Thirteen Weddings (13 page)

‘I might just get a few of him with Sally’s 85,’ I tell Rachel nonchalantly. She gives me a significant look and I flash her an innocent grin as I move through the crowds to
the side of the stage. I raise my camera to my face and stare at him through the viewfinder. He’s even hotter up close, and I’m mesmerised. I have to remind myself to take my
photographs. His lips brush against the microphone when he sings, but when he pulls away to focus on his guitar, his shaggy hair falls down across his forehead and partially obscures his face. I
decide to move around to the other side of the dance floor where I might be able to see him better. I turn around to check out the stage, and at that point he looks straight at me and my heart
skips a beat. Photographing him now is going to be a touch excruciating. I’ll do it anyway – it’s my job. At least, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

His eyes follow me as I take my place to the right of the dance floor. A smile plays about his lips while he strums an acoustic section. I can’t keep a straight face as I shoot him, and
then he’s singing again and his focus is on his music.

Rachel appears at my side. ‘The hottest wedding singer I’ve ever come across, period.’

The song draws to a close, and when Guitar Guy makes an announcement, it comes out in an Australian accent. Rachel and I glance at each other with unbridled glee.

‘I just want to say congratulations to Karmen and Luca. I wish you all the best. Ladies and gents, let’s hear it for the bride and groom. The first dance...’

Rachel nudges me excitedly. ‘He’s Australian!’

‘I heard!’ I’m a little gobsmacked. I wonder where he’s from and what he’s doing in Scotland.

The crowd on the dance floor parts and Karmen and Luca take their positions in the centre. Guitar Guy starts to play ‘Love Cats’ by The Cure as Karmen and Luca throw themselves into
an hilarious choreographed routine. Suddenly Devrim runs onto the dance floor, trying to steal the show. But he goes completely arse up and bangs his head. Everyone watches in horror as his face
goes red and he starts to scream the room down. His mother – at long bloody last – runs to his aid and takes him out. I think everyone here is in agreement: serves the little bugger
right.

Guitar Guy stops playing, Karmen looks crestfallen, and then he announces in his warm accent, ‘Shall we start again?’

Everyone laughs and cheers, Karmen and Luca attempt their routine from the beginning and every single person in the venue gets into the swing of it, singing along and clapping.

After the first dance, we’re done. We haven’t been paid to stay for the evening do, so we seek out the bride and groom to say goodbye.

‘Do you really have to go?’ Karmen asks with dismay. ‘Stay and have a few drinks. Let your hair down.’

‘Yes, go on,’ Luca encourages as Rachel glances at me. I give her a hopeful look.

‘I suppose we could catch a cab back to the inn and return to collect the hire car in the morning?’ It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do for the night.

‘Yes!’ I agree eagerly.

‘Yay!’ Karmen exclaims.

Karmen asks the bartender to put all of our drinks on the house, and Rachel promises to take some more photos in return, although there’s no pressure. All in all, it’s a win-win
situation.

Rachel and I grab a couple of glasses of wine and decamp to a table near the stage.

‘Do not let me lose this,’ she says after a while. She indicates her kit bag. ‘I once misplaced my compact flash cards for ten minutes and nearly had a heart attack.’

‘I’m not surprised!’ I can’t even bear to imagine how I’d feel if I lost the tiny little cards that hold thousands of pictures. An entire wedding: gone. I think
I’d die if that ever happened to me.

‘Maybe I should go and lock what we’re not using in the room next door?’ Rachel says.

‘Might not be such a bad idea. Want me to go?’

‘It’s okay. You nip to the bar. I’ll hang onto my 200 and speedlites.’

‘Cool. I’ll keep Sally’s 85.’ Less chance of camera shake. Alex would approve, I think with a smile, before shoving him from my mind.

She goes, while I stay and watch Guitar Guy for a little longer. He’s playing a quirky, cool, stripped-back version of Billy Idol’s ‘Dancing With Myself. He meets my eyes
again, but this time he holds the contact for a good few seconds. I’m having a hot flush by the end of it as I fight the urge to look away. Then I realise he probably does this to all the
girls and I feel a bit silly. I get up and go to the bar.

When I come back, he’s no longer playing. Music is blaring out of the speakers instead and I feel a wave of disappointment. I wonder if that’s him done for the evening.

A pint of beer is suddenly plonked on the table and I look up to see the man himself grinning down at me.

‘G’day,’ he says. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

‘G’day yourself,’ I reply with amusement.
‘Go
for it.’

He pulls out a chair and slumps into it. ‘A fellow Aussie, hey? Or are you just really good at accents?’

‘Right first time.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Bronte.’

‘Lachie.’

It’s pronounced Lockie, but I know it’s short for Lachlan. It’s a pretty popular name Down Under.

His handshake is warm and firm and he smiles as he stares at me directly. Full of confidence, isn’t he?

‘What are you doing in Scotland?’ I ask, keeping my tone neutral and friendly. I’m not falling for your charms, buster, even if they are considerable.

‘I like it here.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m travelling around a bit, gigging and doing a few weddings when I get a chance.’

‘Do you play for a living?’

‘I wish. Nah, I do a few odd jobs here and there. Don’t know how much longer I’m going to be here.’

‘In Scotland?’

‘Yeah, and in the UK generally. I’ve gotta head back home at Christmas and I still want to see Europe. What about you?’

‘I’m living and working in London. I’m here for about a year.’

‘Cool. Wedding photographer?’

‘No. I have a full-time job. I do the occasional wedding at the weekend.’ I look up to see Rachel approaching. ‘With Rachel,’ I say with a smile as she reaches us.

‘Hi there!’ She tries to contain her considerable delight as she sits down on the other side of Lachie.

He introduces himself with another handshake before leaning back lazily in his chair so he doesn’t block her out from the conversation. He’s wearing a light-grey T-shirt which
isn’t tight enough to outline what’s underneath, but his arms are toned and muscular so I’m guessing his body is pretty fit.

‘So you’re an Aussie, too?’ Rachel asks with a smile.

‘Yep. Born and raised in Perth.’

He’s from Western Australia, then, the other side of the country from me.

‘You?’ he asks me.

‘I grew up in South Australia, not far from Adelaide, but I’ve been living in Sydney.’

‘Cool.’

‘And Rachel is from... I don’t know where you’re from actually,’ I say with a frown, my attempt to include her backfiring.

‘I grew up in Bath,’ she reveals. She notices our blank faces. ‘Neither of you knows where that is, do you?’

‘Nope,’ I reply.

‘Nup,’ he says.

‘Bloody Aussies,’ she mutters and I have a flashback to standing in the kitchen with Russ and Alex the day I asked Lily for the Joseph Strike pictures.

Lachie grins and downs a third of his pint before banging it back on the table. ‘Better get back up there. Four songs. Keep my seat warm for me, would ya?’

Rachel sucks the air in through her teeth as he strolls back to the stage. ‘He is
so
hot.’

‘Shit-hot,’ I agree. ‘But doesn’t he know it,’ I add drily.

We watch him as he picks up his guitar and nods at the DJ in the corner. The song from the speakers dies down and he starts to play Arctic Monkeys’ ‘I Bet You Look Good On The
Dancefloor’.

‘How old do you reckon he is?’ I ask, silently instructing my eyes to peel themselves away from him. They’re being very disobedient.

‘Mid-twenties?’ Rachel replies. ‘Too young for me, that’s for sure.’

‘As if!’ I exclaim. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘So?’

She laughs. ‘Toy boy.’

‘He could be thirty-six himself, for all we know.’

‘Ha! Unlikely,’ Rachel scoffs.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ I say determinedly. ‘I get the feeling he doesn’t need help puffing up his ego.’

We manage, with some effort, to not pay Lachie an astounding amount of attention until he joins us again.

‘Have you guys finished working now?’ he asks.

‘Technically, yes,’ Rachel replies. ‘Karmen invited us to stick around for a few drinks so we’ll take some more photos in a bit when everyone’s loosened
up.’

‘Have you done a lot of weddings?’ He glances at me when he asks this.

‘I’ve only done three, but Rachel has done gazillions.’

‘About fifty,’ she clarifies.

‘Cool,’ he says.

‘You?’ I ask him.

‘About the same.’

‘That many? Sorry, how old are you?’

He grins. ‘Twenty-four.’

‘Twenty-four? And you’ve done nearly
fifty weddings?

‘More or less.’

‘Wow.’

‘That’s impressive,’ Rachel agrees.

‘How old are you guys?’ he asks us.

‘Thirty-six,’ Rachel replies with a screwed-up nose.

‘Twenty-nine,’ I reveal. That makes us both too old for this little upstart.

But he doesn’t look put off in the least. ‘When are you turning thirty?’ he asks me with an easy grin.

‘Next month.’

‘Are you?’ Rachel interrupts.

‘Yeah. But I don’t want a big celebration.’

‘Screw that,’ Lachie says, turning to Rachel. ‘ I hope you’re gonna do something.’

‘Do you sing at thirtieth birthday parties?’ she asks him pertinently.

‘Christ, yeah, I’ll do anything,’ he replies with a cheeky grin, looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.

This boy has more confidence than Johnny frigging Jefferson. He’s a wedding singer, not a rock star, for crying out loud.

Rachel checks her watch when he goes for his final stint. ‘How much longer do you want to stay?’ she asks. ‘Another half an hour?’

‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘Whatever suits you.’

‘Okay, I’ll book a cab.’

Lachie joins us again as we’re preparing to leave. ‘You’re going already?’ he asks with a frown.

‘Yep. Flying back to London first thing. Are you done for the night?’

‘I’m never done for the night.’ He winks at me – he actually winks. Rachel laughs.

‘Can I hitch a lift with you?’ he asks.

I shake my head, bemused. ‘You don’t know where we’re staying.’

‘Yeah, I do. You’re at The Hare.’

Rachel’s surprise matches my own. ‘How did you know that?’

He grins. ‘Saw you checking in.’

‘Come on, then,’ Rachel says, casting her eyes at the ceiling. How did we miss him?

We go and gather our kits and coats from the room next door. Lachie slings his guitar case strap over his shoulder and follows us. He rides in the front of the taxi, chatting
amiably to the Scottish driver the whole way back to the inn. The sound of their easy-going voices sends me to sleep. I jolt out of my slumber when the door opens and look up with stinging eyes at
Lachie smiling down at me.

‘Wakey-wakey, sleepyheads,’ he says.

I glance across at Rachel to see her yawning. ‘I’m knackered. I’m going straight to bed,’ she says with tired but certain determination as she gets out of the car.

‘You’ll come and tap a beer with me in the bar, won’t you?’ Lachie asks me with a frown. ‘Come on,’ he urges when I dither. ‘One won’t kill
you.’

‘When have I heard that before?’ I say wryly, climbing out. He barely moves backwards for me so I find myself looking up at him. I didn’t realise how tall he was earlier
– he was sitting down for most of the time. He must be about six foot two because my eyes are in line with his broad chest. I notice that he’s still only wearing a grey T-shirt with his
guitar strap hung over his shoulder.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask as we wander into the inn.

‘Nah. I’m hardcore,’ he replies, glancing down at me. ‘Cop a feel.’ He holds his arm out to me. ‘Still really warm.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ I reply drily, refusing to indulge him. He doesn’t seem fazed by my lack of bicep-fondling as we walk inside.

‘Well, good night,’ Rachel says in the lobby.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Lachie replies.

‘You too.’ She smiles at him then turns to me. ‘See you in the morning for breakfast at nine? I should be back from getting the hire car from the hotel by then.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ I reply with a smile, still undecided about whether I should just head upstairs to bed myself.

‘Don’t even think about it.’ Lachie shoves me towards the bar area.

‘Hey!’ I complain as he puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me through tables of punters. I stumble ahead of him until we reach the bar and he lets me go.

‘I’ll get us a table,’ I say as I spy one coming free by the window.

He comes over with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

‘Australian,’ I comment, noting what he’s chosen.

‘Adelaide Hills,’ he points out, jabbing his forefinger in my direction.

I can’t help smirking. ‘Good choice,’ I concede, plonking the bottle back down on the table between us.

‘So how did you come to be a wedding singer?’ I ask as he glugs red liquid into my glass. I can’t help looking at his tanned, toned arms.

He shrugs. ‘I’m not just a wedding singer.’

‘Nothing to be ashamed about,’ I say.

‘I know,’ he replies, more seriously. ‘I used to busk all the time and then when my older cousins and sisters got married, it became a bit of a thing for me. Word spread, the
money was better than busking, so I kept it up.’ He picks up his glass and chinks it against mine. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ I reply, taking a sip. ‘Mmm. Nice.’ I put my glass back down. ‘So how do you know Karmen and Luca?’

‘I don’t. Luca’s... Let me see if I can get this straight. Luca’s aunt’s husband’s son works at the pub in Edinburgh where I work and sometimes gig, so he put
me forward.’