Thirteen Weddings

  Chapter 29

  Coincidentally or not, Alex and I bump into each other again at the station.

  ‘How was last night?’ he asks me on the walk into work.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply, staring ahead glumly as we pass St Giles Church on our right. ‘I’m going to miss him,’ I admit, swallowing.

  ‘I didn’t know you guys were...’ His sentence trails off.

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply quietly.

  ‘When did that happen?’

  I frown at him. ‘Does it really matter?’ I can’t help sounding touchy and he looks shifty.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he replies a little defensively. ‘I’m just happy for you, that’s all.’

  He doesn’t sound very happy.

  ‘Thanks.’ I try to sound gracious but fail miserably. ‘Don’t be too happy for me, though. He’s gone now.’

  ‘Not for long.’ His arm bumps me and I think he’s trying to cheer me up. It’s not working. But at least he’s making an effort for things not to be strained between us.

  I do as Lachie suggested and stay away from Alex as much as I can. Lachie texts me regularly to let me know where he is and what he’s doing and his messages are always the highlight of my day. As Alex’s wedding day grows closer, our working relationship becomes easier. It still hurts to look at him sometimes. It doesn’t help when he wins a design award at our publishing awards ceremony, clearly I’m not the only one who thinks he’s clever and talented. It still makes my heart clench when I breathe in his aftershave in the morning when he comes into the kitchen to make tea. I don’t want to listen to our colleagues discussing all of the last-minute wedding details with him, and I don’t want to hear all the gory details from Russ about Alex’s stag do. Sometimes I feel his eyes on me and I wonder how he really feels. But by choice or not, I’m moving on. And I know that he chose to do that some time ago.

  He works right up until his wedding, and on his last day, we all go out for lunch. I’d rather not be there, but it would be weird for me not to go. So I sit and chat to Lisa and Esther about anything other than weddings until the hour is up and we have to return to work. Somehow I find myself walking back alongside Alex as we cross over Soho Square.

  ‘Well, good luck for tomorrow,’ I say, folding my arms across my chest to try to keep out some of the cold.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replies quietly.

  ‘Rachel will be there so you’re in good hands.’

  ‘Feels kind of wrong that you’re not going to be there,’ he says.

  ‘Does it?’ I let out a slight laugh and give him a sidelong look of disbelief.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says a little defensively. ‘I know you wouldn’t want to be—’

  ‘I wouldn’t care,’ I cut him off. ‘It’s all fine and anyway, it’s just work.’

  We walk a few steps in silence.

  ‘It’s freezing,’ I mumble. ‘I’m actually starting to look forward to going home for Christmas, and I never thought I’d say that.’

  He frowns slightly. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Long story,’ I brush him off.

  It occurs to me that he knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about him. Not really. I haven’t met his family, I haven’t met his sister, his mum has never cooked me one of her famous roasts. I know nothing about his dad. Are they close?

  It’s ridiculous to think that I could have ever taken Zara’s place – like he said, they have history. We just have chemistry. And I’m not even sure we have that any more.

  ‘Where are you going on your honeymoon?’ I change the subject.

  ‘Austria. Then we’re driving to Switzerland via Italy.’

  ‘Sounds nice.’ Sounds cold.

  ‘Hopefully will be.’

  ‘How long are you going for?’ I ask casually.

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘Oh, so I won’t see you after today for quite some time.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ He looks confused.

  ‘I fly to Australia before you return.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  I’m taken aback to see Polly waiting on the pavement outside work.

  My footsteps falter and Alex notices. Following my line of sight, he spies my friend. ‘You weren’t expecting her?’ he asks me.

  I shake my head as my body goes rigid. ‘No.’

  I haven’t seen her since that night at the pub where she embarrassed me in front of everyone. And apart from that one time we spoke on the phone, I haven’t attempted to call her, either. I know that’s wrong. I know she’s going through a lot. But I can’t help but still feel angry at her.

  ‘Do you want me to tell Simon you’ll be a little late?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I break away from him and go over to her. She looks different – sheepish for one, but also I see that she’s lost weight again, although not nearly as much as she had before her wedding. She looks... well.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I had to come in to do some Christmas shopping. I thought I’d pop in to see you. Your boss said you were probably on your way back from lunch so I thought I’d wait.’

  ‘Oh.’ I shift on my feet. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to get back in there.’

  ‘Bronte,’ she says hesitantly. ‘Can we grab a quick coffee?’

  ‘Erm...’

  ‘Please,’ she says.

  We go to the café across the road.

  ‘You look well,’ I tell her. ‘How are you? Are you still going to AA meetings?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nods.

  ‘That’s great, Polly. And how are things with Grant?’ I ask, taking a sip of my tea.

  ‘Really good.’ It’s her first genuine smile and despite my wariness around her, the sight lifts my spirits.

  ‘Really?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles warmly, but her expression changes almost instantly and her eyes fill with tears. ‘He’s been a rock.’

  I reach across and take her hand. I hate seeing her cry.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bronte,’ she whispers. ‘I know I’ve been a shit friend. Grant told me some of the things I’ve said to you. Bridget did, too. I’m so sorry I brought up your parents in front of your work mates.’

  I stiffen and let go of her hand.

  ‘I know how much it hurts you to talk about your childhood and that was unforgivable.’ I brusquely nod my acceptance of her apology. ‘I know you’re going home at Christmas, and I just wanted to say I hope it all goes well.’

  ‘Thank you.’ My tone sounds sharp.

  ‘My mum—’

  ‘Polly, I don’t want to hear what your mum thinks,’ I cut her off. Her mouth falls open.

  ‘I just wanted to—’ She hesitates, seeing my face. I feel sick inside. I wish she didn’t know everything about me. I wish she’d never moved to England. I wish I’d never followed her. ‘I wanted to warn you,’ she finishes.

  My nausea intensifies, but curiosity is a strange emotion, one that cannot often be tamed. ‘Warn me about what?’ I snap.

  ‘Mum saw the priest. You know. The one.’

  My breath catches. ‘When? Where?’ My voice doesn’t sound like my own.

  ‘He’s at a church in the city.’

  ‘Does my mum know?’ I ask, feeling the blood drain from my face. He moved to Queensland. Why has he come back?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Polly says. ‘But I can’t believe she doesn’t.’

  No. Not much stays quiet around our parts. But she’s not finished yet.

  ‘She also saw your dad,’ she continues reluctantly. ‘He’s not good.’

  ‘Mum has told me,’ I reply in a shaky voice.

  ‘I just think you ought to be prepared.’

  I don’t want to know any more. I’ll be there in person soon enough.

  Polly walks me back to the office. ‘Can we catch up again?’ she asks me. ‘Come over for dinner sometime?’

  I nod.

  ‘Bronte, I’m sorry,’ she says sincerely as we come to a stop outside my office block. ‘You’re
my oldest and dearest friend. I don’t want to lose you.’ Her eyes are brimming with tears.

  ‘You’re not going to lose me,’ I say gently, giving her a hug. ‘I’m your oldest friend, but surely not your dearest,’ I chastise her gently.

  She pulls away and looks at me with confusion.

  ‘Michelle is, now,’ I point out casually.

  ‘Michelle’s a good friend, but she’s not my best friend.’

  I give her a wry look.

  ‘Is this because I didn’t ask you to be my bridesmaid?’ she asks with a sniff.

  I laugh. ‘No,’ I lie, feeling embarrassed. ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘Bronte, you hate weddings!’ she exclaims, grabbing me by my arms and shaking me slightly. ‘I couldn’t actually believe it when you said you’d come!’

  ‘Really?’ I’m blushing furiously.

  ‘I thought you’d absolutely kill me if I asked you to dress up in watermelon!’

  ‘It was fuchsia.’

  ‘It was watermelon. It had green sleeves.’ I start to laugh. ‘Michelle still hasn’t forgiven me.’

  ‘Oh Polly, you crack me up.’ I grab her and give her a hug as she laughs into my shoulder. ‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you soon. Let’s catch up in January when I get back.’

  ‘Definitely,’ she promises, brushing away her tears.

  My phone buzzes to let me know I have a text message. I pull out my phone as I walk into the lobby, fully expecting to see it’s from one of my colleagues chasing me up. But the message is from Rachel. My heart nearly stops when I read it:

  Sally has flu. Please, please, please tell me you’re free tomorrow?

  I stare in shock at the message. I walk on autopilot into the lift and press the button for my floor. What do I do? What can I say? Rachel has no idea at all what she’s asking me. I’ve never told her about Alex. What did he say to me on our walk back to the office? That it feels wrong that I’m not going to be doing his wedding? Does he mean that? And what did I reply? I wouldn’t care – it’s just work. Do I really mean that? It’s a stupid question. Of course I care. But could I do this? What if I say no? Rachel will have to handle things by herself. That’s not true. Maybe Maria can help out. Oh no! No, she can’t. She and Russ are visiting her parents this weekend. What the hell am I going to do?

  The lift doors open and I step out onto the landing and return to the office. Alex glances up to see the expression on my face.

  ‘What?’ he mouths.

  I crouch on the floor beside his chair. Then I show him the message. I watch his face closely for his reaction. His eyes widen, he swallows, and then he looks at me.

  ‘Are you?’ he asks me.

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Are you free tomorrow?’

  I stare at him with confusion. ‘Yes, but...’

  His expression softens. ‘If you meant what you said... If you’re okay with it, of course I’m happy for you to do my wedding.’

  It’s not what I expected him to say. I stare back at him for a few long seconds. ‘Okay.’

  His smile wavers. I get up and go back to my desk, my heart racing.

  Lachie calls me that night after Bridget has spent half an hour laying into me. I excuse myself from her tirade to answer the call.

  ‘Hey, beautiful,’ his warm voice spills into my ear, but I’m icy inside. ‘How are you?’

  He is going to kill me.

  ‘Um, I’m alright,’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘I was just wondering what you’re doing tomorrow?’ Does he know? He doesn’t sound like he knows. ‘Because,’ he continues amiably, ‘I had an idea. I’m in Paris and I wondered if you fancied jumping on Eurostar and coming out to spend the night with me?’

  I can’t begin to describe the strange mix of emotions competing with each other inside my stomach.

  ‘The tickets are really cheap on a Saturday,’ he tells me, his tone becoming increasingly cautious as he realises I’m not jumping at the chance.

  ‘I... can’t,’ I tell him, my voice coming out in a whisper.

  ‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘Do you already have plans?’

  ‘I have to work.’

  ‘Work? With Rachel?’ He sounds perplexed.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you’d done your last wedding of the year?’ In the time it takes for me to find the words to explain, he answers his own question. ‘You’re doing Alex’s wedding.’

  The deadly tone of his voice sends unpleasant chills shivering down my spine.

  ‘Sally has flu,’ I tell him in a pained voice.

  ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’ he asks me with barely contained fury.

  ‘I’m beginning to think that I am,’ I reply quietly. ‘But I have to do this.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he snaps. ‘It’s the stupidest thing you’ll ever do.’

  ‘It will give me closure,’ I tell him. It’s an argument I used on Bridget, but she didn’t buy it either.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ he says angrily.

  ‘Lachie!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Out of your fucking mind,’ he says again. ‘I’m starting to think I should have you committed.’

  Is he only just now starting to think that? I’ve been thinking about having myself committed for some time.

  ‘Please don’t be angry. It will be okay. I’ll just get it done and then I’ll go.’

  ‘What did Alex say?’ He’s incredulous. ‘Did he agree to this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He lets out a snort of utter disbelief.

  ‘He wants me to do it. He trusts me.’

  ‘He wants you to do it?’ He can’t believe what I’m telling him. ‘Oh my God. That guy!’ I’ve never heard him so angry. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing he says will change my mind.

  ‘I have to do this, Lachie. I’m doing it.’

  ‘You really must fucking hate yourself, Bron,’ he says. ‘I’m done with watching your car crash. We’re done.’ And then he hangs up on me.

  The Thirteenth Wedding

  I wake up early in the morning after one of the worst night’s sleeps I’ve ever had. I can’t cope with Bridget’s ongoing diatribe, so I get ready as quietly as I can and then slip out of the house before she wakes up. I hop on the Underground with my kit bag and change trains at Kings Cross to take the Piccadilly Line to Covent Garden.

  Alex is getting married in St Paul’s Church in the piazza at midday and I have hours to kill. Needless to say, I’m leaving Rachel to handle the bride prep shots.

  I walk through Covent Garden’s cobbled streets in the dim light of early-morning London, passing by shops that are yet to open, in search of a café to spend a couple of hours in. I find one just around the corner from the church and huddle at a table in the corner, shivering and accepting that I won’t feel warm at all today.

  At ten o’clock I get a text from Lachie. I cringe as I open it.

  Are you really going through with it?

  I reply with nothing more than a yes, and don’t expect to hear from him again.

  Bridget also tries calling me, but I divert her calls three times before she settles on a text, too:

  I just wanted to wish you luck. I’m thinking of you and I have a bottle of vodka waiting to be drunk when you get home.

  My eyes sting as I reply with a thank you.

  At eleven o’clock, with nausea swirling in my gut and nerves that are far worse than anything I’ve ever had to endure, I force myself back onto the cold, sunny streets of Covent Garden. The beautiful, seventeenth-century church is on the west side of the piazza. By the time I arrive, a crowd has already congregated in the piazza behind the church, and I can hear their cries and cheers as a busker on a unicycle performs. I walk past them in a daze and take the few stairs down to the churchyard. I don’t know how I’m going to do this.

  My legs feel like lead as I force myself up the steps to the glass front door. I push it open and go inside. The interior of the ch
urch is a single space, undivided by piers and columns. Nicknamed The Actors’ Church, its connection to the theatre is illustrated by memorials to famous actors and actresses along the walls. The flowers are a sea of red winter berries, dark red roses and green pine hanging from every pew. There’s a guy in a morning suit up at the altar, kneeling down to light dozens of pillar candles in tall clear vases. I force myself to go up to him.

  ‘Hi, there,’ I say.

  He looks up at me. Oh! It’s Brian – Alex’s sister’s husband from the stag do. He frowns slightly, trying to remember where he’s seen my face before. I put him out of his misery.

  ‘I’m Bronte,’ I say. ‘The assistant photographer. We met at your stag do.’

  ‘Oh, right!’ He stands up and shakes my hand. ‘That’s a coincidence!’

  ‘Mmm. Do you mind if I take some shots of you lighting those?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m very interesting, but go ahead.’

  ‘These sorts of shots look great in the overall picture. Just carry on doing what you’re doing. It’s better if they look natural.’

  I get my Canon out of my kit bag and set to work photographing Brian before moving on to the flowers. I can hear the cheers of the crowd behind the church in the piazza through the stone walls and stained-glass windows. It’s not going to be the quietest ceremony. The vicar appears so I go to introduce myself and then capture a few early guests arriving. Brian, I take it, is one of two ushers. I’m just about holding myself together when Alex’s parents arrive.

  It’s immediately obvious to me who they are: not just because Alex’s father is wearing a red rose and red berry buttonhole, but because he looks like his son: tall with a chiselled jawbone, perfect, straight nose, and dark, albeit greying hair. As for his mother, I nearly jolt in shock when I see her eyes: as blue as the ocean on a summer’s day. She smiles and approaches me and it takes quite a lot of effort not to turn and run. What if this woman can see straight through me? What if she can tell that I’m in love with her son?

  ‘Hello there,’ she says warmly. ‘I’m Clarissa, Alex’s mother. Are you here to do the photos?’