talking in the pews ahead.
‘Aunts?’ Robert’s eyebrows shot up like startled caterpillars. He looked at them again, studying each in turn with more attention now.
‘Step-aunts, really. Uncle Miles married a few times.’ She chose to deliberately misunderstand him.
‘Those are your aunts?’
She nodded and gave him a bright non-committal smile. Livia could only just have turned thirty-five and Penny and Janine, at this side of fifty had been a good thirty-four years younger than her uncle.
‘Yes. Uncle Miles was …’ she faltered not wanting to say anything more.
‘A philanderer?’ asked Robert, his tone sympathetic.
‘No, no.’ How did you explain Miles? Complicated, selfish, generous, opinionated, kind, slightly mad. ‘He enjoyed being married but he liked women too.’ She lifted her shoulders in a Gallic shrug, trying to explain something that couldn’t be summed up in a few trite sentences.
‘So how did he know all these people?’ whispered Robert. ‘I thought I saw Liz Hurley near the back.’ His mouth curled as if that was a total impossibility. ‘Don’t you know anyone here?’
Guilt pinched at her. She hadn’t seen Miles for nearly a year. Now he was dead, none of the reasons for putting off seeing him seemed like good ones. Too shy, too cowardly, too stubborn.
There was a flurry of activity and then suddenly at the front of the church, the vicar appeared. Although robed in black with a white collar looking every inch the traditional cleric, his eyes held a mischievous twinkle as if he’d been briefed by Miles as to exactly how this funeral should go.
The chapel quieted and then organ music began to swell as the back doors opened and the coffin flanked by four pall bearers all dressed in drivers’ overalls and helmets came down the aisle.
Robert shot her an incredulous look and dug her in the ribs but she stared straight ahead, trying to pretend to be as blasé as the rest of the congregation − which didn’t seem to find anything amiss.
The music soared, triumphant and vibrato, up to the high rafters. It sounded familiar but unfamiliar and it took Laurie a moment or two to place the tune. Oh my God. He hadn’t. She glanced at the vicar beaming beatifically at the gathered congregation and bit back a giggle as the notes continued to rise in volume and reverberate with drama.
He had. She bit her lip hard, cheeks tense, trying to hold back the laughter, containing a snigger in her belly and making a funny sob noise.
Robert squeezed her hand, mistaking it for an expression of grief.
Sucking in a breath of air, she tried to get her equilibrium back and stared straight ahead at the stained glass window above the vicar’s head. The procession bearing the coffin passed on her left and she held herself rigid not daring to look. Her diaphragm ached as she tried to hold everything in.
The stifled snort from her right did the damage and she made the mistake of turning just enough to register the man next to her valiantly swallowing and eyes fixed, his shoulders shaking.
This was awful, any moment now she was going to burst out laughing. She let out a wheeze, trying desperately to hold onto the rising hysteria but it was no good, another snort escaped. Tears were starting to leak down her face and any moment now she was going to start …
Her neighbour was no better, his puffed-up cheeks and tightly pressed lips told her he was as desperate to hold back the mirth as she. They caught each other’s eyes and both let a snort escape.
As the notes of the organ rose again, building to the chorus, she felt something pressed into her left hand and looked down. A handkerchief, stark against his tanned hand, was being pushed into her palm. Gratefully she shook it out and held it up to her nose, covering most of her face, just in time to stifle the giggles that erupted.
She blew her nose loudly praying it looked like she was crying.
Recovering slightly she nodded her thanks to him. He winked and despite the solemnity of the occasion, she grinned at him.
When he smiled back, revealing perfect white teeth brilliant against swarthy skin and several day old bristles, one eyebrow quirking in amusement, adrenaline hit her, socking her straight in the chest. Desire shot downwards arrowing between her thighs while her nipples, the miserable traitors, leapt to attention. Horrified, she burrowed her flaming face in the hanky again and concentrated on the music.
Only Uncle Miles would have chosen Bat Out of Hell to kick off his funeral.
Cam only just managed to get himself under control. Laughing uproariously, even at Miles’ funeral wasn’t the done thing, although it was better than weeping. He was going to miss the old bugger.
The colourful card had felt more like a wedding invite, with its required dress code. It looked as if everyone else had followed Miles’ instructions apart from the girl next to him. If the dull navy blue suit was the best she could do, her life was seriously missing the sense of fun Miles had indicated with his invitation to wear your glad rags. She was definitely missing the glad. Her connection to Miles had to be distant. Although at least she had a sense of humour.
Across the aisle Tania waved and smiled enthusiastically, her mouth a slash of scarlet against brilliant white teeth. He grinned back. It had been a while but she looked stunning, as always. The white dress showed off her opulent figure, cleavage to the fore and her dark hair cascaded artfully down one shoulder. He knew exactly how long it took her to achieve that, oh-so, casual placing and the softness of its touch. Was it Marbella or St Tropez the last time he’d seen her? He couldn’t remember exactly. He had a memory of sultry Mediterranean heat and the scent of pines and the sea.
It would be nice to catch up with her at the wake. See how she was doing. Not bad from the look of things. Her skin still held the golden hue of the sun and her hand was linked proprietarily through the arm of a tall, blonde guy in a smart suit which shrieked designer. No, Tania was doing just fine. The guy looked much more her type, suitable in every way. With a self-deprecating twist of his mouth he looked down at his jeans, the material just about to give way across his left knee. Old and comfortable, he couldn’t remember buying them. Absently he picked at the worn fabric before looking at Tania. Like most of the women he dated, she’d done her best to her smarten him up.
‘See you later, Cam,’ she mouthed across the way. With an answering nod, he turned to scan the rest of the congregation. The wives were all gathered at the front. How the hell Miles managed it, he didn’t know. Cam couldn’t manage a civil conversation with his own ex-wife, Sylvie. Thank God they’d not overcomplicated things with children. Although neither had Miles; he’d had four wives, each successively younger than the last, remained friends with each of them and they all seemed to be friends too. They’d probably organised today, no – make that followed Miles’ instructions together.
The old sod seemed to have planned every last detail. Cam could remember to the minute where he was when he heard that Miles had gone into the hospice. A terrible stilted phone conversation with Miles’ friend Ron. No one knew, it seemed. Everyone had assumed he was leading his normal nomadic existence, flitting between Monte Carlo and Barcelona, Le Mans and Rome. No one realised that the wily old so-and-so had gone to ground and holed up at home.
Cam couldn’t decide if knowing, or not knowing, his friend was dying was a good or a bad thing. Not saying goodbye in person ached. But it
