Love Your Neighbour: A laugh-out-loud love from the author of One Day in December

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 farmore 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!