From Italy With Love. Jules Wake
The minute Lauren saw the girl dressed in brilliant fuchsia, teetering along on mile-high heels, a fascinator bobbing in her hair like an exotic bird of paradise, she knew she’d got it wrong. Not just wrong – horribly, horribly wrong.
She liked this navy blue suit and until that moment had liked it a lot. Some might say it was serviceable, but they were just mean. It was smart, fitted well and she felt OK in it.
At the same time she realised her loose interpretation of Uncle Miles’ edict, ‘Don’t wear black,’ was way off the mark and that perhaps she should have paid more attention to the ‘wear your glad rags’ element of the instruction.
Huddling closer to Robert, equally conservative in dark jacket and trousers, did little to reassure her, as another girl exposing an awful lot of pert cleavage passed them, her stilettos crunching into the gravelled drive up to the chapel. Out of the corner of her eye, Laurie caught Robert’s nipple radar go on high alert, even though he tried to look disapproving. Maybe she should have warned him about today. Not that it would have helped much. You had to have known Uncle Miles to appreciate his … what? Excesses? Eccentricities? Ebullience? She swallowed hard, unable to believe she wouldn’t hear his loud, imperative voice down the phone or see the impatient scrawl that covered his prolific postcards again.
‘Bloody hell,’ Robert breathed.
She looked up. Oh boy, had she ever got it wrong.
Flanking the chapel door were two beautiful blondes in full red and yellow leather cat-suits, very Flash Gordon, with zips slashed open to the navel, handing out Order of Service sheets printed on scarlet, no, make that Ferrari-red, card in the same shade as their glossy nails and pouty, shiny lips.
Taking one with a limp smile, she tugged at Robert’s sleeve, ignoring his dazed look and pulling him inside with her. Could anyone really be struck dumb? It looked as if he might have been.
Inside, the high-beamed room echoed with chatter and the wooden pews were filled with colour, like an aviary of brightly-plumed birds.
Coming down the aisle, she felt like a decrepit Mini Metro at the Goodwood Festival of Speed.
‘Where do you want to sit?’ whispered Robert, indicating the pews with a sweep of his hand, nearly all of which were occupied but not full.
Perceptively perhaps, he didn’t include the front two rows, where the more outlandish of the hats had taken roost. They belonged to Uncle Miles’ coterie of ex-wives, all of whom were happily exchanging conversation and air kisses. Robert didn’t know about them either. She closed her eyes for a second; what had she been thinking bringing him along with her? Pulling a face, she took a breath and focused on the four women in the first two rows of pews.
As family she couldn’t skulk at the back but neither could she join them. They were too damn scary, although to be completely fair, they’d always been kind to her. The third row would do nicely.
‘Mind if we sit here?’ she asked the solitary figure sitting in the next pew.
‘No, you’re good.’ He barely glanced at her before turning away but she caught a flash of blue eyes and unshaven cheeks. Despite the scruffiness of his jeans, he was definitely one of the beautiful people. She could bet he’d worn the casual linen shirt in that shade of turquoise knowing it emphasised the brilliant green of his eyes, and that the stubble was deliberate.
‘Thanks,’ she snapped, a stubborn lick of anger flaring as she glared at him.
He turned back to her, surprise and bafflement on his face.
Shame gnawed at her conscience. Now who was being small-minded? You shouldn’t dislike someone just because they were too good-looking. Sighing she gave him a tight smile. She really needed to rein in that King Edward-sized chip on her shoulder.
Dipping her head, she sat down and studied Robert’s polished black brogues. They contrasted with the worn, leather cowboy boots on her left.
‘So, do you know any of these people?’ asked Robert in a hushed, awed voice.
Did he have to make it sound such an impossibility? She looked around at the other mourners surreptitiously, looking for any familiar faces. That was a laugh. Laurie had only been looking for one face in particular, feeling slightly sick and praying she wouldn’t come.
‘Just my aunts,’ she nodded at the four women 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