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One More Chapter
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Copyright © Eve Edwards 2020
Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com
Eve Edwards asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008356392
Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008356385
Version: 2020-08-21
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About the Author
About the Publisher
For my sister, Jane, the real registrar of Suffolk.
Any resemblance to actual weddings, birth and death registrations is entirely on purpose. People of Suffolk, I love your inventiveness and I wish I could’ve found space for more of your stories. Enjoy your special days.
Chapter 1
‘So he said to me “Would you mind wearing a costume?”’ Gemma smoothed the black skirt over her thighs, wondering if anyone would spot the ladder in her tights.
Diana’s laughter lines deepened around her eyes. She turned down Beyoncé so she could concentrate on the directions now they were almost there. ‘Ooo, kinky.’
‘Stop it, Di. He didn’t mean it like that.’ Gemma refreshed her phone to check they hadn’t missed the turning. In high summer, the Suffolk lanes were overflowing with grasses and lacy cow parsley, that obscured signs and even some of the narrower turnings. ‘They were sweet about it. Next right – no, other right – I mean left.’
Diana signalled, used to Gemma’s erratic grasp of directions. ‘And did you agree, Gem?’
‘I had too.’
‘Uh-uh, no you did not. All we have to do is turn up, officiate, do the paperwork and go home. We do not have to agree to join in anyone’s fantasies, unless we want to, of course.’ She directed a suggestive eyebrow wiggle at Gemma, making her laugh.
‘But they were making such an effort, Di. He’s wearing a replica of the doublet and hose in Henry VIII’s most famous portrait and she’s made herself a version of one in a painting of Anne Boleyn.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong but they’re having, not just a Tudor-themed, but a Henry-famous-for-his-six wives wedding?’
‘Exactly.’ Gemma held her phone up, hoping 4G would be restored as she wasn’t exactly sure where they were now. ‘I think the irony escapes them.’
‘So, what costume did they want you to wear? Axeman?’
Gemma snorted. ‘I think Anne was dispatched with a sword.’
‘You’re such a history buff.’
History was a passion – one she wished she had more time to indulge. ‘A long skirt was all they specified, so I agreed.’
‘If you like them so much, you should go all out – hire something – a bishop’s robe.’
‘You know we’re not allowed any religious references.’
‘Well then, a doublet and hose deal. You’ve great legs, you know like Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love? I couldn’t carry it off myself.’ Diana often complained she was developing the same comfortable roundness of her mother, rather than the beanpole stature of her father. Gemma, however, thought ‘comfortable’ looked great on her friend. Who wants their best mate to be supermodel thin?
‘The female registrar in a codpiece, Di? I think that might rather detract from Jerry and Mary’s special day.’
‘Whereas getting married as the world’s most famous wife serial killer won’t?’
‘Good point.’ A white sign flashed past in Gemma’s peripheral vision. ‘There – it was back there!’
Diana slammed on the brakes, forcing them both forward in their seat belts, and threw the car into reverse. ‘Damn, girl, give us more warning next time!’
‘Buy a sat nav if you don’t like my directions.’
‘The council should provide us with one.’
‘Yeah right. Let’s put that on the agenda for our budget right after they discuss funding adult social care and filling potholes.’
Diana turned her car into the long drive leading to the castle. ‘What do you know about this new venue?’
‘Not much. Sounds like some vanity project of a Londoner, someone who thought he’d buy himself a bit of English history and pay for it by making it into an exclusive wedding destination.’
‘I thought it was derelict.’
‘It can’t be a complete ruin. I was told yesterday that we’ll be doing the ceremony in the Norman keep while the reception is held in the orangery.’
‘The what?’
‘You know, an old hot house? Claremont used to have a famous garden but it was left to run wild. The landowner is restoring that too. I saw some photos: it looks really pretty, a kind of lost garden, like Heligan down in Cornwall.’
‘I can’t manage our six square metres at home; I’d say he’s got his work cut out for him.’
‘That’s because your boys use your plants for target practice.’
‘True.’ Diana’s boys, aged thirteen and eleven, were the most destructive children Gemma had ever met – but in a nice way, as she always felt she should add. Her own son, Leo, aged fourteen, had bypassed the whole kick-a-ball-through-a-neighbour’s-window phase; she sometimes wished he’d had one.
The drive turned a corner and the castle appeared before them, top floor peeking out of the trees on the brow of the hill, flag flying from the roof of the keep. Gemma felt an unexpected pang of excitement.
‘Oh my word, Di, it’s wonderful! I used to draw castles like this when I was a kid.’
Di wrinkled her nose. ‘Bet it’s draughty, cold and impossible to heat.’
‘Yes, but the romance!’
‘Sugar, when was the last time you had any real romance in your life?’ Diana pulled up in a space that had been reserved for them.
‘Not that kind of romance.’
‘Is there any other kind?’
‘Stories, fairy tales – that kind of thing.’
‘You, honey, need more of the other in the real world. When did you last go on a date with a man?’
‘They’re more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘Your evidence?’
‘My ex – and Henry VIII.’
‘Gem, you weren’t married to the cockroach and if you’re appealing to six-hundred-year-old examples, I’d say you’re reaching.’
They got out and went to the boot to fetch their bags and document case. Guests were already beginning to arrive. A minibus crunched into the car park drawing their attention. Everyone inside was wearing a quiffed black wig and rhinestone suit.
‘You did not mention that this was an Elvis wedding!’ hissed Gemma.
‘Cute, isn’t it?’ Diana chuckled, pleased with her surprise. ‘That’s how the couple met – at a convention. Makes a change from getting married by an Elvis impersonator in Vegas. Here we’re the only ones who won’t look like the King of Rock and Roll.’ Diana did a little hip wiggle.
Groaning, Gemma grabbed the document case. They took turns on the duties. Diana was officiating at their first ceremony so Gemma’s job was to be the admin backup, filling out the registry forms and certificate. The full horror of the next hour dawned on her. ‘Oh God, it’s going to be vows with promising to “love me tender, love me do”, isn’t it?’
‘I’d say that’s a cert.’
‘I’m pleased it’s you, rather than me, having to do the “repeat after me”.’
‘Aw, Gem, it’s going to be great. Phil and Neil are nice people. You’ll love them.’ Diana gave her outfit a last check. She’d come in an orange suit, which contrasted well with her dark complexion. She’d just spent a fortune having her hair straightened so it curled around her plump cheeks like a Norman helmet, making her the jolliest guard that had ever been on duty at this keep. Gemma began to think her own black trouser suit and up-do was a bit dull for this flamboyant occasion.
She dug in her bag hoping for at least a scarf to brighten up the suit but came up empty. ‘I wish you’d warned me. I could’ve at least gone for the Dolly Parton look. I look like a funeral director.’
‘Girl, you just don’t have what it takes upfront for Dolly.’ Diana adjusted her own generous bust. ‘But I would’ve made a fine black one if I thought of it.’
Gemma spotted a man not in Elvis gear heading for them. ‘Time to put on your game face, Di. Here comes our host – or should I say, Milord Bitten-off-more-than-he-can-chew?’
‘Ooo, I like what I’m seeing. He can lock me in his dungeon any day.’
Gemma snorted. ‘Cease and desist, Di. You’re a respectable married woman.’
‘And ain’t that a shame?’
Sam Ranworth was not having a good day. His first wedding and already the caterers had messed up, not reading the detailed instructions he had sent them in advance about there being no generator yet in the orangery to run their equipment. He’d had to jury rig a line from his own cottage which would probably get him barred if Health and Safety decided to make a surprise inspection. Then Neil had had an attack of wedding nerves. Sam loved his old friend dearly but Neil was famed for his histrionic moments. Sam knew he should’ve anticipated that Neil would indulge in one on this, the most theatrical day of his life. He had calmed Neil down with a stiff drink and an equally stiff talking to in the guest room at the cottage but Sam had the feeling that while he was doing that the details of the event were darting away from him like air from a punctured tyre. And the last thing he wanted for the launch of this new venture – and his friends – was the day to fall flat.
At least the registrar was here on time, in fact ahead of time. He liked it when people were efficient at their job. He strode across the car park, hand outstretched to the smiling woman in orange, only then really noticing her companion, who looked a bit like orange-lady’s shadow in her Men-in-Black outfit.
‘Welcome to Claremont, ladies. I’m Sam Ranworth.’
‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Diana Erikson and this is Gemma Whitehall – I think you talked to Gem briefly yesterday on the phone. She’s so looking forward to exploring your facilities.’
The brunette gave her companion a pained look which Sam couldn’t quite understand. Diana seemed a friendly soul. What was her colleague’s problem?
‘Can you show us where to set up?’ asked the brunette.
‘Of course. Follow me.’ Over-compensating for his bad mood, Sam thought he probably sounded too hearty but he couldn’t tone it down now. ‘Are you OK with candles? The keep doesn’t have power yet.’
‘As long as we can all see each other and I marry the right guy to the right guy then we’ll be fine,’ said Diana.
The other one’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered.
‘Do you want me to make an announcement about switching off phones at the start?’ asked Sam, a not-so subtle reprimand for the registrar taking a call when she should be focused on what they were doing here.
‘Oh, are you going to be part of the wedding party?’ asked Diana.
‘Neil’s an old friend from college. He’s asked me to be master of ceremonies.’
‘I see. Good. I’m happy for you to do it, though I’m used to doing the stern-faced thing if you prefer to relax and enjoy yourself.’
No chance of that and Sam couldn’t imagine Diana would do a warning effectively anyway. ‘It’s fine. I’m good at barking out orders.’
‘Dammit no, Leo!’ exclaimed the brunette.
‘Gemma?’ asked Diana, swinging round to her colleague. ‘Are you OK?’
The woman waved her away and turned aside in an attempt to keep her conversation private, but Sam still couldn’t help eavesdropping her end of the call. Old detective habits died hard, and if anything was threatening Neil’s special day, then he had to know. ‘Tell him he can’t, Leo – that I’m not giving him the money. What? Really? Bastard. Sorry, darling. I shouldn’t swear, I know, but … Look, I can’t sort this out now. I’ve got a couple of weddings to do before I get back. Don’t give him anything until I get home – and don’t let him in whatever you do! You have? What did he take? Oh God. That’s the last straw, Leo! I’m sick of this! Yes, it does matter. He has to stop treating us like a cash machine put on earth to solve his “temporary difficulties”!’
Sam was embarrassed to see that the woman’s eyes were filling with tears, quite at odds with her furious tone. She pushed her hand through her hair, making her neat twist sag around her ears.
‘Yes, yes, darling. I know he’s your father. But he’s not my partner any longer. He’s stealing from me, you do get that, don’t you?’
Sam felt ashamed of himself, even though Diana was also listening. Definitely nothing to do with Neil’s wedding so he had no excuse for his curiosity.
‘In here.’ Sam gestured to Diana to enter over the drawbridge. Once across, they climbed the steep stone staircase, leaving Gemma outside to complete her call. ‘So, er, Diana, do you have everything you need?’ Sam was proud of how the guardroom looked. The bare bones of the building was a stone box with hammer beam roof. To go with the Elvis theme, it was now draped with crimson cloth to give it a Vegas show feel. Flowers and candelabra brightened up the coldness of the space. It was a shame his first wedding didn’t make more use of the historical connections but he’d persuaded himself that offering versatility was a better business model.
‘I think we’re all set. I’ll just move this table a little so we can benefit from the natural light.’ Diana had pounced before he could offer to do it for her. She was right about the darkness of the corner though. The high windows were glazed with small panes of old glass which gave the place an underwater feel even in bright sunlight.
Sam looked to the door where the second registrar had failed to appear. ‘Your colleague? Is she OK?’
‘Sounds like the bastard ex has struck again,’ said Diana with a shrug.
‘Perhaps not a suitable topic when we’re about to start a wedding?’
‘Honey, when better? I’m just keeping it real.’ She winked and set about arranging the seats to her satisfaction.
Chapter 2
Gemma found it hard to concentrate on the ceremony despite the fact that she was facing an audience that included thirty Elvis impersonators. They came in all shapes and sizes, most going for the late period glitzy look, though one woman made a surprisingly convincing young Elvis straight out of Jailhouse Rock.
‘Repeat after me,’ said Diana, managing to make the words sound special rather than silly. ‘I, Neil, promise to love you tender, love you sweet, and never let you go,’
Gemma straightened the paperwork in front of her, aware that her jaundiced view of men was spoiling what was actually a lovely ceremony once you looked past their dubious taste in decorations. Red velvet? Arum lilies? It was all so clichéd and the flowers funereal. She would’ve themed each arrangement on Elvis’ most famous films – King Creole in dark blooms and white, Germanic GI Blues, a pop of flamboyant Hawaiian style. They would’ve made a fun talking point as guests had to guess the references. These flowers depressed her. Most weddings tended to fall into stereotypical gestures no matter how original the couple tried to make their day. It was the rare relationship that didn’t veer off course even from the start.
Was Leo OK? She could not believe – no, cancel that – she could completely believe that Ray had done that to them. The bastard ex knew she often had to work at weekends so would choose Saturdays to drop in on the son he usually neglected. Last time he had made off with Leo’s bike, saying he was going to get the brakes fixed. He’d sold it to a mate who had then flogged it on eBay. It had cost her eighty pounds to replace it with a decent secondhand one otherwise Leo wouldn’t have been able to cycle to school. This time, according to Leo, Ray had taken the laptop. Her laptop, but also the one Leo used for his schoolwork. The password was of course ‘password’ because she was useless at remembering that kind of thing. Ray would be able to get into it, wipe it and flog it before the end of the day, all to support his drinking habit. Should she report him to the police? What would that do to Leo? It was bad enough having an alcoholic feckless father without adding a criminal charge to the picture.
And tomorrow, if she bothered to track Ray down in the vain hope he still had the machine, he would be so apologetic. To stave off prosecution, he’d probably weep and tell her how sorry he was, how he knew he’d messed up, promise it wouldn’t happen again – until the next time he’d run out of money and the thirst was upon him. He always claimed he wouldn’t have been like this if he’d made it as a musician. The early promise as front man in a local band had fizzled out as the flutter of interest around their music subsided. He was the only one to have put all his eggs in the one basket and ended up scrambled. Band mates had gone on to be teachers and taxi drivers; only he had clung on expecting the call, the contract, that would change everything. Thankfully, they’d already split up as a couple by then – in fact, the bastard had left her when the band looked as though it might actually make it. A teenage girlfriend expecting a baby had been too much for him to cope with, he’d claimed. She cramped his style.
Gemma swallowed bile. After starting with heady infatuation for what she thought the coolest guy in her sixth form, she probably reached hatred of him now. How sad was that?
Diana cleared her throat and Gemma became aware that there was a long pause in the service. What had she missed? The happy couple were standing right in front of her. Dammit, it was time for the signing of the registry already. She had to do her bit, telling the couple and their witnesses about the special ink and pen. She leapt up, making the table wobble. She had a strong and ineradicable klutz streak.
‘Congratulations, Neil, Phil. If you’d just like to sign here. I’ve listed you alphabetically, so Neil, you’re up first.’ She was speaking too fast, earning an odd look from what’s-his-name, the owner. He was acting as one of the witnesses. She handed Neil the pen, having to work around his huge black quiff.
‘Father’s occupation? Are we out of the ark or what?’ scoffed Neil.
Gemma had already filled out most of the form. ‘Yes, I know. Seems a little archaic.’ She stepped back so the photographer could take her shots.
‘I see you didn’t put down “homophobic prick” like I suggested,’ muttered Neil.
‘No, I thought “retired” might make the document more valid.’
‘Work it, baby, work it,’ teased Phil as Neil did the Elvis lip curl to the camera.
Neither Phil nor Neil would qualify as GQ models, both reaching that stage in life, in their late thirties, where the hair was making a discreet retreat up the forehead and the middle had begun to expand. Their friend though, Milord Castle-owner, and fourth in the chair to sign the register, made a better subject with his swept back black hair – natural, not one of the many wigs in evidence – and broad shoulders. He reminded Gemma of the models in those classy watch adverts in the Sunday supplements, steely blue gaze fixed on something far more interesting in the distance. She needed a fault to cut him down to size. Studying him, she decided that perhaps his features weren’t as perfect as they should be, nose just a little too big and a faint scar on the side of his jaw. He made the pen look ridiculously small in his hands. It appeared he did a fair amount of the work around the place himself if the state of them were anything to go by.
Diana cleared her throat again. Crap, Gemma realised she’d been daydreaming about what his hands would feel like on her skin while he held the pen out to her to take back. Diana was right: it was far too long since a man had touched her, years since she’d been kissed.
‘Yes, thank you. That’s all done now.’ Gemma could feel her blush creep up her neck, bane of her life was her high-coloured complexion.
Neil and Phil led the way back to the waiting guests, greeted by a burst of ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ sung by all the impersonators. It was actually really moving, even cynical Gemma could see that. A lady in a silver jacket, who had to be Phil’s mum from her place in the front row, was dabbing her eyes, delighted that her boy had finally tied the knot. Her husband looked a little shocked at the ranks of Elvises but had come in sympathy with the theme with his wide-lapelled suit – either that or he hadn’t bought formal wear since the early 70s. Neil’s mother stood forlornly on her own dressed in sober grey. Her husband, Neil’s father, had decided to boycott the event, according to Diana.
Good riddance, thought Gemma, imagining what it must’ve been like growing up gay in that household. As bad as getting pregnant at fifteen in hers, she decided.
‘I think that went off OK,’ said Diana once the wedding party had exited the keep to take photographs outside.
Gemma nodded, concentrating on making sure she’d filled out all the forms correctly. She could not cock this up on an otherwise very cocked-up day.
‘I take it Ray’s been up to his usual tricks?’
‘Oh yes.’ She nodded like that dog in the advert.
‘What did he take this time?’
‘Computer.’
‘You’re going to tell the police?’
Gemma shook her head.
Diana sighed. This was an old argument. ‘Then you should move – go somewhere he can’t just drop round on a whim.’
Renting a street away from where Ray still bunked with his parents was probably a mistake but Gemma hadn’t wanted to separate Leo from his grandparents. Besides, it was a cheap part of Bury St Edmunds, the pretty market town in Suffolk where she had always lived.
‘Doesn’t your lease come up for renewal soon?’