Thirteen Weddings (34 page)

‘No. She said she didn’t want one.’

I have to say I’m worried when I set off to the church.

The groom, Billy, is in much higher spirits, and I try to convince myself that his bride-to-be is just nervous as I take a deep breath and get to work photographing yet another old English
church. The flower arrangements are especially beautiful and bursting with autumnal colours: yellow sunflowers, red chrysanthemums and orange freesias. I jolt slightly at the altar when I see the
organ. I run my fingers over the cream-coloured keys as I remember the little girl from my dream.

I wonder if he ever feels sorry. I wonder if he feels anything at all.

‘You must be the photographer.’

I jump as the vicar appears at my side. He’s a young man with a warm, open face. I nod quickly, swallowing to try to keep my tears firmly at bay.

‘Yes. Hello. I’m Bronte.’

He holds his hand out and shakes mine. ‘Father Phillip. Pleased to meet you.’

‘We’ll keep out of your way,’ I start to say.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ he says. ‘The bride and groom want you here, and that’s good enough for me.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you play?’ he asks me, indicating the organ.

I nod, biting my lip.

‘The piano?’

‘No, well, yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘I play the organ, too. At least, I used to.’

‘How interesting,’ he says. ‘Not too many people choose it as an instrument these days.’

‘My dad was an organist.’

‘Was he?’ He smiles with pleasure. ‘Oh, here’s Nicholas, our organist, now!’ he exclaims brightly. ‘This young lady plays the pipe organ,’ he calls to
Nicholas as he approaches.

‘I’d better keep going,’ I say quickly. I can feel the vicar’s confused gaze following me as I hurry away.

I haven’t photographed the stained-glass windows, but it’s too late because the bridal party is here. I hurry out to the porch in time to see Hester’s three bridesmaids climb
out of the car wearing long, flowing floor-length gowns of cherry red. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder at the vicar. He’s talking to the groom, smiling and nodding and putting him at
ease, no doubt. He seems like a nice man.

I breathe in deeply and inhale the damp scent of my surroundings. I used to love this smell. I think back to how panicked I was at my first wedding this year – Suzie and Mike’s. It
all feels a little surreal now. I don’t mind the smell so much any more – at the very least, it doesn’t give me chills.

Once upon a time, I used to love being in church. I loved the vast, cool, beautiful spaces – a guaranteed haven in the hot Australian summer, a place for quiet contemplation. No matter
what was going on at home, I could come to church and feel at peace.

I turn to see Hester coming towards me. She looks absolutely beautiful in a strapless sweetheart corset studded with sequins and pearls. She’s wearing a veil and as she turns to the man
beside her and allows him to take her arm, something dawns on me. That’s not her father – he’s much younger. Her brother perhaps? Has her father passed away? Is that why
she’s not smiling?

Rachel pulls a face at me as she passes. ‘Here goes nothing,’ she says worriedly.

I get into position as Nicholas starts to play Wagner’s infamous piece.

I click off some shots of Hester as she passes, but she’s still not smiling. I capture Billy turning around and giving her an encouraging nod, and I wonder what Rachel’s book will
look like with the complementary shots next to each other. I have my doubts that these pictures will be some of this bride and groom’s favourites.

Hester continues her march to the front, the overhead spotlights causing the diamantés along the hem of her veil to sparkle beautifully like tiny flashguns going off. As the music dies
down and the vicar starts to speak, Hester backs away from her groom.

‘Hess,’ Billy says, his expression turning into one of horror.

Even from back here, I can see her shaking her head. He holds his hand out to her in a silent plea and a murmur passes over the congregation. ‘I can’t,’ she mumbles, and then
she turns and runs back down the aisle, carrying her long skirt as she goes.

‘Shit, really?’ Lachie’s face is a picture. ‘Fuck. Where’s the poor guy?’

‘Downstairs,’ I tell him.

‘In the bar?’ he asks with surprise.

I nod. I’ve just given Lachie the news. He was chilling out in his room, reading a magazine on his bed when I knocked on his door. He wasn’t due to play at the reception for another
few hours.

‘What happened?’

I fill him in on the morning’s proceedings, trying not to be distracted by his biceps. He’s still only wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt and his tan is relentlessly clinging on from
summer. He’s the most warm-blooded person I know.

‘So what now?’ he asks after he’s muttered a few profanities on behalf of the jilted groom.

‘I don’t know. Rachel and Maria are downstairs.’

‘Let’s go, then,’ he says, touching his hand to the small of my back before instantly snatching it away. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles as I jolt in surprise.

What, so now he thinks he has to apologise for touching me? I hate that I’ve made him feel that way.

Downstairs, the bar is full of wedding guests. Probably about one fifth of the people who attended the service are here, groom included. Rachel and Maria are at the bar.

‘What are you drinking?’ Rachel asks us as we approach.

‘Are we staying?’ I reply in confusion. I kind of assumed we’d drive back to London.

‘May as well. We have rooms. Also, Billy and his family asked us to join them, and I feel like I need a drink after all that.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I agree.

‘Great,’ Lachie says. ‘What shall we go for? Bottle of red?’ He glances at me.

‘Sure.’ My eyes scan the room to hunt out the groom. He’s sitting hunched forwards in an armchair. His mother is kneeling at his feet with her hands on his knees. She’s
taken her hat off but she still looks resplendent in a long, silvery-grey skirt and matching blouse. I don’t know what she’s saying. We’re outsiders looking in, not privy to
personal details – at least, not many. Chances are we will never know why Hester left Billy at the altar. And we have to let it go – that’s our job, however much the curiosity
might kill us. But whatever Billy’s mother is saying to him is making him nod. Lachie nudges me. He has a bottle of wine in his right hand and three wine-glass stems protruding from between
the knuckles of his left. Maria is on the soft stuff.

There’s a small table free in the corner so we go over to it and squeeze around it.

It’s a strangely heart-warming evening, considering the sad events that have led us here. It’s hard not to get swept up in the emotion of it all. We watch as the members of
Billy’s extended family and not so close friends disperse, until finally it’s just the groom, his parents, his close family and friends remaining. They laugh, they cry, they smother him
with love and affection, and after a while we join forces with them and become part of their gathering. Well into the evening, someone suggests to Lachie that he get his guitar. He’s happy to
oblige, and when he returns, the accommodating hotel manager closes up and we have our very own lock-in while listening to Lachie’s deep, tuneful voice. He avoids his more upbeat wedding
collection and instead sings slow, soulful songs about love and loss and everyone has to get more tissues out. It’s strangely cathartic though – even I have a little cry.

Maria calls it a night first, slipping out quietly so as not to disrupt Lachie’s private concert. Rachel goes next, patting me gently on my back. ‘Don’t stay up too
late,’ she warns with a mischievous glint in her eye as her gaze flickers towards Lachie. I’m feeling slightly dazed as my attention refocuses on his toned arms, watching his muscles
flex as he plays his guitar. He’s singing a stripped-back version of The 1975’s ‘Sex’ and it’s so sexy.
He’s
sexy. Suddenly he looks at me and a bolt of
desire shoots straight through me. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. His blue eyes are smouldering, scorching, burning into me as he sings ‘talk about sex’. The way he says that
last word makes me want to have some with him.

Seriously, if he wants to sleep with me tonight, I’m his. Without a shadow of a doubt. A tiny, less drunk part of me realises that this is probably a Bad Idea. But I don’t care right
now. He gives me a quizzical look as he strums a fast acoustic section. His hands are wasted on his guitar. I want his fingers to work their magic on
me.
I’m so jittery, so on edge and
completely turned on when he strums the last chord and calmly meets my eyes.

‘Thanks, folks,’ he says, breaking eye contact with me as everyone applauds, as they have done for all of his songs so far. He stands up. ‘I’m going to hit the
sack.’

With me? Please with me. I haven’t had sex in way too long.

He shakes hands with Billy. ‘Good luck, mate. It’s going to be okay. You’ve got good people around you.’

I’m so breathless I can barely speak, let alone commiserate with the groom again. But I’ve done plenty of that throughout the evening, so I give him what I hope is an encouraging
smile and make my way to the door. I turn around to wait for Lachie. He’s packing his guitar away. He snaps the case shut, smiling and saying goodnight to everyone as he passes. As he walks
past the last table, his eyes meet mine and my breath quickens.

‘Okay?’ he drawls, looking down at me.

I nod quickly and move to the stairs. I’m intensely aware of his body right behind me. I go straight to his room.

‘Aren’t you down the hall?’ he asks me wryly, leaning against the wall in the corridor. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a key, then he opens the door and holds it
back for me without saying another word. I’m taking this as a very clear, very welcome indication that he wants me too.

He closes the door behind me and locks it again. I take a step towards him, my gaze fixed on his lips. His hands come to rest on my waist and I suck in a sharp intake of breath. He stares down
at me.

‘You only ever want to kiss me when you’re drunk,’ he says in a low voice.

‘That’s not true.’ I shake my head. ‘I wanted to kiss you in the car.’

‘Did you?’

Even with all the debilitating alcohol running through my veins, I blush my response.

‘Then why didn’t you?’ he asks, and the feel of his thumb stroking my waist through the flimsy fabric of my shirt is distracting.

‘I want to kiss you now – isn’t that enough?’

‘We’re there now, are we? Just as I’m leaving? Is that what you do?
Go
for people you can’t have?’

His words floor me. I shake my head, speechless. Is he right?
Is
that what I do?

‘Why?’ he asks quietly. ‘Why do you do that? Don’t you think you deserve to be happy?’

‘Stop,’ I say, squeezing my eyes shut. ‘Just stop.’ He’s only twenty-four. How does he come out with things like this at his age?

‘I’d give anything
not
to fall for someone I can’t have, Bronnie,’ he says sadly, and then he asks me the question I really didn’t want him to ask me.
‘Are you still in love with Alex?’

The sound of his name breaks my ribcage open again and my heart is bare and bloody and broken. I force myself to answer him, putting my hand on his chest and gently pushing him away. He lets his
hands fall to his sides.

‘It’s been almost two months,’ I mumble. ‘I haven’t seen him. I don’t know. I’ve been a mess, but I’m feeling better. I’m a lot
better.’

I dare to look up at him and when I do, his eyes are full of sadness and pain and something else – compassion?

Maybe not the last one, because he knows his next words will hurt me. ‘Rachel told me she saw him and Zara recently.’ Rachel always catches up with her brides and grooms at least
twice before the service – she wants them to feel as relaxed around her as possible. ‘She said they seemed happy. More than ready to tie the knot.’

He may as well have torn into my heart with his teeth. I wince and turn to put my hand on the door.

‘Come here,’ he says, drawing me back into his strong embrace. ‘I’m sorry. It’s going to be okay.’

I take a deep breath and relax against him. He’s so comforting.

‘I’m sorry for asking you difficult questions when you’re drunk,’ he says into my hair.

Yeah. Bastard.

‘But I know I’ll get an honest answer out of you.’

On the plus side, my desire to have sex with him has flown right out of the window. No morning-after regrets for me. I slowly break away from him.

‘Guess I’d better go.’

‘Stay,’ he says, his hand on my arm.

I give him a perplexed look. He’s got to be kidding, right? After all of that?

‘Sleep with me,’ he says casually.

I shake my head.

‘Just...
sleep
,’ he says more firmly.

Yes. I do want to be held by him, more than I want my PJs or my toothbrush, I realise. And it does feel like a choice. He takes my hesitation as a yes and holds my hand, leading me to the bed.
He pulls back the covers and kicks off his shoes. I wobble slightly as I do the same, which he seems to find entertaining. And then he pulls his T-shirt over his head and my mouth falls open.
Obscene. He throws the T-shirt at me and I catch it in a daze. He jerks his head towards the bathroom and then at the garment in my hands. ‘PJs,’ he says with amusement.

Mmm. Yes, I’d be quite happy to wear this to bed. I go into the bathroom and strip off everything apart from my knickers. I pull his T-shirt over my head and feel the cosiness of it engulf
me. Still warm. Always warm. Then I return to the bedroom. He’s switched off the lights and I can barely make out the shape of his body as I slide under the duvet. His arms snake around me
and I snuggle into his chest. He kisses the top of my head.

‘Night-night, Bronnie,’ he says in a deep, sleepy voice.

‘Night,’ I murmur.

I lie there for a long time, listening to his breathing slow down and become long and steady. But I can’t fall asleep to save my life. His skin is soft under my palm. I slide my fingertips
across his chest and down to the hardness of his ribcage. I run my fingers along the length of his bottom rib. He catches my hand. Oh dear, I’ve woken him up.