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 saved a lot of awkwardness. And wasn’t he just the coward? Truth was, he couldn’t have coped with a goodbye, any more than Miles. Christ the two of them would have got pissed, maudlin and then pissed again. No maybe it was a good thing he’d not known.
The funeral progressed at a cracking pace, just the way Miles had planned, although the eulogy done by all of the ex-wives took a little time. Each one of them found it hard to get their words out. Their obvious grief said as much about Miles as the words. Finally the last hymn was sung.
With a reluctant, half-hearted smile at the curtains which closed on the coffin, Cam left the church and headed into the sunlit graveyard. At least someone was smiling down on him.
Outside there were plenty of people milling about and he could have spoken to any number but was drawn to Eric and his wife Norah. Of all the congregation they looked the most sombre and, he noticed, quite frail. Eric had been with Miles for as long as he could remember. He and Norah had lived in the housekeeper’s quarters. She ran the house and Eric the garages, looking after the cars, tuning them up, doing oil changes and replacing spark plugs with the skill and dedication of a transplant surgeon.
He needn’t worry what would happen to them – Miles would do right by them. Eric’s job had been an act of charity for the last ten years. His rheumatic fingers did their best to polish the chrome and the minute he’d retired for the night, a young lad from the village came in and finished the job off properly under Cam’s strict supervision.
Norah’s eyes were red-rimmed but she dabbed at them with a heavily scented linen and lace handkerchief. He could smell the lavender from several feet away, reminding him that he’d just lost his one and only handkerchief.
‘Cameron, young man. Well that was a fine service.’ Eric pumped his hand.
Norah sniffed but her wrinkled eyes held a little glint. ‘Mm, old devil. Always liked his own way.’
Cam grinned. ‘And did he get it?’
She huffed. ‘Yes, bless his generous soul. Told us a while back that he’d leave me and Eric the Old Wainwright cottage on the east side of the estate.’
‘Thought he might.’
‘For all his funny foibles,’ Norah gave a scathing glance towards one of the leather clad ushers, ‘he was a good man. Few strange ideas but there’s nowt so queer.’
‘Quite a few coming back to the big house,’ observed Eric tipping his head to one side watching the crowd spilling out of the chapel. ‘Just like old times.’
Cam followed his gaze trying to duck the punch of sadness at the sight of so many gathered, a testament to how popular and well-loved Miles had been. They’d all crowd into the salon at Merryview where no doubt an unorthodox but meaty and filling buffet would have been laid on. A ribbon of excitement fluttered in his chest tinged with shame. He knew once he got to the house the lure of the old stable block would be impossible to resist. Although there was nothing official, no paperwork, no exchange of ownership, Miles wouldn’t have made the promise idly. A curl of satisfaction unfurled in his belly warming him. He could probably pick up the keys today.
‘Well