‘It’s too formal,’ Rachel says firmly but calmly. ‘We don’t do formal.’
Now no one seems to know what to do. The bridesmaids look at each other awkwardly, not sure where to put their bouquets.
‘Throw your arms around each other,’ I call, so they do, and Rachel snaps away quickly while Bob looks totally put out.
Rachel always takes the bride and groom away from other guests for their private shoot, so we are disappointed when we see Bob and his wife sneaking off after us, his wife tottering behind him in her heels with his camera bag and two glasses of champagne. But because Bob is Seb’s uncle, and because Seb and Nina don’t say anything, we can’t really tell him to bugger off. So we have to make do with him hanging over our shoulders, taking his own shots and generally making our lives difficult, just like he promised he would.
‘Don’t let him get to you,’ Rachel says calmly when we retire to the kitchen for a break after the speeches. ‘He’s obviously an old-school photographer. Let him do his thing and we’ll do ours. At the end of the day, Seb and Nina booked us, not him.’
I’m glad she’s so calm about it.
‘I wouldn’t even take a professional camera to a friend’s wedding,’ Rachel says later in the car on the way home.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Russ asks, his arm draped around Maria’s shoulders. From their body language, I’m guessing their visit home went well.
‘Not unless I was asked to,’ she says. ‘I think it’s completely disrespectful.’
‘That must’ve been so off-putting having him standing over your shoulder like that,’ Maria comments.
‘I hated it,’ I admit. ‘You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest,’ I say, pulling myself forward to hang over Rachel’s shoulder.
‘There are always going to be a handful of wedding guests who have cameras as good as yours. But you’ve just got to chill out, let it go, worry about your own angles. The bride and groom have chosen us because they like our style and the finished product. It’s always going to look better as a package than anything anyone else is going to do.’
‘I wish I had your confidence,’ I say.
She laughs. ‘When you’ve done as many weddings as I have, not much fazes you.’
‘How many weddings have you done?’ Russ asks her.
‘Getting up towards sixty.’
‘Wow,’ he says. I’ve still only done six.
‘Always the wedding photographer, never the bride,’ she says drily.
For some reason, that makes me think of Alex.
Chapter 16
‘This is cosy.’ Alex stands in the doorway and looks around the small conference room – our makeshift office for the next three weeks, just north of Oxford Street.
‘I’ll say,’ I reply, watching as an IT guy hooks up my computer. I got here early and they haven’t finished setting up.
‘Are you going to be long?’ he checks with the IT guy.
‘Twenty minutes, at least,’ comes the curt reply.
‘Come and get a coffee with me?’ Alex suggests.
‘Sure, okay.’ There’s not much else I can do, and we are early. ‘How are the wedding plans coming along?’ I ask as we walk down the stairs. We’re on the third floor.
‘Well, I think. Zara’s doing most of it. She’s good at organising stuff.’
‘Has she got a dress yet?’
‘She went shopping on Saturday with her mum.’ He gives me a meaningful look as we wander out through the lobby. ‘Came back looking pretty happy.’
‘That’s a good sign. I forgot you said they were staying. Do you get on well with them?’
‘Yeah.’ He shrugs, holding the door open for me. ‘I’ve known them so long now.’
I jerk my head in the direction we need to go and we set off along the pavement. It’s a cool morning, but the sky overhead is bright blue. It might be park weather at lunchtime.
‘I can’t believe you’ve been together since uni. That’s impressive.’
‘Mmm. So tell me about your weekend.’ He changes the subject as we walk into the café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling our nostrils. There’s nothing like it.
‘Another wedding. This one was a nightmare.’ I fill him in on Bob’s your uncle and he’s laughing by the time we reach the front of the queue.
‘So Lachie went too?’
‘Yeah, and Maria and Russ.’
‘Those two are getting close,’ he comments.
‘I’ll say. Meeting her parents and everything.’
‘Good for them.’
‘Yep.’ Another two bite the dust.
My time with the redesign team flies by. During one brainstorming session I suggest we launch a brand-new section called Celebrity Houses, which involves the picture desk first having to broker the deal and then going to shoot whichever celebrity has agreed to have photos of their home splashed across the pages of Hebe. Sometimes this will involve overseas travel by one of the team – possibly me – to America or wherever the celebrity lives, which in turn means a much bigger Picture budget. Simon takes me with him on his meeting to convince Clare, and I’m on top of the world when she agrees to allocate Pictures more money. Then I have to follow through on my suggestion, which involves buttering up various PR people and eventually going to shoot hot young A-list actress Nelly Lott at her plush home in the country. Alex comes with me and if it weren’t for his very impressive skills of persuasion, I’m not sure we would have ever got her to agree to let us shoot her in bed, wearing comfy but highly unsexy PJs and looking all dishevelled and bleary-eyed. Simon is delighted with the pictures and gets me working on setting up the next shoot straight away.
There are so few of us that we tend to spend our lunchtimes together, when we’re not out shooting celebrities. I get to know Pete, the news editor, really well. He often comes to the pub on Friday nights, but I haven’t spoken to him much before. Esther, Russ’s boss on the features desk, and Mike from production usually join us, but Teagan from the style desk spends her lunches shopping on Oxford Street, and Simon tends to keep to himself. I think he likes to put a little distance between himself and his employees.
On our last Wednesday in the redesign office, it’s a stinking hot day and the five of us – Esther, Mike, Pete, Alex and I – are eating sandwiches and hanging out in nearby Cavendish Square in the sunshine. This afternoon Clare is coming by to run through our redesign ideas so she can give us feedback before our main presentation to her on Friday. We’ll present to the team on Monday when we’re back in the office. I’m a little nervous – it will be the first time Clare has seen my Celebrity Houses shoot.
Alex and Pete are reminiscing about the time they worked together at a Sunday supplement. It turns out the two of them are old friends.
‘When was this?’ I ask, trying to take my mind off our publisher.
‘A couple of years ago,’ Pete replies. ‘Before Hebe.’
‘You worked at a Sunday supplement before joining Hebe too?’ I ask Alex.
‘Yeah,’ he replies, flicking a handful of grass at Pete.
So that’s why I never saw Alex’s name on magazine mastheads after I went back to Australia. The memory of me trailing through all of those glossy magazines makes me feel sombre.
‘It’s your last day of work tomorrow.’ Esther nudges Pete, bringing my attention back to my colleagues.
‘Yep,’ he replies with a grin.
‘Are you looking forward to being a married man?’ she asks.
‘Can’t wait,’ he tells her, with total and utter sincerity.
Unusually, I find his response heartwarming. ‘Are all of Sylvie’s family coming over?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Quite a few of them are already here and others arrive tomorrow.’
‘Nice that she wanted to get married in the UK instead of in the States,’ Esther muses.
‘She says this is her home now,’ Pete replies with a small, happy shrug.
‘It should be a great weekend,’ Mike says decisively
. ‘My girlfriend has been planning her outfit for weeks.’
‘Aw, are you going?’ I ask Mike.
‘Yep. You guys are, too, right?’ Mike checks with Alex and Esther.
‘Sure am,’ Esther replies with a smile.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ Alex says, not meeting my eyes as he continues to pull up grass with his fingers. Does he feel bad that I’m the only one here who hasn’t been invited?
Pete’s eyes shift to mine and I force a bright smile. ‘Who have you got doing your wedding photos?’
‘Er, a couple called Lina and Tom,’ he replies, probably feeling bad that I’m not even doing his pictures. Those names sound familiar.
‘Lina and Tom... Her name’s not Lina Orsino, is it?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ Pete looks taken aback. ‘How did you know that?’
‘She’s Rachel’s mentor. Rachel often talks about her. Apparently she taught her everything she knows, so she must be amazing. Will you say hi to her from us?’
‘Sure,’ Pete replies with a smile.
Later, when we’re all packing up for the day after a brilliantly positive meeting with Clare, Pete takes a call from his fiancée. I pat him on his back and give him the thumbs-up to wish him good luck before setting off. I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear his voice.
‘Bronte, wait!’ he calls out. He catches up with me, a little out of breath. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’ he asks as I wait on the second-floor landing.
‘Er, nothing,’ I reply, puzzled. I’m not working so I was just planning on hanging out with Bridget.
‘Would you like to come to my wedding?’ he asks hopefully.
My brow furrows. I’m confused. Is he asking me because he feels bad for leaving me out?
‘We’ve just had a cancellation,’ he explains in a rush. ‘Sylvie’s American cousin has appendicitis so he and his wife have had to cancel. I’d love you to come if you’re free.’
I waver. He seems to genuinely want me to join them.
‘You can bring someone. Everyone else is,’ he goes on to say.
It dawns on me that Alex will be going with Zara. Do I really want to meet this woman in the flesh? No.
‘Go on. I know there’s still space at the B&B where the others are staying,’ he says.
Just say no.
‘Go on,’ he urges, good-naturedly. ‘I feel like you’re an old friend too after all these lunchtimes.’
I can’t help but smile at him.
This is a bad idea. You don’t want to meet her.
‘Thanks, that’s so sweet. I’d love to.’
I swing by Lachie’s pub on the way home. He hasn’t answered my text or panicked phone call, so I’m hoping he’s at work. I smile with relief when I see him wiping down the bar top. His face breaks into a grin.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks me.
‘I’ve come to ask you for a favour,’ I say, hopping onto a stool. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’
He shrugs. ‘Nothing much. Busking, probably.’
‘Are you working on Saturday night?’
‘I don’t have to. Why?’
‘Will you come to a wedding in Yorkshire with me?’ I ask quickly.
‘Whose wedding?’
‘Pete’s. You’ve met him at the pub. He’s just invited me to his wedding and I can bring someone. The Yorkshire Moors are stunning, apparently. It’ll be fun.’
He looks amused. ‘You want me to escort you to a wedding?’
Annoyingly, I blush. ‘As a mate,’ I hastily point out, looking down at the bar top before meeting his eyes with a hopeful look on my face.
He straightens up and continues to wipe down the bar.
‘Who else is going?’ He glances at me.
‘Um, Esther, who I think you’ve also met, a guy from work called Mike, and... Alex.’
‘Alex is going.’
It’s not even really a question.
‘Yes.’
‘And Alex’s fiancée?’
Shit. He’s cottoned onto me.
I shrug nonchalantly. ‘I would have thought so. Everyone is bringing someone.’
He looks straight at me. Once more, my face heats up. ‘And you want me to bring you,’ he says slowly.
‘Sure,’ I say weakly.
‘Okay.’ He continues with his cleaning up.
‘You’ll come?’ I double-check that’s what he’s saying.
‘Yeah. Why not?’ He gives me a significant look, but I decide to talk about something else rather than interrogate him about it.
Chapter 17
I’m trying not to ruin my manicure as I stare out of the window at the lush green scenery flashing past. I have a strong desire to bite my nails, and I haven’t wanted to do that since I was a teenager. We’re on an early morning train to York and I’m sitting opposite Lachie. Alex and Zara are driving Esther and her boyfriend, and Mike and his girlfriend drove up last night. We were lucky to get reduced rates on our last-minute train fares.
I glance at Lachie, who’s staring at me calmly. He’s wearing a well-fitted white shirt which is slightly open at the collar, and black trousers. He said he didn’t have a suit, but I can’t imagine anyone minding too much.
‘You seem nervous,’ he comments.
I screw up my nose. ‘I don’t really like weddings.’
He laughs half-heartedly. ‘What are we doing coming to this one, then?’
I purse my lips at him. ‘I don’t know, to be honest.’
‘You’re an odd one, Bronte... What’s your surname?’
‘Taylor.’
‘You’re an odd one, Bronte Taylor.’
I grin at him, relaxing slightly because he tends to make me do that. ‘Why am I odd?’
‘You don’t believe in marriage... You don’t believe in God...’
‘I know. Miserable bitch, aren’t I?’
He grins. ‘Yet here you are, working as a wedding photographer.’
‘It’s a strange world,’ I concede.
‘And coming to a wedding which you really could have said no to,’ he points out.
I shrug and look out of the window again.
‘Have you met Alex’s missus?’ he asks. His question makes me tense up.
‘Nope,’ I reply flippantly. ‘That’s about to be rectified, though, isn’t it?’ I say with saccharine sarcasm.
He doesn’t smile at me. It freaks me out when Lachie gets that serious look about him.
‘What’s your surname?’ I ask.
‘Samson,’ he replies. ‘Nice change of subject,’ he adds.
I poke my tongue out at him.
I’m wearing a silk cocktail dress which is fitted around my waist and kicks out into a flirty A-line with a just-above-knee-length hem. The shoulder straps, side panels and back of the dress are black, but the front centre is cream with a cream bow detail just below my bust. It’s very pretty. I picked it up in the sale yesterday lunchtime, when I was having last-minute anxiety about going through with this. I’m wearing my hair off to one side in a fishtail plait and my nails are painted cherry red.
Lachie and I are catching a bus straight to the wedding in a little village in the Yorkshire Moors so we’re carrying small overnight bags with us. We managed to get a room at the B&B Pete mentioned. Just the one. Lachie can’t believe I agreed to share with him at long last, but I’ve told him in no uncertain terms that either he’s sleeping on the sofa, or I am.
There’s an accident on the way and the traffic is backed up for a mile along the country road so we’re cutting it fine by the time we arrive at the church. It doesn’t help my already swirling nerves.
I’ve chosen to come to a wedding, a wedding of someone I don’t really know that well, I’m about to meet someone I really don’t want to meet, and I don’t even have a camera to take my mind off things.
The wedding bells are ringing as we hurry up the hill to the church, just two of them, slowly, in different pitches: Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
r /> The stone church tower is visible from a distance through the old market town, but as we climb a set of stone steps between a shop and a cottage, the rest of the beautiful ancient church comes into view. I notice a young male photographer wearing a white shirt, black trousers and waistcoat waiting at the top of some steps outside the church. I wonder if it’s Tom, Lina’s partner. And then he nods behind us and we see the bridal car down on the road.
‘Jesus Christ, we’re late,’ Lachie mutters as we hurry into the church past the vicar waiting in the porch. He looks to be in his mid-thirties and he has a slightly balding head.
He gives us an amused look. ‘Is He here too?’ he asks sardonically. ‘That’s a good sign.’
I purse my lips and Lachie coughs to cover up his laugh and then the familiar damp, cold, musty smell hits my nostrils and I instantly feel a little dizzy.
Lachie slides into the last pew on the groom’s side and puts our overnight bags at his feet.
I sit down and close my eyes for a moment, trying to gather myself.
‘You okay?’ he whispers and I snap my eyes open.
‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘Just feel a bit faint.’ I force myself to take some deep breaths. Is Alex here? My breath catches as I spy him, a few pews in front of us. He’s sitting with Esther and her boyfriend, and on his left is a girl with light blonde hair. My stomach lurches and my fingers automatically seek out Lachie’s hand. He glances at me with surprise, but doesn’t comment. His grasp is warm and comforting. I wonder if he’s noticed that I feel cold and clammy.
‘This place is incredible,’ Lachie says with awe, looking around. I follow his gaze upwards to see paintings on the walls. One is of St George slaying the dragon, another of St Christopher carrying Jesus Christ as a baby.
‘Medieval frescoes,’ Lachie whispers, bringing my attention to the short history of what I soon discover is a Norman church included on the Order of Service. High above our heads, the vaulted church ceiling is made of oak.
I notice Pete up near the pulpit, shifting from foot to foot. He’s not speaking to his best man or the two ushers. He looks nervous and my heart goes out to him, momentarily distracting me from how ill at ease I feel.
I hear the familiar sound of a shutter going off and look over my shoulder to see a short, curvy woman with long, curly dark hair holding a camera with a long lens. Lina? She has a quick word with the vicar and hurries up the aisle. I follow her with my eyes, intrigued to see in action the woman who taught Rachel everything she knows. She says something to Pete, who frowns and nods. His best man steps forward to ask him something. I wonder if everything’s alright.