scattered across the States. He’d been a benevolent figure in her childhood, and an absent one in her adulthood. It wasn’t that Marla wasn’t fond of him, more that she knew very little of him besides his predilection for upgrading his wife for a younger model every few years.

Between them, they’d painted a very clear picture to Marla on love and romance.

Don’t pin your hopes and dreams on one person, because soon enough you’ll want to pin them on someone else. Or worse, they’ll pin their hopes and dreams onto someone else and leave you behind to ask around for crumbs of news of them from mutual acquaintances.

Her mother would no doubt have a field day if she ever got to analyse the jarring juxtaposition between her daughter’s personal and professional opinion on the sanctity of marriage. A deep, hidden yearning for a husband would no doubt be her dramatic conclusion, and she couldn’t have been more wrong. For Marla, it was simple. She was playing to her strengths. Her American roots, her organisational skills, her ability to identify a niche market. It could have been any number of things; it just so happened to be weddings.

Bluey yawned, a clear signal that it was time for bed, and Marla fussed his ears as she stood up. He was all the male she needed.

‘Just you and me, big guy. Just you and me.’

‘A petition? Against a funeral parlour? That’s bloody hilarious, mate.’

Dan laughed as he knocked back the last of his pint and raised his glass towards the landlord for a refill.

Gabe didn’t laugh with him. It wasn’t that he was worried that the petition might actually work. In fact, he was pretty certain that it would come to nothing, given that as far as he could see, it was based on nothing in the first place. But the fact that it existed at all was drawing unnecessary eyes his way, and that was the last thing he needed. He’d hoped to set up shop quietly, to slide into place in the community as if he’d always been there. His business wasn’t about trumpet fanfares, or razzamatazz launches with crazy Elvis impersonators; it was understated and unobtrusive, just there ready and waiting for those who needed him.

‘It’s a pain in the arse, man. People are shoving their noses against the window to get a look at the long-haired Irish bloke who’s blown trouble into town.’

Dan raised his glass and his eyebrows.

‘Don’t forget the dirty great fuck-off, noise-polluting bike.’

He smirked as he tossed a peanut in the air and caught it in his open mouth with a snap. Gabe grinned despite his frustration. Every morning over the last week he’d watched Marla strut past the funeral parlour window with too many folders in her arms, her wild curls blowing around her beautiful, determined face. And each time she passed, she’d thrown a customary look of disgust at his motorbike.

‘Have you met Marla, the girl from the wedding chapel?’

He balanced a beer mat on the rim of the table and flicked it upwards, then caught it mid-air in a show of nonchalance.

Dan wolf-whistled under his breath.

‘Redhead, great legs? Not to speak to, but I’ve seen her around all right. I take it you’ve already had the pleasure?’

Something about the appreciative gleam in Dan’s eyes rankled Gabe. His friend’s lothario ways usually amused him, but normal rules somehow didn’t apply when it came to Marla Jacobs.

‘Yeah, we met last week.’

‘And?’

‘Oh you know. The usual. She told me to leave the village and never darken her door again. That sort of thing.’

Dan laughed.

‘Doctor Death strikes again. You need a different job, mate.’

Gabe sighed. His difficulty lay in that, actually, he could kind of see Marla’s point. The fact was he hadn’t given any thought to the impact he might have on his new neighbours. Well, nothing beyond being mildly amused by the ironic symmetry, anyway.

Not that he’d ever expected anyone to put out the bunting and wave the welcome flags. He was more than used to the adverse reaction his profession drew from people. He’d learned many years ago that it was just about the biggest passion killer of them all to tell a girl you spend your days caretaking dead bodies.

But Marla was in a class of her own. She was being plain unreasonable.

Surely she hadn’t thought she could issue him with his marching orders and expect him to roll over and limp out of town with his tail between his legs?

The truth was, the chapel’s unique perspective aside, this community needed him. There wasn’t a funeral director for more than twenty-five miles, and that was plain unacceptable. The only surety in life was that one day everyone was going to die, and that alone meant that every family in this village would be better off for him being here.

And please. A Las Vegas-style wedding chapel in Shropshire? It was a novelty, certainly, but it was hardly a necessity, was it? Who really used it anyway? From what he’d seen so far, he was pretty sure it wasn’t the locals.

‘Maybe she’d listen to your altogether-more-charming best friend instead. You know how persuasive I can be when I put my mind to it.’

Dan’s cocky grin and conspiratorial wink pushed all the wrong buttons. Unwanted memories strayed into Gabe’s head; countless girls wandering half-naked out of Dan’s bedroom on Sunday mornings when they’d shared a flat in London.

‘Stay away from her. I’ll sort this out myself, okay?’

Dan laughed, a knowing look in his eyes. He shrugged and opened a second bag of peanuts. ‘Suit yourself, sunshine.’

The silence between them lengthened.

‘So … watcha gonna do about it then?’

‘No clue.’

‘Want me to go and ask her out for you?’ Dan grinned. ‘My mate fancies you …’

Gabe rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck off.’

Dan laughed but didn’t push the point. He knew Gabe better than most people, and sensed something different about his friend’s demeanour. He made a mental note to keep a close eye on him where the redhead from the chapel was concerned.

Gabe shrugged and picked up their glasses. ‘Same again?’

He leaned against the bar and waited as the landlord placed a shot in front of a guy who looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Gabe didn’t mind the delay. He was still trying to work out the answer to Dan’s question.

On a purely practical level, the last thing he wanted was a dispute with his neighbours. God knew he needed the goodwill of the community to help his fledgling business off the ground.

But there was a lot more to this than practicalities.

There was a far more pressing reason for Gabe to pour oil onto the troubled waters between him and Marla Jacobs.

Because the simple, inescapable truth was that from the moment Marla Jacobs had opened the chapel doors and deliberately insulted him, Gabe had known with utter certainty that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

It was just a shame that she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

A few feet away from Gabe, Tom was leaning against the bar, his BlackBerry in one hand, a glass tumbler in the other. He wasn’t usually given to drinking after work, but then today wasn’t the usual kind of day. He looked from the flashing message icon on his mobile to the whisky, and after a moment’s pause he tipped the twelve-year-old malt down his throat. Fortified, he clicked the message open with a grimace.

Hey u!

Don’t forget we’re due at docs at 6.15. Don’t be late, receptionist is a jobsworth and don’t want to miss appt!

Luv Em xx

Yeah, he knew what a jobsworth the receptionist was. He also knew what a drama-queen Emily could be, and that she didn’t trust him to remember their appointment without reminding him at least ten times. He was starting to feel more and more backed into a corner with every passing day, and he didn’t like it one bit.

He nodded at the landlord for another whisky.

Emily sat in the darkening lounge and listened for long seconds to Tom fumbling to get his key in the lock. His inaccuracy and muttered curses spoke volumes of his lack of sobriety. So that was where he’d been. Drowning his sorrows or Dutch courage, she wasn’t sure which and she was beyond the point of caring.

She watched his face as he came into the room on unsteady legs, his hand on the wall for a second as he reached out and flicked the lamp on. Being bathed in light did little to enhance his cause. His dishevelled hair looked as if he’d spent the last half an hour scrubbing his hands through it and his loosened tie was off centre.

‘Emily,’ he smiled and opened his eyes wide in the style of a drunk person attempting to appear sober. ‘I’m late,’ he muttered. ‘Fucking boss called a meeting.’

His words rolled together as he dropped on the sofa opposite her.

‘In the pub?’ she asked, her heart beating too hard in her chest. She needed him to talk to her. To really talk, like they used to, talk like lovers rather than strangers on a train platform.

‘I haven’t been to the pub,’ Tom tried.

‘You reek of whisky, Tom.’

He shook his head. ‘Just to toast the deal. Had to do it. Fucking boss.’

‘So you said.’ Emily forced her voice to stay calm. ‘And did your fucking awful boss make you have another one? And then another? Because you’ve had so much you can barely stand up.’

Tom looked affronted, the kind of indignant that only a skinful of alcohol can induce.

‘Or maybe, just maybe it was your fucking awful wife that made you turn to whisky, Tom.’

He shook his head and scrubbed his hands in his hair. ‘I don’t want to piss in a fucking bottle,’ he mumbled. ‘And I don’t want to crack one off into a paper cup with … seventies porn.’

Emily stared at him. He sounded like a teenager who didn’t want to do his homework, and she resented being cast as the nagging mother. ‘So it was the quality of the pornography that bothered you? Well, you should have said, Tom, I’d have picked you up a copy of Playboy from Bob & Aud’s.’

Tom half laughed, most probably because Bob & Aud’s local shop was just about the most conspicuous place possible to buy top-shelf mags.

‘Don’t laugh at me, Tom. Don’t you dare laugh at me for wanting your baby.’

The exaggerated smile fell from his face, to be replaced by something perilously close to pity. He’d gone from teenager to pantomime dame within seconds. Fury burned bright in Emily’s heart, because it was the only thing she had besides tears.

‘Keep your pity, Tom. Save it up along with your precious semen for someone who’s interested, because as of right now, that person isn’t me!’

He reached out for her and missed as she stood from the chair and stalked from the room, and she heard him curse as he slipped from the sofa to the floor. Served him right. She’d never felt less loved or understood by the man she’d married, and it hurt even more than not being able to conceive his child.

The following afternoon, Emily stepped out into the sunshine and locked the chapel doors. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes and squinted towards the funeral parlour. Going by the amount of banging she could hear, there was still someone at work over there. Maybe she could try and speak with Gabe one to one, plead Marla’s case whilst she was safely away at that tricky meeting with the local bakery. They had a Star Trek wedding in a few weeks’ time and the bride had her heart set on a four-foot-wide Starship Enterprise cake.

The front door of the funeral parlour was locked, so Emily made her way around the back and clicked open the gate. She stopped short at the sight of a huge, vintage black hearse with its bonnet popped and a pair of navy overall-clad legs poking out from beneath it.

‘Hello …’ she called out hesitantly, bending down a little to make sure Gabe heard her.

‘Just a sec, darlin’,’ a deep voice rumbled up, and a moment or two later the owner rolled smoothly out from beneath the jacked-up chassis. Emily looked away quickly. His overalls were un-popped right down the front, affording her a prime view of his conker-brown chest and a six-pack that would make Jonny whimper.

It wasn’t Gabe. This guy had none of Gabe’s brooding Heathcliff qualities, but he had his own charms. He made Emily think of sunshine and freedom and surfers with lips that tasted of sea salt. He jumped up when he saw her and wiped his oily hands on the front of his overalls.

‘I was looking for Gabe?’

He shook his head and shrugged his arms out of the sleeves of his overalls, turning slightly to reach for a T-shirt that hung on the car aerial. Emily swallowed as she glimpsed hard muscles and a large tattoo inked across the smooth skin of his back before the peach-soft pale blue cotton slipped over his head. It clung to him like a second skin.

He shoved the overalls off, and Emily thanked her lucky stars that he did at least have jeans on, although she couldn’t help but notice how the faded, frayed material did precious little to disguise his attributes. He balled up his work gear and chucked it aside, then stuck out his hand with a wide grin.

‘Nah, sorry, sweetheart. The main man isn’t around. I’m Dan. Will I do?’

She took his big brown hand and shook it.

‘I’m Emily, from the chapel.’

‘Well hello, Emily from the chapel.’

Dan’s blue eyes danced when he smiled again.

He leaned inside the kitchen and hooked a couple of bottles out of the fridge.

‘Fancy a beer?’

If it had been a different day, and if Dan had been slightly less gorgeous and accommodating, Emily definitely would have said no.

But it wasn’t a different day. It was the day after Tom had failed to turn up for their doctor’s appointment. The day after they’d had the mother of all rows. The day after Tom had spent the night on the sofa, and she’d barely slept at all.

As it was, she didn’t argue when Dan knocked the bottle tops off with a brick and handed her one, and she found herself sitting down alongside him on the back step to bask in the optimistic warmth of the spring afternoon sunshine.

‘So, Emily from the chapel. What do you want with our Gabriel?’

She took a good slug of beer to embolden herself. ‘To appeal to his better nature, I guess?’

Dan laughed. ‘He’ll be sorry he missed that. Want to try to appeal to mine instead?’

Emily eyed him. The beer made her brave. ‘Depends. Have you got any sway around here? You look like the lackey to me.’

‘Ouch.’ He clutched at his heart. ‘I’ll have you know that I’m Gabe’s wing man.’

He took a long drink, and Emily noticed a bead of sweat running down his neck as he swallowed.

‘Goose to his Maverick.’ Dan paused. ‘Actually, no. He’s Goose. I’m way cooler.’

‘Okay then, Top Gun. Seeing as you two are so close, can you please persuade him to take his dead bodies someplace else?’

‘Aaah.’ Dan shook his head regretfully. ‘No can do, pretty lady. See, he’s dead set on this place.’

He laughed at his own wit.

‘Dead set … Get it?’

‘It’s not funny.’ Emily reproached him with a frown. ‘I love my job at the chapel.’

Dan hitched himself up on the doorframe and grabbed a couple more beers, then dropped back down and stretched his long legs out in front of him again.

‘So, Emily from the chapel … I’m guessing from that flashy sparkler on your finger that you’re married.’

He nodded towards the diamond solitaire that Tom had maxed out his Visa card for as a birthday surprise six years ago. Theirs had been the most romantic of whirlwind romances, star-crossed lovers from the moment they’d both reached for the last coronation chicken sandwich in Marks & Spencer. ‘No one else ever likes them,’ she’d murmured, and he’d floored her with his wide smile and merry eyes. He left without his lunch, but with the telephone number of the girl of his dreams in his pocket.

It felt like a lifetime ago right at that moment, like they were two completely different people.

Emily stroked the diamond with the tip of her finger and nodded.

‘Five years this summer.’

‘Wow. You must have been a child bride.’ Dan didn’t attempt to hide the cheeky admiration from his eyes.

‘Flatterer.’ Emily flushed. It had been a long time since Tom had looked at her that way. She knew she really ought to leave, but accepted the fresh beer Dan held out instead.

‘And you?’ She glanced at his ring-free hands. ‘No wife to declare?’

‘Nope. Why? You fancy doing a Bonnie and Clyde and running away with me in that thing?’

He grinned and jerked his head towards the dusty hearse snoozing in the sunshine.

If only life were that simple, Emily thought, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to jump in the hearse and run away from her problems. From Beckleberry. From Tom. A wave of desolation swept over her, bringing a sudden lump to her throat and tears to her eyes. When Dan slid closer and eased a strong, warm arm around her shoulders, it felt way too good to shrug off. It had been so long since Tom had comforted her and really meant it.

‘God, I’m sorry,’ Emily gulped, embarrassed by the tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Ignore me. I’m being a total idiot.’

Dan gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. ‘Hey, it’s cool. You gave me a bona fide reason to put my arm around you without risking a slap on the face.’

Emily was grateful that he chose to make light of things rather than pry.

‘You hit a bit of a nerve, that’s all. I’m okay, really.’ She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and stood up. ‘I need to go. Thanks for … for this.’

She thrust her still-full bottle into his hands and backed away towards the gate. Dan set the beers down on the step and leaned against the doorframe.

‘I’ll tell Gabe you came by.’

Emily’s guilty heart banged in her chest as she nodded and fled.