Thirteen Weddings (38 page)

‘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:

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.

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.

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:

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 church 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?’

‘Yes.’ I smile nervously.

‘Silly question. I can see that by the contraption you’re holding.’ She reaches out to shake my hand.

‘I’m Bronte,’ I tell her.

‘Best of luck,’ she replies, turning to lead her husband to the front of the church. I watch her in a daze.

I’m just Bronte. Here to do the photos. I’m an employee, on the outside looking in. I’m not part of these celebrations, not part of this wonderful, supposed ‘best day of
their lives’. She has no idea who I am or what I mean to her son.

I
don’t even know what I mean to her son.

I don’t think she’d like me very much if she knew the truth. The realisation makes me feel dirty and deceitful and makes me really not like myself very much.

I shouldn’t be here.

No. I am here because I’m doing Rachel – and Alex – a favour. I’m not a bad person. I’m not. With that in mind, I get on with my job.

The church has filled up considerably and it’s almost eleven forty-five, but there’s still no sign of Alex. After snapping lots of shots of the guests, I go outside to check the
churchyard for him. Where is he?

The wedding starts at midday – he’s bordering on late.

What if... What if he’s changed his mind?

Despite my internal pep talk of only minutes ago, hope surges through my heart.

I
am
a bad person. Who am I kidding?

It occurs to me to wonder what I would do if Alex called it off, if he said he wanted me and only me?

Several thoughts fly through my mind at once: I’d be the one who split him and Zara up, the bitch who stole someone’s boyfriend of almost a decade. His mother, his father, his
friends and relatives wouldn’t like or trust me. We’d start off on the wrong foot from the very beginning. Maybe Alex would come to regret his decision, maybe we’d discover we
don’t have that much in common. But of all these thoughts, the one that fights its way right to the forefront is the idea of never seeing Lachie again. The pain as this thought takes hold is
so intense that it takes me by surprise. Last night he told me we were done. I haven’t let that fully sink in, but now I’m overwhelmed with sadness. It hurts so much more than I ever
could have anticipated.

The rational part of my brain tells me that he said we were done in the heat of the moment, that I can still change his mind – if I want to. Do I want to? Yes. Without a doubt. But that
still brings me back to my initial question: where is Alex? Is he having second thoughts? And do I want him to be having second thoughts?

For the first time, I think the answer might be no. But it’s a shaky no.

And then I see him in one of the side entrances to the churchyard, in a dark alley walkway that cuts under the buildings surrounding the churchyard. My heart jumps and then freefalls: he’s
here. He’s going to go through with it. A wave of grief engulfs me all over again. But he’s not coming this way. He’s with someone else: another man in a morning suit. I catch a
glimpse of his friend’s face and he looks concerned. What are they talking about?
Is
he having second thoughts?

This is unbearable. I feel so confused. My head feels like it’s in a vice and I almost wish someone would crank up the pressure and put me out of my misery once and for all.

Without thinking, I start to walk their way.

‘Alex?’ I ask as I arrive at the alleyway.

His head shoots around to stare at me, and I’ve never seen him look more torn or anguished. He doesn’t speak, but his best man – if that’s who he is – looks
straight at me.

‘We’ll be there in a minute,’ he says firmly, encouraging me to go away.

Alex turns back to him and mutters something and his friend’s face drops off a cliff.

‘What are you doing here?’ the friend asks me in what is barely more than a whisper.

‘I’m photographing the wedding,’ I reply, holding up my camera.

He stares at Alex, incredulous. ‘She’s photographing the wedding?’ he asks in astonishment.

‘I’m Bronte,’ I tell him, still unsure what’s going on.

‘I
know
who you are.’ The way he says it tells me that he not only knows who I am; he knows
everything.

It’s a sickening realisation, but it’s Alex I care about. He’s shaking.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask him with concern, keeping my distance outside the alleyway. ‘It’s almost midday.’

He nods quickly, but he’s unable to meet my eyes.

‘Just give us a minute, would you?’ the best friend who I’ve never even met says in a tone that is bordering on anger. ‘Why the hell are you even here?’

‘Ed,’ Alex warns sharply, turning to look at him. ‘Maybe you could give
us
a minute?’

‘Mate, what are you doing?’ he asks with genuine distress. He checks his watch. ‘Zara’s going to be here any moment.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Alex says. ‘Please. Just give us a minute.’

Ed flashes me a hard look as he stalks past me. I quickly check over my shoulder to make sure no one else has exited the church to search for us. Alex doesn’t make any move to come out
from the dark alleyway, so I venture in towards him. His eyes never leave mine.

‘I’m so fucked up,’ he whispers, tears welling up in his eyes.