Thirteen Weddings (32 page)

‘Mind if I join you?’ he drawls, glancing down at me. He still has a hard look to his demeanour. I’m not sure he believes what Bridget said, and I’m not about to try to
persuade him. Not now that it’s a lie.

‘Of course not,’ I reply, forcing a smile as I move to make room. He drags a chair over from a nearby table. ‘That was great,’ I tell him as he sits down.

‘Yeah? You missed most of it.’

‘I went to put my camera back inside.’

‘Did you.’ He takes a swig of his beer, and I answer his question even though it came without a question mark.

‘Yes.’

‘Where’s Alex?’ he asks, his eyes flicking to meet mine.

‘Urgh, give her a break, Lachie,’ Bridget snaps, getting to her feet. ‘I told you nothing happened. I’m going to the loo.’ She pats him slightly condescendingly on
his shoulder and sets off through the crowd.

‘Yeah, she told me nothing happened,’ he says.

‘Did she? Good.’

‘I don’t buy it.’ He fixes me with a hard stare. ‘And I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ he starts in a reasonably calm tone before it transitions to anger,
‘but what the fuck are you doing?’

‘Stop it.’

‘He’s getting married in three months.’

His cold blue eyes are making my insides feel like ice.

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ To my horror, my eyes well up with tears, and because I can’t sit here blubbing, I get up and walk out of the marquee.

Unfortunately, he follows me.

‘Leave me alone,’ I say hopelessly as I head behind the marquee where I hope it will be private.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replies gruffly. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

I bite my lip and turn to face the mountains.
‘You’re
not making me cry.’ No, he isn’t.
Alex
is.

‘What are you doing, Bron?’ he asks again, deeply perplexed. ‘You seem pretty smart. I don’t get why you’d go for a guy who’s about to get married to another
chick.’

‘You think I have a
choice
?’ I ask him tearfully. ‘Do you think I wanted to fall in love with him?’

He recoils. It’s a moment before he speaks and when he does his expression is a mixture of shock and horror. ‘You’re in love with him?’

‘Surely that’s obvious?’

He turns away from me, resting his hands on the wooden fence surrounding the property. He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘In that case, I really can’t help you, can I?’

‘Lachie...’

‘I knew you liked him, but I didn’t think... Fuck.’

My heart goes out to him and I suddenly think that Bridget might be right: his feelings for me go deeper than just the surface. Instinctively, I reach out and put my hand on his arm, wanting to
comfort him.

‘Do you
want
a man who cheats?’ he asks me with disbelief.

I slowly let my hand slip to my side. ‘Of course not.’

‘If he does this to his fiancée, how could you ever trust him?’

I shake my head. Alex isn’t a cheater, not really.

‘Once a cheat, always a cheat,’ he adds bitterly.

‘That’s not true.’ I raise my voice. ‘This is... different.’ I look at him defiantly. ‘He’s confused. He doesn’t want to feel like this. If he
could stop it, he would.’

My words bring with them a horrible sense of déjà vu. I jerk violently as a memory filters through to me.

‘I’m confused. Bronte, darling, please. I’m so confused. I can’t help it. I can’t help myself. If I could stop it, I would. Please don’t
tell your mother... Please. Come. Come here, darling... I can’t help how I feel. Please don’t tell your mother.’

I stare at Lachie with wide-open eyes as my stomach clenches with nausea. He gives me an odd look, sensing something is very wrong. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ I try to say the word but no sound comes out.

‘You’re shaking,’ he says with concern.

He’s right. I’m shaking all over. A cold sweat passes over my body, and then I’m reliving the last conversation I had with my mother. She told me I needed to come home, that it
was important. She wanted me home for Christmas. ‘It could be your last chance,’ she said. ‘March might be too late.’

‘I’m not coming home in March,’ I told her. ‘I’ve got a promotion. I’m staying.’

She said she’d book me a flight home, ignoring my protests about having to work. ‘You’ll have time off at Christmas. Everyone has time off at Christmas,’ she said.
‘You need to do this. I need to see you. He needs to see you. It might already be too late.’

Calm settles over me as I stare ahead in a daze. ‘I have to go home,’ I murmur to Lachie.

‘It’s only one more day.’

‘Not to the UK. I have to go home to Australia.’

He gently rubs my shoulder. ‘It might be for the best.’

I turn sharply to look at him. ‘This is not to do with Alex. I’m coming back. I just need to go home for Christmas.’

He looks baffled. ‘What are you going on about? That’s almost four months away.’

‘I know.’

‘Fuck, you’re so confusing, Bronte.’ He buries his face in his hands, then makes a frustrated noise deep in his throat before literally shaking himself out of it.
‘You’re all over the fucking place,’ he mutters, unable to meet my eyes. He turns away from me. ‘I’ve gotta get back to work.’

I watch him go. He’s right. I’m a screw-up if ever I saw one.

Somehow I manage to pull myself together and return to the marquee for another hour and a half, before slipping away to bed at an acceptable time. My head is buzzing and when I
finally do manage to doze off, I have a fitful sleep plagued with bad dreams and childhood nightmares.

I wake up early in the morning. Bridget is sound asleep beside me after hitting the sack at one o’clock when the DJ music finally piped down. I was wide awake when she came in, although I
pretended not to be.

I throw on some clothes and leave the room. The house is silent. I pad barefoot to the kitchen. The early morning light is cold and grey. I fill up the kettle and flick it on, then jolt when the
front door opens. Alex comes in, his head down, deep in thought.

My heart speeds up. ‘Hi,’ I say, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

‘Shit!’

‘Sorry.’ I give him a small smile.

He looks abashed. ‘I thought everyone was asleep.’

‘They are. It’s just me.’

He nods, not meeting my eyes.

‘I’m making tea,’ I say, trying to sound normal. ‘Do you want one?’

He hesitates a moment before replying. ‘Sure.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’ I ask steadily.

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s the middle of the night in New York. There’s no reception here so I walked up the road to check my messages.’

I take the tea things to the table and sit down. ‘Were there any?’

He nods. ‘Yeah. She called yesterday.’

When you were kissing me? I keep that comment to myself. I don’t think it would help to say it out loud.

I pour tea into the two cups and push one towards him. I add a dash of milk to mine, watching as the white liquid swirls around the dark water like a miniature storm cloud.

‘A storm in a teacup,’ I murmur.

‘What?’ His voice is barely more than a whisper.

‘The teacup. Look.’ I pour some milk into his tea and watch another cloud shape form. ‘I’ve never realised where that phrase comes from before. A storm in a
teacup,’ I say again, putting the milk down on the table. I look up, right into his eyes. He looks anguished. He reaches over the table and takes my hand. His touch sends a shock zipping
right up my arm and I want to slide my fingers along his forearm and hold more of him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.

I shake my head. ‘I’m not.’

He doesn’t speak, but his brow furrows slightly. If I don’t tell him now... I’ll regret it. He can’t marry her. He can’t. My eyes fill with tears that start
trailing down my cheeks as I bare my soul to him. ‘I love you.’

He draws a sharp intake of breath and inadvertently tightens his grip on my hand.

‘I love you, Alex.’

‘Bronte, don’t.’ He shakes his head at me and releases my hand. ‘I can’t.’ My insides freeze.

‘I know you feel something for me, too,’ I say with more certainty than I feel.

He meets my eyes, but he looks torn. His face is pale and washed-out. ‘I do. I care about you. We have chemistry. But Zara and I—’

I flinch.

‘We have history,’ he finishes his sentence. ‘I have to go home and speak to her.’

Fear and dread fill my heart. ‘Will you tell her about me?’

He closes his eyes, resigned. ‘I don’t know,’ he says eventually. ‘But we obviously have issues for this to happen.’

This? Him and me?

‘You can’t marry her.’ I don’t want to beg him.

‘Bronte,’ he says reluctantly, not able to bring himself to look me in the eye. ‘I don’t know what to do. I can’t be with you. I can’t be near you. I need
some space to sort my head out.’

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubs for a few seconds before letting his hands fall.

‘What are you saying?’ I ask as the dread in my stomach grows.

‘I need to speak to Simon.’

‘Alex, no.’ I’m begging now. ‘Don’t leave. Not because of me. It will be okay.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.

‘Stop saying you’re sorry,’ I raise my voice. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Shh,’ he urges me to keep my voice down.

I shove my chair out from the table and stand up. ‘You can’t... You can’t just kiss me like that—’

‘I won’t kiss you again,’ he cuts me off. ‘I need to go home and put this right. I feel like a bastard for even talking to you right now. I’m going to ask Simon if
I can work on a special project. He told me Tetlan is launching a new magazine, wanted me to consult on it. It will give me space to sort myself out.’

I bite my lip, but it doesn’t stop the tears from falling. I angrily brush them away, but the stream is relentless.

‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ I whisper, turning to look into his deep blue eyes. I’ll never forget the look of doubt on his face as I turn and walk away.

I barely see Alex for the rest of the day – he doesn’t come to the beach with us, and his claim that he has a stomach virus means that everyone leaves him well
alone. I don’t know how I get through the day before boarding the plane that night. Turns out I’m a much better actress than I thought.

I force myself into work on Monday – it’s my first day as Picture Director and I have no idea how I find the internal strength to not just throw in the towel. I have a backstage
shoot to organise for a major music awards ceremony next week.
Hebe
is effectively the official photographer for the TV channel – we’ll be shooting dozens of celebrities –
and the shots will appear in the magazine in a few weeks’ time. Alex is supposed to help generate ideas for the various backstage sets we’ll be using, but in meetings he avoids eye
contact with me, and it’s much worse than it’s ever been between us. True to his word, he asks Simon if he can work on the new, top secret magazine that our publisher is launching. And
even though the awards ceremony backstage gig is hugely coveted and only attended by a lucky few, he lets Tim go in his place. The following week, I come into work to see Tim sitting in
Alex’s chair and a part of me dies. I sob my heart out that night. He may as well have pried open my ribcage and broken my heart up with his fingers.

I tell Bridget everything. It would be impossible not to. I put a brave face on it and stumble through my days at work, but my mask slips by the time evening comes around and I can’t hold
it together.

Work is busier and harder than ever. I have to organise and art-direct shoot after shoot, which means liaising with celebrity PRs, negotiating timetables and handling many tricky personalities.
I have to book locations and studios, call in styling and hair and make-up artists, and come up with countless concepts for original photo shoots. And Simon is a tough boss. He’s even more of
a perfectionist than I realised, and week after week, it’s a strain. I know that if Alex were here, he would help me deal with the extra responsibility, nurture my creativity and brainstorm
with me for shoot ideas. But he’s not here. I’m on my own and I’m really feeling the pressure.

The days turn into weeks. September passes into October. The green leaves turn golden and slip from the trees, and I agree to my mother’s request that I’ll come home for Christmas. I
miss a couple of calls from Polly, but I can’t yet bring myself to call her back. And then one day she gets hold of Bridget.

‘Polly’s going to AA,’ Bridget tells me that night, dropping her bag on the floor.

‘What?’

She slumps onto the sofa, frowning at the music coming from the stereo. It’s ‘Love’ by Daughter and I’ve been playing it on repeat because it reminds me of Alex.

‘She rang me at work,’ Bridget continues. ‘She said she keeps calling you, but you haven’t rung her back.’

‘I can’t face her,’ I say with difficulty. ‘She’s going to AA?’

‘She said Michelle and Grant forced her to see that she has a problem.’

‘Michelle?’

‘It sounds like they hosted an intervention, like you said we needed to do.’

It hits me that I’ve failed my friend. I’m a horrible person. My face crumples.

‘Okay, that’s enough,’ Bridget says sharply.

Her tone snaps me out of it somewhat.

‘You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ she continues crossly, grabbing a handful of tissues from the nearby, nearly empty box and throwing them at me.
‘I’ve had enough of it. Stop playing this depressing song. Get over it. He’s not leaving her so you’ve got to move on. Get back on the horse. Find another man, someone who
you don’t have to share. Lachie—’

‘He won’t be interested,’ I cut her off. ‘Not any more.’ Not after seeing the mess I was in at the wedding.

‘Lachie
is leaving
in a couple of weeks. That’s what I was going to say,’ she continues determinedly. ‘Let’s go and—’

‘What?’ I instantly feel cold. ‘Where’s he going?’

She looks at me like I’m a bit dim. ‘Travelling,’ she states purposefully. ‘He wants to see Europe before he heads home. You
know
this,’ she adds with
irritation. ‘Oh no, that’s right, you’ve been too caught up in Alex World to remember what your friends are doing.’