Undertaking Love (6 page)

Thirty: fifteen. He didn’t answer straight away and she pressed home her advantage.

‘We aren’t just a little bit incompatible, Gabriel. We are polar opposites, and we simply cannot exist as neighbours.’

Forty: fifteen.

It was pin-drop silent in the room as everyone awaited Gabe’s come back.

‘You’re wrong, you know.’

Marla’s stomach flipped as his voice softened to a velvet boxing glove. ‘We’re not so different. I guess you could say that we’re both in the business of helping people move onto the next stage of their lives.’

Oh, oh. Danger. He was clever. She grudgingly conceded a point.

Forty: thirty.

‘’Till death do us part, Marla … isn’t that what you’re so fond of saying over here? Well, when that sad day eventually comes, trust me, it won’t be you these people will turn to. It’ll be me.’ Deuce. And rather unsportingly, he didn’t give Marla a chance to get back into the game.

‘I’m not asking you to like me. But I
am
asking that you pay me the common courtesy of being civil.’

Advantage Gabriel Ryan. Marla felt like she was five years old. She could feel him limbering up for match point and she couldn’t think of a damn thing to say to stop him.

The reporter, who had been madly scribbling notes, stood up and flashed his camera in Gabe’s direction.

‘You know, it would have been so much simpler to have just allowed us to open here without the fanfare. As it is, you’ve created a media story that’s nothing but free advertising for me and bad publicity for you. Way to go, Marla. Way to go.’

Game, set and match, Mr Gabriel Ryan.

Jonny slumped back and stared with satisfaction at his computer screen. The brainwave had hit him last night as they’d sat picking through the bones of the disastrous meeting over warm, left over chardonnay.

They should use the chapel’s website to take their petition nationwide.

Up until now they’d only targeted the locals for support, but what of their actual customers? After all, the majority of the weddings they held at the chapel were for outsiders. Maybe
they
were the people who could swell the petition numbers enough to make the local council sit up and take notice.

Cherry red ‘Save our Chapel!’ and ‘Vote for Love!’ banners now covered the homepage. His next job was to drum up support on every wedding forum and celebrity wedding blog in the land. He’d set up an online petition for people to add their names to, and whilst he was on a roll he’d emailed several high-profile couples who’d been married at the chapel, hoping to rope them in.

After much deliberation, he’d decided not to mention his plan to Marla just yet. He felt shoddy about the way the meeting had ended last night; he’d let Gabe and Dan’s arrival throw him right off kilter and he badly wanted to make amends. If he could pull this off and present it as a
fait accompli
, then Marla would know for certain that she still had his unwavering support.

Besides … much as he adored her, Marla could be terribly straight sometimes, whereas he was more of a ‘whatever gets the job done’ type of person. If that meant delivering the occasional low blow, then so be it. She was too classy to resort to underhand tactics, but as her self-appointed big brother and protector, he certainly wasn't.

By hook or by crook, he intended to claw back the upper hand from Gabriel Ryan.

Gabe shuffled through the disappointingly thin pile of CVs on the reception desk with a heavy sigh. The job advert he’d placed in
The Herald
had yielded eleven applications for the receptionist post, but on closer inspection only a clutch of them were even remotely suitable for interview. He’d briefly considered the interesting but wildly unsuitable Ms Scarlet Ribbons, a part time stripper who’d handily enclosed an eye-catching photograph of herself rather than a CV. He could think of many things Ms Ribbons would no doubt excel at, but handling bereaved relatives wasn’t one of them.

In the end he’d whittled it down to the three most decent sounding applicants and arranged the interviews over the course of this afternoon. A knot of pressure formed in his gut. He needed to get this right. Hiring and firing was yet another aspect of business that was a first for him, but he knew from experience that a great receptionist could be the lynchpin of such an organisation.

He glanced up and squinted through the driving rain outside. A whippet thin woman in a long flasher mac was on her way over, hunched beneath a black umbrella. Gabe glanced up at the clock. Five minutes early. Punctual. A good first sign.

He opened the door for her, and then pretended not to hear the choice collection of swear words she rattled off as she battled with her umbrella in the high wind. Droplets of rain bounced off her lacquered helmet of short, peroxide-blonde hair, and when she’d finally beaten the brolly into submission she turned to him with a cigarette-stained smile. She pumped his hand with surprising strength for such a slight woman.

‘Valerie McDonald,’ she barked, and declined his offer of a drink unless it was a neat double vodka. Gabe smiled, and dismissed her oddness as nerves. ‘So, Valerie. Maybe you could start by telling me what it is about the job that appeals to you.’

Valerie snorted and shot off at a pace.

‘I’ve spent my entire life flogging one thing or another, Mr Ryan. Houses. Photocopiers. Cars. You name it, I’ve sold it.’ She smiled, and Gabe decided it was a safe bet that she’d never sold toothpaste.

‘Coffins will be a damn sight easier to sell than sports cars, let me tell you. Not so many optional extras.’

Her nasal laugh had the same effect on Gabe as fingernails down a chalkboard. He ran a nervous hand over his stubble. This wasn’t going quite as he’d hoped. Valerie leaned towards him across the desk and lowered her voice, even though there was no one else in the room to keep her secrets from.

‘I’ll make sure the punters buy the expensive mahogany boxes rather than the plywood, if you get my drift.’ She tapped the side of her nose twice with an arch wink. ‘Bit of a captive audience around here. Plenty of old coffin dodgers in these villages. A shrewd move, if I may say so, Mr Ryan.’

Gabe decided he really wasn’t keen on Valerie McDonald. ‘That’s not why I …’

She drew her hand across her throat to shut him up. ‘It wasn’t a criticism. Au contraire. I’ve already developed a sales strategy for you, actually.’

‘You have?’

Valerie nodded. ‘I’ll need to move this desk closer to the window first though.’ She slapped the beech wood surface of the brand new and carefully positioned reception desk. Gabe was almost afraid to ask why, but his silence was encouragement enough for Valerie.

‘If I’m by the windows, I can check out the family’s wheels when they pull up, see? Then when they come in, I’ll be able to pitch my sales patter at the right level. Merc equals solid oak casket. BMW more modern, maybe something in birch with shaker handles? Dented Fiat Panda equals basement bargain pine.’ She laughed, and nodded at her own wit. ‘It’s clever, isn’t it?’

Gabe had heard enough. Valerie McDonald might have a glittering career ahead of her in kitchen sales, but she certainly was not going to be his new receptionist.

‘Umm … actually, no. No, Valerie, it’s not clever. It’s rude, and it’s grossly insensitive, and it’s not going to happen to my customers.’

He walked over to the front door and held it open.

Valerie, for her part, looked genuinely shocked by his failure to be impressed, and it took her a moment to recover herself before she got up to leave. She turned back on the step, pointing her umbrella at him with a bitter sneer across her hard face.

‘I’ll give you six months. Twelve, at most. Business is business, young man, no matter if it’s coffins or cars.’

Gabe closed the door behind her and leaned his back against it. She’d been truly hideous. But was there any truth in Valerie McDonald’s parting shot?
Did
he have enough of a business head to make a success of this? He knew he was bloody good at the nuts and bolts of his work, but he would be the first to admit he was no accountant. He didn’t have time to dwell on it though – a tap on the door behind him heralded the arrival of his second interview of the day.
Please let Genevieve Lawrence be better than Valerie McDonald,
he prayed, even though he didn’t especially believe in God. That was another fact that he preferred to keep to himself. People mostly assumed that undertakers had a direct line to The Almighty.

He turned around and found two huge, watery eyes staring back at him. He opened the door, allowing the woman on the step to float in on a cloud of ethereal underskirts. She promptly sparked up a joss stick on the reception desk to create ‘the right vibe’.

Gabe’s heart sank into his boots as she flicked her long black wig over her bony shoulders and heaved a large framed picture of a red Indian chief out of a Lidl carrier bag that had, up until now, been concealed amongst her skirts.

‘My only request’ – she fixed him with her disconcertingly direct gaze – ‘is that I can hang big Chief Running Water behind my desk. He must be given due prominence at all times, you see.’

Gabe didn’t see, and he had absolutely no desire to.

‘And does Big Chief expect to be on the payroll, too?’

Genevieve’s eyelids fluttered down for a few moments to hide her pained expression. When she opened them again, she licked her finger and thumb and snuffed out the joss stick.

‘Big Chief does not appreciate your poor wit, Mr Ryan, and neither do I. I’m afraid that we must withdraw the offer of our services.’

She slid Big Chief back into the safety of his Lidl carrier bag and flounced out into the rain.

Gabe thumped his head against the doorjamb a few times. Maybe it wasn’t too late to call in Ms Scarlet Ribbons after all. He needed a beer, but he needed a receptionist even more. Please let it be third time lucky.

Melanie Spencer turned up just before four o’clock, reassuringly normal with her sensible clothes and her shiny dark hair wound into an efficient chignon. She said all the right things, had experience with people, and there was a calm efficiency about her that Gabe warmed to straight away. Best of all, she didn’t insist on bringing her spirit guide to work, or display any apparent desire to fleece grieving relatives.

Hallelujah. He offered her the job on the spot.

Emily looked at her watch. Ten to eight. In a little over four hours, she’d be thirty. There were no balloons or banners, just a small clutch of cards arranged in a sad little line on the fireplace. She got up and scraped her barely touched ready meal into the recycling bin and reached down for the bottle of Shiraz she’d stashed in the wine rack earlier on in the week. It was gone. Crap! Bloody Tom, he’d probably stuck it in his bag for his business trip. Pity he couldn’t have given as much thought to being here for her birthday, rather than at a conference somewhere up in the wilds of Scotland. But then, he was away more than he was at home these days so she shouldn’t really have been surprised. She glanced down at her pyjama bottoms and Uggs, and made a snap decision. They’d have to do for a run around to the corner shop, because there was no way she was leaving her twenties stone-cold sober.

She grabbed her purse and keys and let herself out, breaking into a desperate half-jog to get there before Bob and Audrey closed up for the evening. They were famously erratic, prone to shutting up shop early to watch the soaps.

Bugger.

The lights were off. The door was locked. Horror of all horrors, the sodding bloody shop was shut, and Emily could just hear the strains of the Eastenders duffers floating down from the open upstairs window. She rested her forehead against the cool glass, defeated and stupidly close to tears. She didn’t hear the car come to a standstill next to her, but suddenly she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

‘Hey, Emily from the chapel.’

She turned around and found herself looking right into Dan’s crystal clear blue eyes. Several thoughts flashed through her head at once.
Christ, he’s gorgeous. Shit, I’m wearing PJs. I’m going to cry if he’s nice to me.
‘You’re out of luck if you wanted beer. They’re shut.’

Dan didn’t want beer. He’d been on his way to drop the hearse back at the funeral parlour when he’d spotted Emily and hit the brakes.

‘Pity. You look like a girl who really needs a drink.’

Emily sighed and leaned her back against the glass. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘The pyjamas kind of give you away.’

She looked at the floor and half-shrugged, half-laughed. He must think she was a total flake. First she’d cried on his shoulder, and now he’d caught her running around the street in her nightwear like a desperate alcoholic.

‘Listen … I could run you out to the supermarket if you like?’

She cast an apprehensive glance towards the hearse. ‘In that?’

‘It’s just a car, Emily.’ He laughed, opening the passenger door in invitation. ‘Your chariot awaits.’ He performed a low bow.

Emily knew full well in the back of her mind it
wasn’t
just a car, and this wasn’t just a mercy mission to the supermarket. But faced with the lonely alternative of an empty house, an empty wine glass and an empty bed, she willingly climbed into the passenger seat. Dan got in and clunked his door shut, and Emily noticed that he wasn’t in oil-splattered jeans tonight. Jeans, yes, but clean, and there was a woody, warm hint of masculine shower gel about him.

‘Were you going out?’

‘Nowhere special.’ Dan grinned. Gabe was a big boy; he’d be fine on his own in the pub for a while. This was a far more interesting option.

Emily fell silent as Dan turned out of the village towards the supermarket.

‘So, Emily from the chapel. What makes you desperate enough to cry over wine?’

Emily sighed and twizzled her rings around on her fingers as she debated how to answer.
Because I’m thirty in a few hours?

Because I just felt like throwing myself an almighty pity party?

Because I can’t get pregnant?