her hips.
A look of understanding dawned across Guinness Guts’ face. Or, damn the revolting toad to hell, was it amusement? His piggy eyes travelled slowly from her purple skyscraper Louboutins all the way up to her auburn waves.
‘Look, Red. I’ve no clue about any of this stuff. You’ll be wanting Gabriel when he gets here tomorrow. He’s the organ grinder. I’m just the monkey.’
He made a shuffled and frankly alarming attempt at something Marla could only guess was supposed to be a monkey impression, then slurped his tea and reached for a half-eaten packet of chocolate digestives.
Marla cast her eyes to the sky and drew in a measured breath. Guinness Guts. Monkey Man. Revolting Toad. Whoever this man was, talking to him any more today was a pointless exercise.
‘Right. Fine.’ She huffed, throwing her shoulders back. ‘Well, you can tell Gabriel to expect me bright and early tomorrow morning. And FYI, we don’t need any organ grinders around here. We already have a perfectly good organist in the village, thank you very much so Gabriel’s services are not required.’
Guinness Guts nodded and tugged on an imaginary forelock. ‘Gotcha. Not required. But hey, listen …’ he jerked his head towards the shop window with a grin that revealed biscuit crumbs stuck between his teeth. ‘We make good neighbours, you know. Very quiet.’
Marla shot him a withering look and stormed back to the chapel. Emily, who had been watching from the brick porch, flattened herself against the wall to let her friend steam by. Inside, Marla sank onto the nearest spindle-backed chair and scrubbed hard at her temples.
‘This cannot be happening, Em. If they open up there, we could be ruined. No. Scratch that. We will be ruined.’
Emily sat down across the aisle from Marla. Pin tucks of anxiety folded across her forehead as she twisted her rings around on her slender wedding finger. She couldn’t think of a single useful counter argument – as new neighbours went, a funeral parlour was just about as bad as it got for a wedding chapel. She clutched at the only available straw. ‘Maybe this Gabriel guy will be a bit more approachable tomorrow.’
Marla snorted. ‘You reckon? If he’s anything like his henchman, then I seriously doubt it.’ Her heart was hurting, as if someone had grabbed hold of it and given it a Chinese burn. The chapel wasn’t just her business. It was her everything. She glanced up at the clock. 12.30. Past the yardarm. Thank God.
‘I need a stiff drink. Does Dora still stash brandy in the kitchen drawer?’
Emily nodded, then stood up and held out her hand. ‘Come on. I’ll make us some coffee with a nip of the hard stuff and we can make ourselves a plan.’
They both jumped as the back door of the chapel banged open.
‘Did someone mention a plan? Faaaabulous! For what? When? Tell me everything.’
Jonny’s made-for-the-West-End voice rang out around the chapel as he unclipped the lead from around the neck of Bluey, Marla’s impractically huge and lovable Great Dane.
Decked out in a black shirt that clung lovingly to each perfectly sculpted ab, Jonny looked every inch the gay icon he was – in their sedate corner of Shropshire, anyway. He also happened to be the best wedding celebrant and creative director Marla could ever have dared wish for. Emily, going for shock tactics, shepherded him to the window to judge the scale of the problem for himself.
‘A plan to get rid of them,’ she stage whispered, gripping his muscled arm so hard that her knuckles popped out white against her skin.
Jonny gasped in horror, while Bluey loped over to sit beside his beloved mistress. Marla leaned her head against his and counted backwards from ten while she waited for the inevitable explosion.
‘A fucking Funeral Directors?? Next door to us? Errr, helloooo?’ Jonny snapped his fingers in the air, diva style. ‘I don’t fucking think so!’
Marla sighed as he strutted off towards the doors. Much as she’d like to unleash Jonny on Guinness Guts, it would probably only make the situation worse.
‘Hang on, hang on. I’ve already tried that. There’s nobody in charge over there until tomorrow.’
‘Hmmph.’ Jonny’s shoulders slumped. ‘Well, when they do get here, they’ll wish they hadn’t bothered, because I’m going to kill them with my bare hands.’
Marla threw her shoulders back and painted on a determined smile. She was the boss, and her troops needed rallying. ‘Come on, guys. Let’s go and put the kettle on and get cracking on that plan.’
When the