Thirteen Weddings (21 page)

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.

I look over my shoulder again to see a flash of white in the porch. Well, Sylvie’s here, so I assume if there is something wrong, it’s nothing to do with her. There’s more
clicking as Tom photographs the bride, her father and bridesmaids.

It’s strange to attend a wedding as a guest. I feel like I should be standing in Tom’s position, in the porch with the bride. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a
church in anything other than a work capacity.

I look around again, taking in the scene. The flowers are all pink peonies, hanging from the end of every second pew and tied with long, pink satin ribbons. Up at the altar, more peonies are
packed into long-stem vases. And then I’m not looking at pink peonies. I’m looking straight into Alex’s deep blue eyes. A jolt rockets through me.

He smiles at me and I force a small smile back at him. My eyes flicker to the back of Zara’s head before returning to Alex’s. His expression sobers. I force myself to turn to speak
to Lachie.

‘I wonder what’s wrong?’ I whisper.

He frowns, staring straight ahead. ‘Something to do with the music, I think.’

The vicar appears at the front of the church.

‘Sorry for the delay,’ he says with an air of theatrics. ‘I’m afraid the organist is stuck in traffic.’

A collective murmur comes from the pews.

‘We’ll begin as soon as we can,’ the vicar assures us, before returning to the porch.

The hushed, reverent silence evaporates as people start to chatter amongst themselves. I can pick out several American accents coming from the other side of the church.

I hear the vicar talking to the bride behind us in a quiet but audible voice. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to start without him if he’s much longer. I have a christening this
afternoon.’

‘Shame you didn’t bring your guitar,’ I say to Lachie.

‘Hmm. “The Bridal March” is one song I
don’t
know,’ he replies.

‘Give me your hand...’

His fingers dance over the keys, his feet shifting across the pedals as he slides from side to side across the four-foot polished wooden stool. I watch, enraptured, as the music fills my head
and my heart. Surely this is the most powerful, awe-inspiring sound in the world? The bass vibrates right through my tiny body, sending shivers down my spine.

‘It’s not as hard as it looks.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ My voice is small.
I’m
small. I’m just a little girl.

‘I can teach you if you’re willing to learn,’ he says...

I jolt out of the memory, ripping my hand from Lachie’s and pressing it to my chest.

‘What is it?’ he asks with concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

I shake my head quickly.

‘Is it Alex?’ he asks urgently.

‘What?’ I shoot my head around to look at him, the shock of his question knocking me to my senses. ‘No!’

‘Then what?’ he asks, perplexed.

‘I can play the organ,’ I blurt out.

His anxiety transforms into astonishment. ‘Can you?’ he asks with surprise.

I’m surprised myself. Why did I just tell him that?

‘Can you play “The Bridal March”?’ he asks.

I hesitate only a second before nodding.

‘Will you volunteer?’ he checks, glancing towards the front at Pete.

‘It’s been a long time,’ I say, my voice wavering. What’s got into me? Why am I offering to do this? ‘But I think I remember.’

‘Do it,’ he urges, nudging me out of my seat. I start to move, but I freeze halfway to my feet.
‘Go
on,’ he says, gently pushing me. In a surreal daze, I
straighten up. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Please’.

We go to speak to the vicar under the porch. I flash Sylvie a nervous smile.

‘You can play “The Bridal March?”’ he checks with disbelief when Lachie reveals my hidden talent. ‘On a pipe organ?’

I nod, words at this moment failing me. I’m beginning to think I need to be committed.

‘Fantastic!’ he cries. ‘Do you know any hymns?’

‘Not well.’ My voice sounds shaky.

‘Well, at least we can get this show on the road,’ he says eagerly. ‘Even if we have to sing the hymns acapella.’

He leads the pair of us down the aisle and under the intricately carved wooden rood screen into the chancel. The organ is on our left: two keyboards and approximately two dozen golden pipes. I
should be able to handle this, I think with more confidence than I feel. I slip off my high heels and slide onto the long wooden stool, resting my bare feet lightly on the already treadworn
pedalboard. Lachie crouches down at my side. The sheet music is open to ‘The Bridal March’, but I know it by heart. I switch the organ on and while I wait for the electric motor to push
air into the bellows, I adjust the stops – the cream-coloured knobs that control the sounds. If this were ‘The Wedding March’, I’d be pulling out more stops to create an
even bigger sound, but “The Bridal March” is more subdued. I think I’m ready, but boy, it’s been a long time.

I hear the vicar address the congregation. ‘We’ve got ourselves a volunteer!’ he cries. ‘It turns out, one of the guests can play the pipe organ!’

No going back now...

I look down at my feet to check they’re resting on the right keys – I’ll stick to pedals C, G, F and D, and my right foot will also need to regulate the volume. I’m only
going to use one keyboard. This will be a dumbed-down version – I’m not about to risk trying to play like a pro.

My heart is racing and I brace myself. I can do this. It’s just like riding a bicycle.

‘Are you okay?’ Lachie asks me.

I don’t meet his eyes, but I nod. I take a deep breath and place my fingers on the keys.

‘Ready when you are,’ Lachie says, looking past me down the aisle.

The sound that comes out of the pipes as I gently press down almost takes my breath away. It fills up my head, fills up my heart, just as it did when I was a little girl.

I can do this.

It’s almost as though my limbs are moving on autopilot. As my fingers work the keyboard in front of me, my feet move over the pedals at ground level. As Sylvie reaches the top of the
aisle, I pull out the eight-foot flute stop so the organ changes to a brighter sound. The piece is over before I know it.

My fingers still resting in position on the final keys, I look up at Lachie, my eyes shining. He’s staring down at me with wonder in his eyes.

‘Wow,’ he whispers.

I look up at the gleaming golden pipes and they turn blurry as my tears spill over. No one here will ever know how big a deal this is for me. It’s momentous.

‘You can return to your seats, now,’ the vicar calls with amusement in his voice.

It startles me into action and I slide off the stool and Lachie hauls me to my feet and guides me towards the nave.

I step out from the chancel into the church and feel all eyes on us as the congregation breaks into spontaneous applause. I catch Alex’s eye and he looks blown away.

Pete beams at me, as does his bride-to-be, and then I hurry, with my face down, back to my seat. Lachie slides into the pew after me. My face is burning as the applause dies down.

A man yells, ‘Sorry I’m late!’ from behind us and we look over our shoulders to see an unassuming man in a green jumper and brown corduroy trousers burst into the church.
‘I’m here, now. Oh!’ He spies the bride at the front.

‘Aah, our organist has arrived,’ the vicar explains to the bride and groom and the rest of the congregation. ‘Looks like we won’t have to sing unaccompanied to the hymns
after all.’

Lachie takes my hand and squeezes it. I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder, suddenly more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life.

Forty minutes later I find myself hurtling towards my next hurdle. The service is over and we’re standing outside in the churchyard, surrounded by higgledy-piggledy
gravestones and listening to the sound of all seven church bells jubilantly ringing in unison. It’s time to meet Zara. Alex brings her over to us while Pete and Sylvie are meeting and
greeting their guests.

After the challenge in the church, I should feel ready to do anything, but ice freezes my insides as I see them coming our way.

She’s tall and very skinny, with long, dead-straight, very pale blonde hair. She’s pretty, but her features are a little sharp, her nose straight and her jaw severe. She’s
wearing a structured, expensive-looking knee-length dress in apricot-coloured chiffon and her skin is pale with no hint of a tan.

‘How the hell did you learn how to play the organ?’ Alex exclaims as he reaches us, distractedly shaking Lachie’s hand.

I force a light-hearted laugh. ‘I had strange hobbies as a child.’ My fingers seek out Lachie’s and I lock my hand in his.

I notice Alex glance down at our tangled grasp before meeting my eyes with a puzzled look on his face.

He indicates his fiancée. ‘This is Zara. Zara, this is Bronte and Lachie.’

‘Hi.’ I give her a bright smile.

‘Hello,’ she replies with a tight, reserved one. She holds out her hand and when I shake it, her fingers are cold and thin.

There. It’s done now. A face to a name. And whatever I felt for him should shrivel up and die. It would be about bloody time.

‘Bronte works at
Hebe
,’ Alex tells her.

‘Oh, right,’ she says, feigning interest as she gives Lachie a perfunctory handshake, too. She slides her arm around Alex’s waist.

Lina calls everyone over to do the confetti shot so Lachie and I make our way towards her, our hands still entwined. I realise I may be sending Lachie mixed signals, but the truth is, I need
him. I need his support. I hope he doesn’t mind giving it to me without strings attached.

‘Most people don’t just play the pipe organ as a hobby,’ he murmurs in my ear as he squeezes my palm.

‘I did,’ I reply casually, willing him to drop it. He does. For now.

Lachie has always been tactile, but tonight I don’t discourage him. The reception is taking place at a nearby hotel, and he and I sit at a table with Sylvie’s
American relatives. My
Hebe
colleagues are sitting nearby, but Lachie and I are a late addition to the table plan so I guess we’re taking the seats that were assigned to Sylvie’s
missing cousin and his wife. I can’t say I’m not relieved. I don’t think I’d be very good at making pleasant conversation with Zara. I feel much more relaxed here with
Lachie and people we barely know. The wine is sliding down easily and the food is delicious. I’ve been watching Lina and Tom at work and I’m having a surprisingly good time being on the
other side of a camera for a change. I didn’t think I would.

I’m blaming the company of my laid-back Aussie mate.

‘Thanks so much for coming with me,’ I say to him later, after the speeches. We’ve moved outside to a marquee in the hotel garden where the evening’s entertainment is
being set up. It’s only a matter of time before my colleagues find us. I find that thought weirdly unwelcome.

‘No worries,’ he says. His eyes look a lot darker in this dim light and as he stares down at me, warmth floods my stomach. ‘It’s been enlightening.’ He seems
surprisingly sober considering all the wine we drank at dinner. His lips crook into a smile. ‘Bar’s open. I might switch to beer.’

‘Good plan.’

He grabs my hand and leads me to the makeshift bar, letting go when we reach it. I feel momentarily bereft, but then his hands are on my hips and he’s standing behind me, trapping me in
front of the counter.

‘Two beers, please,’ he says to the bartender.

His touch is very distracting.

It’s time for the first dance so we wander over to the dance floor. A live band are sitting on a small stage and as Sylvie and Pete take the dance floor, I notice Sylvie has removed her
long cream-coloured bridal skirt and is wearing a shorter cream skirt with layers and layers of pale pink ruffles underneath. It reminds me of the peonies from the church and table settings.
Sylvie’s bouquet was made up of a dozen tightly packed peony balls, and there are peony heads cascading down the side of the three-tiered cake, too. I’ve noticed you can often describe
a wedding from the flowers, and this one has been true to form: pink, soft and feminine.