Undertaking Love (8 page)

Bluey took position in front of their visitor and cocked his head to one side to study the suddenly sweating man who had invaded his home.

‘Is he going to kill me?’ Rupert managed to speak without moving his mouth.

‘I don’t know. Probably.’

Marla bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. Bluey was the daftest dog in the world. He had never killed so much as a spider, but the opportunity for sport with Rupert Dean was too pleasurable to pass up.

‘Call him off, Marla.
Please
.’

‘I can’t. He’s still sizing you up.’

She took a leisurely sip of her coffee and inspected her fingernails.

‘Same as me, really. We’re both trying to decide if we like you enough to let you live.’

Apart from the slight clink of Rupert’s white Jamie Oliver coffee cup as it trembled against its saucer in his hand, silence reigned in the room.

‘Bluey. Come here, baby.’

Marla spoke softly, and the huge hound loped across to sit sentry next to her with his head plonked on the arm of her chair.

‘Good boy.’

He closed his eyes and grumbled with contentment as she fussed his soft ears.

‘Should I take that as a good sign?’ Rupert breathed out, his confidence returning now that he wasn’t staring death in the hound-dog eye.

‘I think so. Just don’t try any funny stuff.’

He eyed Bluey with suspicion and reached out to catch the newspaper just after the dog swiped it off the coffee table with his tail.

‘Listen, Marla. About your problem. I can help. This,’ he indicated the front-page article. ‘This is just the beginning.’

Marla sipped her coffee and regarded him with interest.

‘I’m thinking along the lines of a series of features on the chapel, maybe cover a couple of the weddings; you know, really get the locals behind it. I could run interviews with the different local businesses that benefit from your presence, even print the petition in the paper. What do you think?’

Marla was beyond grateful. They needed all the help they could get.

‘I’d greatly appreciate it, thank you. But I have to ask … why? Don’t tell me you’re a die-hard romantic with an equally impressive collection of girly books?’

He snorted on his coffee. ‘Girly mags maybe, but bodice rippers? No.’ He leaned forward, an intent look on his face. ‘I just recognise a good story when I see it, Marla, and I happen to believe that you’re right about the knock-on effect for the local community.’

Marla sat upright in her chair. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope, after all. A press campaign would certainly up the ante, in any case. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Rupert.’

When he smiled, that naughty twinkle was back in evidence in his vivid blue eyes.

‘I do. Have dinner with me.’

Gabe flipped the front door key over in his hand and looked at the clock. 8.55 a.m. He was officially opening for business in five minutes time.

Melanie perched behind the reception desk. The sunshine-yellow tulips Gabe had given her this morning had been awarded pride of place beside her books. In actual fact he’d bought them to make the reception area more welcoming, rather than for Melanie in particular, but it would have been embarrassing for both of them if he’d corrected her innocent assumption. She’d blushed pink with pleasure when she’d found them on the desk earlier, and flustered off to make coffee.

‘Ready?’ he turned and smiled at her, key poised by the lock.

She nodded.

‘You?’

‘I sure am. Let’s do this thing.’

He winked at her and turned the key. He swung the door back on its hinges once or twice to make sure it was definitely unlocked. He turned the little black and silver sign on the door over to declare them open, and almost felt the warmth of his Da’s hand of encouragement on his shoulder.

‘Time to grow up, Gabe.’

It was all quiet on the street outside, still sleepy apart from the odd pensioner pulling a trolley and a young mum pushing a pram. Not that he’d expected a stampede. It wasn’t the kind of business that attracted a queue.

He glanced at the chapel. Earlier, Marla had dashed by as usual, robbed of her opportunity to snarl at his bike because he’d parked it out of sight around the back. It was hardly a suitable advert for the funeral parlour. Just as he was an unsuitable advert for the wedding chapel, he acknowledged with a flicker of a frown.

He hadn’t had a chance to speak to her since the public meeting. Just thinking about that evening made him wince. He hadn’t actually intended to stand up and speak, but he’d been so incensed by the injustice of it all that he’d found himself on his feet before he’d had a chance to think it through.

The Shropshire Herald
had ripped him to shreds as a result, and the battle lines between the chapel and the funeral parlour were now marked out as clearly as if they’d been painted in bold white lines across the pavement.

From behind the blind of her office window, Marla watched Gabe swing his freshly painted black door open, then stand still and cast his eyes skywards for a few seconds. Was he weather watching, or praying, even? If he needed a sign, he should have said. She would have hurled a bucket of cold water over him.

It was the first time she’d seen him out of jeans and leathers, and, although if quizzed she would have hotly denied the thought had even entered her head, the sight of him in a close-fitting suit did something strange to her insides. Of course it could be the ill effects of the omelette that Rupert had attempted to cook for breakfast …

Whichever. It was immaterial. The grim fact was that the funeral parlour was now officially open for business, which meant that the chapel was officially a step closer to closing down.

Marla huffed, and kicked the desk leg with frustration. Jonny had assured her that the petition was going great guns, and that in no time at all they’d have enough signatures to present the council with a dossier fatter than the Oxford dictionary. He’d better hurry up about it, because every day with the funeral parlour as a neighbour was a day closer to bankruptcy.

For now though, they had a frantic couple of months booked and Gabe had successfully backed her into a corner. She sagged down into the chair and opened the desk diary. Much as she hated the idea, she needed to pull on her big girl pants and take him up on his offer of a civilised discussion, because damage limitation was about as good as it was going to get for the foreseeable future. She twisted her hair into a bun, pushed a pencil through the knot, then grabbed the diary and headed to the door.

Nerves made her hesitate as she approached the funeral parlour door. She gave herself a mental shake and pushed the door open, to find herself pleasantly surprised by the tasteful, welcoming decor. Not that she was sure what she’d been expecting. Cobwebs? A rattling skeleton in the corner, maybe? The reception desk looked empty apart from a bright jug of tulips, but then a slender, dark-haired girl straightened up from behind it and smiled.

‘Hi there, come on in.’

Marla smiled back. Her fight wasn’t with Gabe’s pretty young receptionist.

‘Hi. Is Gabriel around, please?’

The girl’s smile dimmed from mega watt to energy saver at Marla’s use of Gabe’s first name. She glanced quickly over her shoulder. ‘I can certainly check if he’s free. Who should I say is here?’

Her eyes flicked up and down Marla’s red spotted tea-dress and high heels.

‘Marla Jacobs. From the chapel.’ Marla noticed the flash of recognition in the receptionist’s eyes and the energy saver smile disappeared altogether.

‘Ah. I see.’ She shook her head. ‘Well, I’m sorry. No. I’m afraid Gabe isn’t here right now.’

The obvious way she shortened his name to stamp her position of authority infuriated Marla. ‘But you just said you’d check if he was free.’

The girl shrugged. ‘I can tell him you called by, if you like?’

That smile was back, this time simpering with saccharin instead of sugar.

They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Short of yelling for him, there was nothing Marla could do.

‘Make sure you do that.’ Marla shot back through gritted teeth and turned on her heel.

Gabe stuck his head through into reception. ‘Did I hear the door?’

He looked up just in time to recognize Marla’s familiar red hair through the window as she stomped away.

‘That woman from the chapel, yeah.’ Melanie rolled incredulous eyes. ‘Some nerve, coming over here to cause trouble on our first day, eh?’

‘What did you say to her?’

‘Just that you were busy.’

Gabe shook his head and tried not to sound as irritated as he was. ‘Ask me. Always ask me, okay?’ He opened the door and broke into a jog to catch up with Marla before she disappeared into the chapel.

She stopped and slowly turned when he called her name.

‘Well, well, well. Did your receptionist give you permission to talk to me after all?’

‘Sorry, crossed wires. Did you, err … did you need something?’

He glanced down at the diary clutched against her chest, and noticed the pale gold freckles on her throat as his eyes made their way back up to her face.

She nodded. ‘We need to talk.’

Gabe’s heart tripped a beat.
You’re telling me lady, you’re telling me.
‘I’m a bit tied up over there right now.’ He jerked his head back towards the funeral parlour, where he’d been in the middle of a practice session with his new pallbearers. ‘How about tonight?’

Marla shook her head so hard that the pencil fell out of her hair and rolled along the pavement towards Gabe. ‘Tonight? God, no. I can’t. I’m, erm, I’m busy.’

Gabe retrieved the pencil and handed it back to her, thinking how gorgeous she looked with her red waves released around her face. Why, Ms Jacobs, you’re beautiful! He thought it, but somehow managed to keep the cheesy line inside his head.

‘Tomorrow maybe?’

‘No, I’m busy tomorrow night too. In fact, I’m busy every night.
With my boyfriend
.’

Boyfriend
. The word made Marla’s tongue feel too big in her mouth.

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘Yes, Gabriel, my boyfriend. You know – a man I actually enjoy spending time with, as opposed to one who is trying to ruin me?’

Okay. So perhaps that came out a little more caustic than was strictly necessary, but Jesus, Gabe riled her something rotten. Why had he instructed his jumped up secretary to lie to her? And God knows he had no business looking so effortlessly cool in a suit, with his barely tamed curls kissing his collar like a flirty Sunday morning lover.

‘I meant tomorrow afternoon, Marla. Your personal life is of none of my business.’

His markedly clipped tone told her that she’d scored a direct hit. Good, he deserved it.

‘Fine.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come over after lunch tomorrow.’

He nodded. ‘As long as your
boyfriend
can spare you.’

Marla narrowed her eyes at his sarcasm, and had to clamp her teeth together to stop herself from sticking her tongue out.

‘You know what? I’m not so sure he can, actually. I guess I’ll just have to think of a really special way to make it up to him afterwards, won’t I?’

Jonny was torn between pride and unease at quite how effective his online campaign was turning out to be. He’d posted strategic links all over the net on wedding forums, and people had responded to his battle cry with aplomb.

Over two thousand people had signed the petition since he’d posted it on the chapel website last week, and their web stats had shot through the roof. Not to mention the messages of support that were flooding into his in-box on a daily basis – everything from well wishers to a couple of much darker, sinister offers to ‘eliminate the threat’ for them.

He’d struck a match, and he’d started an inferno.

And amidst all of this, he still hadn’t found time to mention it to Marla.

Tom stared at the artisan-chocolate stand in the busy department store. Shoppers bustled around him, but he stood oblivious and racked his brain to remember Emily’s favourites.

Because this wasn’t just a box of chocolates.

It was an olive branch.

Over the last week or so, something had changed. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but he’d sensed a profound difference in Emily.

A subtle detachment, and it scared him witless.

She wasn’t waiting for him anymore.

He felt like a prize fool, because he knew with the crystal clarity of the damned that he was just a few steps away from the most colossal fuck-up of his life. And he’d finally,
finally
realised that he didn’t want to fuck up.

So many things he hadn’t made the time to say.

So many occasions when he’d made the coward’s choice and run when he should have stayed with Emily and been her rock.

He’d let himself blame her, cast her as the villain of the piece for forcing them through the barrage of tests and check ups.

He’d allowed himself the luxury of behaving like the victim, and he was deeply, deeply ashamed.

‘Emily?’

Clammy fear settled over his heart at the sight of the suitcase propped against the radiator in the hallway.

He’d left it too late.

Emily came through from the lounge and stood in the doorway, car keys in hand and an expression on her face that went so far beyond sadness that Tom felt his own heart crack open too. Fear paralysed him. He didn’t know whether to pull her into his arms, or if he should just step aside and let her pass.

‘I wrote you a letter,’ she said.

No
. No way was this all going to end with a ‘Dear John’. ‘I don’t want to read it. Talk to me instead. Tell me.’

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and he closed the distance between them in two paces and grabbed her hands. ‘In fact, don’t. Don’t say anything. Listen to me first. Please Em, just listen, and then go if you still want to.’

His eyes searched her face as his thumbs rubbed back and forth over her knuckles.

‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a prick. I’m never here when you need me. I’ve deliberately missed appointments. Truth is I’m scared.’