Thirteen Weddings (5 page)

I force a light laugh. ‘Yeah, it is a bit.’

He shakes his head and lets his arms drop to his sides. He takes a step forward and as I look up at him, he touches his thumb to my cheek and frowns.

‘I really like you,’ he says hopelessly. ‘I can’t believe that I’m never going to see you again.’

I sigh and stand up, then I wrap my arms around his neck. His arms snake around me and he buries his face in my neck and holds me tightly.

‘You’d better go.’ My voice sounds muffled against his chest.

I feel him nod and then he breaks away and strides over to the door.

‘See you,’ he says, casting me one last look with his very blue eyes before he goes out of the door.

There’s a lump in my throat and I try to swallow it, but I can’t. I sit down on the bed and cover my face with my hands, fighting back tears. Turns out I’m not cut out for this
one-night-stand business, after all.

‘Argh! For flipping, frig’s sakes...’

‘What?’

‘Fucking fuck!’ I exclaim, succumbing to my urge to swear as I come to a sudden stop on the cold, grey pavement underneath the Centre Point building.

‘What
is
it?’

I glare at Bridget who’s giving me a very perplexed look.

‘I
knew
I’d forgotten something!’

Bridget sighs. ‘What did you forget?’

‘The flipping...
argh
!’

I turn on my heel and storm off in the opposite direction.

‘Shall I let Simon know you’re going to be late?’ she calls after me.

‘Yes please!’ I call back, beyond irritated with myself. Bloody goddamn whatchamecallits. I can’t even think of the name for them, but I need the bastards for the photoshoot
this morning. I glance quickly at my watch. I’m going to be
so
late.

I step up my pace, hurrying down the stairs into Tottenham Court Road Underground station, trying not to get knocked flying by the tide of people coming towards me. Will I ever get used to the
sheer volume of people in this city? It’s rush hour and everyone is coming into central London, not leaving it. I swipe my Tube pass and go through the turnstile and step onto the
escalator.

I don’t know why I glance over at the other escalator – the one that’s carrying all of its passengers up – but I do. And my heart almost stops when I see him.

Alex.

I freeze, staring in disbelief as his blue eyes lock with mine and instantly widen. The escalators continue to carry us way too quickly past each other in the wrong direction. My heart pounds as
I hold up my hand in a silent gesture asking him to wait at the top. He looks freaked out as he tilts his head away from me, facing forward. I turn and run the rest of the way down the steps, and
join the crowds of people merging at the bottom of the ‘up’ escalator. Screw this. I queue-jump, push and duck my way to the front and begin to climb up what soon feels like the longest
escalator in the world. Legs aching and out of breath, I hurry off at the top and look around wildly, trying to spot him. Someone bumps into me and I barely notice. Another person crashes into
me.

‘Watch it!’

Where is he? My eyes flit over the dozens and dozens of commuters, but I can’t see Alex.

Hesitantly I walk towards the turnstiles, still looking all around for him as more and more people shove against me. How I hate London at this moment! What do I do? Give up? Or go outside to see
if I can spot him there? On a whim, I swipe my Tube pass and then I face another dilemma. Which exit? There are six. I make a snap decision for Oxford Street and join the hordes climbing the stairs
and spilling out onto the teeming pavement.

There are people
everywhere.
My heart jumps as I spot a dark-haired man, but it’s not him. Nor is he the next dark-haired man I see, nor the next. He’s gone. I’ve lost
him. Again.

Unable to believe it, I turn in a daze and re-enter the Tube station, my heart sinking further with every step I take into the depths of the Underground.

My head is spinning as I stand by the tracks, waiting for my Northbound train towards Edgware. I check my watch: 9.35 a.m. If he works nearby, maybe I’ll see him again. It occurs to me
that I could wait outside alternate exits every day until he emerges out of one, but that would probably lose me my job, and I’m already going to irritate my new boss by being late. Plus that
sort of behaviour would be completely obsessive and I’ve never had stalker tendencies.

I stand back as the Tube whooshes along the line, waiting beside the doors as dozens of commuters pour out. I climb on, take a rare seat, and let memories of Alex wash over me.

I never stopped wondering what happened to him. I regretted letting him walk out of my life without any way of us contacting each other. Even after I returned home, I would find myself scrolling
through the names on magazine mastheads to see if I could spot an ‘Alex’. I didn’t know his surname and stupidly never asked him which publication he worked for. I was curious to
know if he got back together with his girlfriend. When I heard about the picture editor job at our sister magazine in London, he was one of the people who first crossed my mind. Polly, Bridget and
Alex.

Polly thought I’d be crazy not to jump at the opportunity to come over to the UK for a year, and Bridget encouraged me too. I’d kept in touch with her after the blast we had at the
wedding reception. I was drowning my sorrows about Alex and she was my partner in crime again. I hated admitting it, but he’d got to me.

I was surprised when they gave me the job. I’m still surprised. My publisher, Tetlan, sorted out my one-year work visa, and within two months I had packed up my life in Sydney and flown to
the other side of the world. Bridget offered me a room in her new flat in Chalk Farm – she’s no longer with the guy she was seeing a year and a half ago – and coincidentally, this
week she’s freelancing for a magazine on the floor below mine.

I inwardly sigh. Why didn’t he wait for me at the top? Were my hand signals not clear? Was it actually
him
? Of course it was. Did he recognise me? Doesn’t he remember who I
am?

I’m so deep in thought that I almost miss my stop. Outside on the pavement, I pick up a snappy-sounding voicemail from my immediate boss, Nicky.

‘Simon’s just told me you’re going to be late. You’re going to miss the briefing meeting now, so go straight to the studio in Kentish Town and start setting up. Call
me when you get there. And for God’s sake, don’t forget the feather boas!’

She sounds pissed off. I’m
Hebe
’s picture editor, but she’s the picture
director
, a position that we didn’t even have at the
Hebe
office in Sydney.
So in a weird way, I haven’t even been promoted. I still answer to one other person in the pecking order before the magazine’s editor, Simon, who interviewed me alongside Nicky via
video conference call. I like him a lot – he’s popular with everyone – but I belatedly realise I’ve probably put Nicky’s nose out of joint by letting Bridget notify
him of my lateness instead of her. Bridget has freelanced for Simon in the past so she knows him.

Bridget’s flat is a ten-minute walk from the station and is on the middle floor of a cream-painted three-storey Georgian terrace. It has two medium-sized bedrooms, one shared bathroom, and
a modern open-plan kitchen and living space. It’s bright and airy with large sash windows looking out onto trees. It’s March right now so the branches are bare, but it’s only a
matter of time before we’ll have a leafy green view. Despite its size, which is much smaller than the house I shared in Sydney, I love it. It feels very English. I pay rent direct to
Bridget’s dad, who bought the flat recently as an investment. Bridget’s parents are divorced and I haven’t yet met her mum, but her dad popped over the day after I arrived to see
if he could help with anything. He couldn’t – I had already unpacked my one meagre suitcase – but I appreciated the gesture.

On my first weekend here, Bridget and Polly took me shopping at Camden markets and we bought a few items for my new bedroom: a yellow lampshade, a string of green and white fairy lights, a rug
for the floor, a couple of posters. It’s still a fairly sparse space, which is why I’m even more annoyed at myself for managing to forget to take the bags of flipping feather boas
hanging on the coat stand.

Considering I’ve only been here for three weeks, I already feel like I’m on my way to becoming a Londoner. I gave myself a week to settle in and get over my jetlag before starting
work, and in that time I sorted myself out for a Tube pass and took train rides all over London, getting to know my new city. Halfway through my first week, I went to meet Polly for lunch at the
hotel I stayed in; seeing it again gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I never told her about Alex, but I confided in Bridget. I don’t know why – I’ve known Polly
for years – but I had a feeling she would judge me, and Bridget, well, I didn’t think she would. I was right.

I call Nicky when I arrive at the studios.

‘We’re on our way,’ she snaps. I presume she’s in a cab. ‘Is the photographer there yet?’

‘No, I’m the first to arrive.’

‘Sort out the catering for lunch and we’ll be with you in twenty. Did you remember the feather boas?’

‘They’re what I had to go back home for,’ I point out patiently.

‘Fine.’

She ends the call. I exhale loudly, realising I’ve been holding my breath. My boss at
Hebe
in Sydney was a bit of a bitch and I’m not entirely convinced that I haven’t
jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Nicky was charming when she interviewed me, but maybe I’m seeing her true colours away from Simon.

We’re shooting the four judges from a primetime reality TV show and the theme is ‘cheese’, hence the colourful feather boas. Phil, the photographer, arrives after ten minutes
– a weary-looking man in his mid-forties who looks like he’s had a few too many late nights. The make-up artist arrives next, and I jolt with surprise when I recognise her olive skin
tone and glossy dark hair.

‘Maria?’ It’s one of Polly’s hens!

‘Bronte?’ she exclaims with surprise.

‘How
are
you?’ I walk over to her and give her a hug.

‘I’m great!’ She pulls back.

‘I didn’t know you did hair and make-up for this sort of stuff?’

‘Yeah, I do it all.’ She shakes her head, still taken aback at seeing me again. ‘What are you doing in the UK? Do you work at
Hebe
?’

‘Yeah, I started a couple of weeks ago. Packed up and left Sydney.’

‘Wow.’

‘Have you seen Polly recently?’ I ask.

‘No, I haven’t seen her for months.’

That strikes me as a bit strange, considering she came to the hen night. I assumed they must be close. ‘Hey, I was just about to make coffee. Do you want one?’

‘Sure, that’d be great.’ She smiles warmly.

My phone rings on my way to the kitchen. It’s Nicky.

‘We’re two minutes away,’ she says. ‘I’ll need help getting the props out of the cab.’

‘Sure,’ I reply, but she’s already gone. I frown at my phone and stuff it back into my pocket, then I traipse down the studio steps to the street. I stand outside for what
feels like forever in the cold spring air, thinking regretfully of my warm coat up in the studio. So much for Nicky only being two minutes away. Actually, she said ‘we’. She must be
bringing Russ, the writer who’s doing the interview.

A cab pulls over and I see Nicky in the back, leaning forward to pay the driver. I stand back as she climbs out, followed by someone else. My heart stops, everything feels like it’s moving
in slow motion, and then Alex is standing before me.

‘This is Alex Whittaker, our new Art Director,’ Nicky says offhandedly. ‘Simon thought he should come along to the shoot.’

We stare at each other in shock, his blue eyes intense with recognition. He looks paler than I remember him, but maybe that’s blood loss to his face. I bet my Aussie tan has retreated,
too.

‘Bronte Taylor, my deputy,’ Nicky continues her casual introduction, then addresses me specifically. ‘Can you get the props out of the cab?’ She’s completely
oblivious to the fact that I’m frozen and not from the cold. ‘We’ll go up.’ She indicates for Alex to follow her and he hesitates only a moment before doing so. No
acknowledgement of me, no ‘Hello, how have you
been
?’ No ‘Holy shit, it’s YOU!’ Nothing. I’m lost for words myself.

‘Come on, love, I haven’t got all day,’ the cabbie moans. I come to with a start and climb into the back of the cab, dragging out five colourful sunshade umbrellas, a
medium-sized fake palm tree and then box after box, dropping them onto the pavement. A spark of irritation ignites inside me. Why didn’t Nicky and... whoa, it was Alex!
Alex!
I was
going to complain that they didn’t help carry anything up the stairs, but I’m thrown again by the understanding that Alex is here. He’s
Hebe’s
new Art Director.

‘Are there many more boxes?’ Maria asks on my return. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ Nobody else is offering.

‘Your Art Director looks familiar,’ she muses on our way downstairs, and my stomach lurches as I remember she saw us getting very cosy at the club. ‘I feel like I’ve seen
him before.’

‘Maybe you met him at another job.’ My tone sounds surprisingly even.

She shrugs. ‘Must’ve done.’

She picks up a box, ready to drop the topic, but I panic. What if she places him? It would be beyond awkward if she blurted anything out in front of Nicky.

‘Can you keep a secret?’ I ask quickly.

She looks baffled, tilting her head to one side as she shifts the box in her arms. ‘Yes?’

‘Please don’t say anything.’

She shakes her head quickly. ‘I won’t. What is it?’

‘Alex...’

‘Oh!’ Her eyes widen and I know that she’s got it before I need to elaborate.

‘At the hen night!’ she cries, nearly dropping the box.

‘Shh!’