Thirteen Weddings (6 page)

‘Sorry!’ she squeaks.

‘I haven’t seen him since, and for some reason he’s choosing to pretend that he doesn’t know me.’

‘What a bastard,’ she says crossly.

‘Huh. Yeah.’

I pick up a box and, to my relief, she doesn’t interrogate me further.

The TV judges arrive soon afterwards and then it’s all go, the studio becoming a hive of activity as we – although mostly it’s just me – get the set ready with the
colourful props: umbrellas, plastic neon bar glasses, the fake palm tree and strings of fairy lights. Maria has brought a rail of colourful clothes with her and Nicky is going through the items and
assigning them to the various TV stars while Maria begins on hair and make-up. Phil is setting up his photography equipment and Alex... He was talking to one of the judges a minute ago, but I
can’t see him now...

‘Hey.’

I nearly jump out of my skin when I realise that he’s right behind me.

‘Hi,’ I reply curtly.

‘I had no idea...’ His voice trails off.

‘No, me neither.’ I give him an awkward smile. I haven’t forgiven him for failing to acknowledge me earlier, but maybe he’s trying to make up for it now.

‘How are you?’ he asks quietly.

‘I’m fine.’ I shrug and look around. ‘I’m good.’

‘When did you... How... What happened?’

‘You mean how did I end up here in front of you?’ I ask.

He nods.

‘I applied for a job and got it. I’m here for a year. I started at
Hebe
two weeks ago, arrived from Oz the week before that.’

‘Wow. Where are you living?’

‘Chalk Farm. I’m staying with Bridget. You might remember her.’

‘Bridget?’ He frowns. ‘Oh, “shot” Bridget!’

‘Yeah. “Shot” Bridget.’ My expression softens. ‘We stayed in touch after the hen night.’

I glance across at Maria, but she’s busy applying foundation to one of the already astonishingly orange female judges.

‘That’s Maria,’ I whisper. ‘She was at the hen night too.’

He looks knocked for six.

‘I know. Weird, right? But she won’t say anything,’ I quickly add.

He exhales in a rush and I regard him with curiosity. It’s so strange seeing him again. But I don’t get it. I don’t understand his behaviour. What’s the big deal if
we’ve met before? ‘Was that you on the escalator this morning?’

I know it was, but I want him to admit it.

He looks down and kicks his foot lightly against the palm tree. ‘Yeah.’

‘Why didn’t you wait at the top?’ I shake my head, perplexed.

‘Bronte!’

We snap to attention at the sound of Nicky’s voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Have you got the catering under control or what?’

Alex folds his arms uncomfortably. She has no right to talk to me like I’m some minion. I almost reply angrily, but it would look unprofessional in front of everyone here.

‘I’m on it,’ I call back.

Alex steps backwards and lets me go.

The rest of the morning is excruciatingly awkward. Alex barely speaks to me and I barely speak to anyone. Russ, one of the features writers from
Hebe,
arrives towards the end of the
shoot, and Nicky breaks away from scrutinising Phil’s digital shots on a laptop to come over to me.

‘Russ is here now to do the interview.’ She flicks her medium-length light blonde hair back off her face and regards me with cool blue eyes behind her red horn-rimmed glasses.
‘Alex and I are going to head back to the office. You can bring everything back later in a cab with Russ.’

Great. So I’ll be tidying up on my own. ‘Okay.’

She turns away and smiles charmingly at everyone. ‘Thanks for a great shoot, guys!’ She theatrically air-kisses each of the four judges, then Phil, before turning to Alex.
‘Ready?’ she asks him, waving goodbye to Maria, who’s still packing up her makeup bag.

He glances at me with confusion. ‘Is Bronte not—?’

‘No,’ she cuts him off. ‘She’s staying to clear up. We should get back.’

Alex looks uneasy, but doesn’t argue. It’s his first day in the office, after all. Nicky turns on her heel and she and her skinny butt leave the building, closely followed by a man
who I have spent a huge number of days dreaming about in the last year and a half.

‘You alright?’ Maria asks me with concern.

‘I feel a bit weird,’ I tell her honestly.

‘That
was
weird,’ she agrees. ‘You both seemed tense.’

My eyes shoot up to look at her. ‘Do you think—?’

‘No,’ she cuts me off. ‘No one else would have noticed. It was just me, because I knew.’

She doesn’t even fully know what she knows, but I think she suspects we slept together, and well, she’d be right.

‘Do you want to go for a quick drink?’ she asks sympathetically. I glance over at Russ. He’ll be at least another half an hour, maybe more, with the interviews.

‘Sure, yeah, okay, that’d be nice.’ I smile at her gratefully.

We go down the road to the first pub we come across and order a couple of Cokes, taking them to a booth seat by the window. It smells of stale booze and years of pre-ban cigarette smoke
ingrained in the flocked wallpaper and swirly red and brown patterned carpet. I sip my Coke miserably.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Maria asks me, her warm brown eyes full of compassion.

‘I don’t really know what to say,’ I mumble. ‘I never thought I’d see him again.’

‘It must have been a shock.’

‘The oddest thing is that I saw him on the Tube escalator this morning.’

She looks incredulous. ‘No way?’

‘He was coming up, I was going down. I motioned for him to wait at the top, but he didn’t.’ I feel embarrassed by this revelation and dejectedly rest my chin on my hand.

‘No wonder you’re freaked out. Then I go and turn up, too. Talk about weird coincidences.’

I regard her across the table. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’

She smiles and delivers a quote in a regal-sounding voice: ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence. Just God’s hand in a greater plan.’

I smile at her wryly. ‘I don’t believe in God, either.’

‘What about Einstein?’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, as Albert Einstein himself said, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”’

I grin at her. ‘I still don’t believe in God.’

She rolls her eyes, giving up on me. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘Go
back to the office and act like I’ve never met him before.’ The thought makes my heart clench painfully, and the emotion takes me by surprise. I barely knew him. It
was one night. It shouldn’t be too hard to move on from this. ‘Where are you off to after this?’

‘I’m meeting up with a friend. She’s getting married this weekend and I’m doing her make-up.’

‘Cool. Where do you live?’

‘Golders Green.’

‘That’s a few stops up from Chalk Farm, right?’

‘Yeah. Have you been?’

‘No. I only arrived from Oz three weeks ago.’

‘Aah. Well, it’s a nice neighbourhood, and Hampstead is not far, where there are lots of lovely little shops, restaurants and cafés. Definitely worth a visit, and it’s
great hanging out on the Heath in the summer.’

I glance out of the window at the grey sky. ‘Summer feels like a long way away.’

‘It’ll be here before you know it.’ Pause. ‘And then it’ll be gone again, just as quickly.’

I snort with amusement. ‘Well, I’m not here for the weather.’

She smiles across the table at me. ‘How’s your job?’

I can’t help hesitating and her face falls.

‘What? You’re not happy?’

‘I’m being such a misery guts today.’ I sigh heavily. ‘I’m not too sure about my new boss,’ I admit. ‘But maybe she just takes a bit of getting used
to.’

‘I didn’t think much to the way she spoke to you at the shoot,’ Maria empathises.

‘No, neither did I,’ I reply glumly. ‘Oh well, I’ll just have to get my job satisfaction from elsewhere.’

‘Like where?’

‘I like taking photographs,’ I admit. ‘I prefer being behind a camera than trawling through pictures of paparazzi shots of celebrities’ wobbly bits.’

‘Have you done any freelance work?’

‘A little. I’ve done portraits of friends’ babies and that sort of thing, and I’ve done some birthdays and a few events.’

Her face lights up. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’

‘Er, nothing...’

‘Rachel is going to kiss me!’ she exclaims excitedly.

‘Who’s Rachel?’

‘My flatmate. She’s a wedding photographer and her assistant has just completely let her down for this wedding we’re doing this weekend. Can you help out?’ she asks
quickly.

My head prickles with panic. A wedding? ‘I’m not sure. I mean, I might not be good enough.’

‘Rachel would handle all the tricky shots. You’d just be her back-up.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say hesitantly. I believe in marriage as much as I believe in God.

‘It pays well. Why don’t you just come over and meet her? Bring a portfolio of your work?’

‘I don’t suppose it could hurt,’ I respond. It’s not like I couldn’t use the extra money.

‘Brilliant!’ She beams from ear to ear and I wonder what the hell I’ve got myself into.

The red-painted front door whooshes open and a pretty woman in her mid-thirties with brown eyes and blonde ringlets beams at me.

‘Bronte!’ she cries. ‘Thank you so much for coming!’

‘Hello!’ I recognise her instantly. So
this
is Rachel... ‘You did Polly and Grant’s wedding,’ I say, juggling my laptop under my arm as she ushers me past
her into the cramped hall.

‘That’s right,’ she replies, closing the door behind me. ‘When I was a weekend warrior.’

‘Weekend warrior?’

She smiles at my confused look. ‘A part-time wedding photographer. I’ve
finally
left my accountancy job and gone full-time.’

‘Wow, that’s great.’

I remember her well. She was friendly and approachable and everyone felt relaxed around her. I still haven’t seen Polly’s wedding photos, but I’d put money on them being
fantastic.

‘Can I get you a drink? We’ve just opened a bottle of white,’ she says.

‘I’d love one.’

She leads me into a cool and cosy kitchen styled like a Fifties diner with pastel shades of blue, pink and cream. Maria leaps up from the kitchen table, leaving behind two large glasses of white
wine and a stack of large black, square books.

‘Hey!’ she says happily. ‘I’m so glad you could make it.’ She gives me a friendly hug.

‘Thanks,’ I reply as a long-stemmed wine glass finds its way into my hand.

‘Maria said you’ve just arrived from Australia?’ Rachel says as we sit down.

‘That’s right. About three weeks ago.’

‘And you’ve done some events?’

‘A few,’ I reply uneasily, feeling compelled to elaborate. ‘No weddings, though, I’m afraid, although I have done some portraits for friends.’

‘Any documentary-style photography?’ she asks, worry lines appearing on her forehead.

‘Um, well, I’ve taken quite a lot of pictures at friends’ birthdays and I did an awards ceremony once.’ Back when I worked at
Marbles,
my boss let me have a go at
some boring industry awards.

‘Have you got anything to show me?’ she asks.

‘I didn’t bring my portfolio with me from Australia, but I’ve got a bunch of shots on my laptop.’

Maria smiles encouragingly while Rachel clicks through the images. I watch her nervously, feeling the pressure.

‘How’s it going at work?’ Maria asks.

‘It’s okay.’

‘Have you seen much of Alex?’

‘Not really. He’s been in and out of meetings.’

The glass-walled meeting room is right opposite my desk so I’ve had a perfect view of Alex steadfastly ignoring me since getting back to the office after the photoshoot yesterday.

I notice Rachel pausing on the occasional picture, taking time to study it. My nerves intensify and I take a large gulp of my wine. I love photography and I want her to be impressed.

‘This is great,’ she says finally, looking pleased.

‘Really?’

‘Perfect. Just the sort of thing I’m after.’

I exhale with relief. ‘So what will you need me to do exactly?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I have a camera.’ I invested in one when I started getting some freelance work. ‘But
I’m not sure my two lenses will be good enough.’

‘No need to worry. My assistant, Sally, will be happy to lend you her kit.’

‘Are you sure she won’t mind?’

‘Not at all.’ Rachel tuts. ‘She owes me, dropping me in it at the last minute like this.’

‘Why did she pull out?’

‘Her boyfriend wants to take her away for the weekend.’

Rachel can’t be very happy about it. Maria gives me a pertinent look, answering my unspoken question.

‘Where is the wedding?’ I glance at Maria.

‘It’s near Cambridge, about an hour away, in a village a few miles from where I grew up,’ she reveals. ‘We can all travel up together in Rachel’s car on Saturday
morning.’

‘Great.’ I look down at the stack of books on the table and Rachel notices.

‘These are some of my weddings.’ She picks up the book on the top and hands it to me. The cover says ‘Pippa and John’ in swirly script on the front and there’s a
beautifully romantic shot of a groom dipping a bride backwards while planting a gentle kiss on her lips. Rachel talks me through her work, explaining how a wedding package tells the story of the
wedding from the getting-ready part, sometimes all the way to the last dance. It’s a far cry from the traditional leather-bound albums that you usually see of fifty formal, stiff-looking
photographs of the wedding party in various staged poses. Rachel’s books are packed full of natural photographs of relaxed and happy people enjoying what looks like the best day of their
lives.

‘I’m so glad you like it.’ Rachel smiles warmly when I tell her how impressed I am. ‘I learned everything I know from a wedding photographer called Lina Orsino. She and
her partner Tom work as a team. Eventually I hope to have the same set-up – a partner, rather than an assistant – but one step at a time.’

‘Sounds great,’ I say. ‘So what will you need from me?’