Undertaking Love Page 0,79

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 teenage caution for possession of a spliff had probably been sensationalised for the sake of a good headline.

Even the stripper didn’t phase 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 mention that particular 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, still 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, she 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.

At least he’d taught her one valuable lesson. She’d been on the money with her initial instincts. She should never have let him under her guard.

It was ironic really, that in her desperation to not be like her mother, she was behaving more like her than ever.

Chapter Thirty-Three

‘Em, dinner.’

Emily leaned her forehead against the newly decorated nursery window and sighed. The last thing on her mind was food. Tom was killing her with his kindness, and after months of soul searching, she’d finally reached her decision. Finally faced up to the decision her heart had made on the banks of the river Severn. Dan’s toothbrush may not be on their bathroom shelf, and there may only be two settings at their dinner table, but he was here nonetheless, a cuckoo in their home and their marriage.

She needed to tell Tom.

The power should be in his hands, not hers. Besides, she couldn’t bear the weight of her secret any longer. Tom deserved the truth, and the choice.

She placed an apologetic hand over the baby as it aimed a furious kick at her ribs, almost warning ‘don’t you dare’. She couldn’t blame the baby for wanting to hang onto Tom; she wanted to herself, desperately.

But not like this.

Not without honesty.

Tom stirred the risotto on the stove and threw in an extra splash of stock to get the consistency spot on.

‘Come on, Em, it’s almost on the table!’ he called out again as he pulled on Emily’s pink oven gloves to take the plates from the oven.

Emily appeared in the doorway. Every day her bump seemed to grow more evident. She slid onto the dining chair with an anxious glance at Tom as he placed her dinner down in front of her.

He plonked down in his chair and watched her test his efforts as he picked up his fork.

‘Is it okay?’

She nodded with a quick, grateful smile, although the way she pushed it around her plate with her fork suggested otherwise. It was his turn to cook, and he’d scoured the supermarkets on his way home from work for wild mushrooms to make Emily’s favourite comfort dinner.

‘It’s heavenly, Tom. What’s the occasion?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Can’t I treat my wife without a hidden agenda?’

He could have bitten out his own tongue as the clouds rolled across her eyes.

Any mention of hidden secrets made her jumpy these days, and having read her ‘Dear John,’ letter, he