Revenge of the Wedding Planner by Sharon Owens Page B

that because I hadn’t told my husband about Jay O’Hanlon and the hayloft and Julie deciding to ‘open up’ after forty-one years of being a super-tough survivor.
    It wasn’t even lunchtime and I was in turmoil. I went to the office to try to organize my thoughts. Incredibly, I just sat there thinking that all-white really is very cold to live with and that the office could have done with two coats of Soft Truffle (by Dulux) and some pretty desk lamps. And maybe a soft rug to take the bareness off the floorboards.
    And then Gary phoned to say he was coming to the lighthouse to take me out for lunch. Digging for more Julie-info, obviously. I told him I was far too busy for lunch and he said he’d swing out by the lighthouse all the same and maybe we could go for a short stroll along the shore. My skin was prickling with panic. He hung up before I could think of an excuse why we couldn’t meet. Like I had scurvy or something terribly contagious?
    And then my mother called me from Devon to inform me that my – wait for it – ‘silly old sod of a father’ had passed away.
    ‘What? Who’s passed away? My da? Mum, have you been drinking?’ I croaked, switching from mouse-mode to toad-mode. ‘Get out of that, will you? Dad’s only sixty-eight.’
    ‘Drinking, is it? I never touch the stuff, Margaret. You know I don’t. Honestly, what a thing to say to me. Now,your father’s gone to a better place and so on and so forth, so let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. The thing is, my dear, you’ll have to arrange the funeral, all right?’ she said brusquely. ‘I simply can’t get away in the peak season and, besides, we are properly divorced so I’m not the next of kin any more. You are. You’re the eldest child, Margaret.’
    ‘Me? Arrange a funeral? But you know I’m not religious! I can’t go asking his priest to say the Mass. I don’t even know who his priest is. I don’t know what to do! You know Bill and I aren’t religious, Mum.’
    ‘That’s your problem, Margaret. I’ve always told you to keep in with the clergy and now you know why. Because sooner or later you’ll need a priest and then where will you be with your trendy ideas? I’m sorry, but I’ve already given the hospital your name. As of now, I am not to be contacted any more re my ex-husband.’
    ‘Re’ meaning ‘with reference to’. It’s the only modern lingo my mother knows and she uses it at every opportunity.
    ‘Well, that’s very handy for you,’ I snapped, a huge lump of sadness forming in my throat. That day, I almost wished divorce wasn’t available in the British Isles because clearly one of the spin-offs of divorce is that we children have to bury our fathers these days, instead of the estranged wife having to do it. ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ I gasped, experiencing my first hot flush since meeting Bill in the Limelight Club. ‘What the heck happened to him? Can you tell me that before I order the coffin? Or are you too busy with your toast racks and your butter curls?’
    ‘Don’t be cheeky, Margaret. It’s not my fault the man died. You know he had no time for me or anyone else outside of Stormont.’
    That’s the name of our local parliament building, by the way. Though it hasn’t seen much action these last few years.
    ‘So?’
    ‘So why do you think I should be upset? Any woman who could cook and clean would have done him for a wife. As long as she kept her mouth shut and didn’t interrupt him when he was watching the news.’
    She had a point there.
    ‘Go on, then,’ I grumbled. ‘Tell me the rest of it.’
    ‘ Apparently , one of the neighbours found him sitting at the kitchen table with his head on a sliced loaf. They broke in when they noticed the milk hadn’t been collected from the doorstep for three days.’
    For one awful moment, I thought my father had been murdered and horribly mutilated by some psychopath. Care in the community isn’t what it was, you know. But no. No