by Paige Toon
Sometimes, though, I find myself daydreaming about all of those Big Days that I did… Not Alex’s – I’ve buried that one too deep – but all of the others, and my head is full of images of beautiful brides and handsome grooms, flowers cascading from pews and the hands of pretty bridesmaids, sparkling champagne in crystal-clear flutes, and hazy blue skies and scented warm grass on perfect English summer days…
And then I miss it so much it hurts.
But I feel as if I left that part of me on the other side of the world and I’m not sure I could ever go back.
My stomach clenches. At this rate I won’t need to go back in order to move on. Like it or not, my past might be about to catch up with me right here in Sydney.
Lachie calls me as I’m disembarking at Manly.
‘You coming to the pub?’ he asks in lieu of a greeting.
‘Not sure I feel like it,’ I reply, shrugging my bag over my shoulder as I come out of the ferry terminal building into the darkening evening. I hang a right towards the beach.
‘What’s wrong? You okay?’
‘Bit of a strange day.’
‘Strange how?’
‘I’ll tell you about it at home.’ Hint, hint, don’t stay out too long…
‘Er, well, El’s just arrived,’ he replies. ‘He’s at the bar,’ he adds as my heart sinks. ‘Seemed pretty rough. Said he’d fill me in once he had a drink down him.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Come join us,’ he says in a cajoling voice.
‘Maybe. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Okay.’ He sends two kisses spiralling down the receiver and ends the call.
El – Elliot – is Bridget’s ex. Bridget was my flatmate in England, and I missed her terribly when I moved back home. Luckily, she’s a travel writer, and it took very little convincing to get her to agree to come and spend some time in Australia. Early on in her stay, she bumped into Elliot, whom she’d known as a teenager. They rekindled their relationship and we became an awesome foursome. It was brilliant. Until Bridget’s visa ran out and she had to go back to the UK. She and Elliot managed long distance for almost a year, but Bridget broke it off when she fell for someone else.
I love Bridget to bits, but she’s very up and down when it comes to men, a trait I recognise because I used to be a bit like that myself. And, even though she seems besotted with her new guy right now, I wouldn’t put money on it lasting. I just can’t believe she threw away everything that she had with Elliot – with us – for yet another infatuation.
The most gutting thing is, right before they broke up, Elliot confided to me that he was thinking about proposing. If they’d got married, Bridget could have settled in Australia permanently, and we all could’ve lived happily ever after…
But, clearly, El left it too late.
It was awful dealing with the repercussions of their breakup. Elliot was devastated. Lachie and I rallied round – Lachie especially – but El was a mess for months. Recently, he’s starting dating again – well, pulling might be a more apt word. I don’t love the idea of my boyfriend hanging out with a single man on a mission, but I know we need to ride it out until he’s back on his feet.
Lachie and I live in a one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a two-storey building, a couple of blocks from the beach. There’s a small balcony out the front, which in the summer hosts barbecues aplenty, but is currently being used only as a space for drip-drying Lachie’s wetsuit. Lachie surfs almost every day – I’m a little envious that he has time to. His work takes place outside regular office hours – he plays the guitar and sings, mostly at weddings, but also at birthdays and other special occasions. I met him at a wedding in Scotland – he was gigging and I was taking the pictures. I thought he was so sexy, so far from my idea of a typical wedding singer.
I unlock the door and walk in to find our home ever so slightly better off than when I left it: the breakfast things are gone from the counter by the sink and the mail has been cleared into a neat stack, but there’s still a ring on the table from where Lachie sloshed too much milk into his bowl this morning, and breadcrumbs on the board from his lunchtime sandwich preparation. I scan the contents of the fridge, relieved to see that my boyfriend at least remembered to go to the supermarket. But, before I can ponder what to cook for dinner, I have a flashback to Alex’s email and reach for an open bottle of white wine instead.
I really, really need to talk to someone about this. I have to talk to Lachie, but I don’t really want to. I want to talk to Bridget, I realise. It’s Friday morning in the UK – I wonder if she’s busy. I grab the phone and go to the sofa, taking a large gulp of wine and kicking off my shoes before dialling her number.
Alex and I met about six years ago at an eighties club night in London – he was on a stag do and I was on my Aussie friend Polly’s hen night. We ended up talking and bonding over the course of the evening and he confided that he’d recently broken up with his long-term girlfriend, Zara – or, technically, she’d broken up with him, labelling it ‘a break’. Later, he walked me back to my hotel and we spent the night together. It all happened so fast, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. I really liked him, way more than I could’ve thought possible, considering we’d only met earlier that night, and the feeling seemed mutual.
So we both felt torn and confused the next morning when Zara texted and asked to meet him for lunch, claiming that she’d made a mistake. I was only in the UK for a couple of weeks for Polly’s wedding so the smart option seemed to be to say goodbye and go our separate ways, but it hurt.
A year and a half later, I went back to the UK, this time on a one-year work visa. I’d landed a job at Hebe, the aforementioned magazine. To say I was shocked when Alex turned out to be the new Art Director is an understatement. I was thrown to discover he was engaged to his former ex and set to marry her later that year. We formed a tentative friendship, but the chemistry between us intensified until it became overwhelming and he stepped right back. He didn’t want to leave Zara, whom he’d been with for a decade. They had a shared history that felt too hard to walk away from.
Now Alex and I have history, too. Whether or not we still have chemistry doesn’t bear thinking about.
‘Hello?’ Bridget’s tinny voice comes down the receiver.
‘Bridget!’ I cry, relieved that she answered.
‘Bronte!’ she cries in return. ‘I was just about to call you, I promise I was!’
‘Why?’ I ask, confused at her slightly panicked, slightly guilty tone.
‘Has Elliot not told you?’ she replies.
‘Told me what?’
‘Oh! I thought that was why you were calling!’
‘Bridget!’ I exclaim. ‘What’s going on?’
I hear her inhale quickly and let her breath out in a rush, while I wait for her to speak.
‘I’m getting married.’
I almost fall off the sofa. ‘What?’
‘I’m engaged. Charlie proposed to me. I’m getting married,’ she repeats. And then she bursts out laughing.
‘What? How?’ I ask with surprise. ‘When?’
‘Next summer.’
‘No, I mean, when did he propose?’
‘Two days ago,’ she replies. I can’t see her face, but I know that she’s beaming from ear to ear.
‘Wow.’ I’m astonished. She and Charlie met a year or so ago and have only been a proper couple for half that time. ‘That was quick!’
‘I know,’ she replies, her enthusiasm dampened slightly by my reaction. ‘But when you know, you know.’
‘And you know?’ I ask weakly.
‘I’ve never been more certain about anything in my entire life,’ she states calmly but firmly.
A belated bubble of excitement bursts inside me and I let out a squeal. She cracks up laughing again, relieved that I’m finally responding appropriately.
‘I thought Elliot must’ve told you!’
Realisation dawns on me. ‘He’s out with Lachie. L
achie said he seemed pretty down. Is that why?’
‘Yeah, I called him earlier.’ Her tone becomes subdued.
‘He didn’t take it well?’
‘No.’
I’m not surprised. I’m reeling, myself. Bridget has been in and out of love so many times, and, even though she’s told me that it’s different with Charlie, that he’s unlike anyone she’s ever known, I didn’t really believe it. Now I know I underestimated their feelings for each other.
It’s funny, I always thought of my friend as an open book: warm, outgoing and the best person to be around. But there’s a side to her that I never got to know in the time that we lived together. She’s never struck me as a particularly maternal person – she and Elliot were alike in their desire not to have children, I thought. But Charlie has a young daughter, April, and the way Bridget talks about her with such obvious adoration makes me wonder if I ever really knew her at all.
‘Where did he propose?’ I ask with a smile, determined to try to make up for my initial lack of enthusiasm.
‘At the beach,’ she replies. ‘The one with the sea glass.’
‘I remember. So you’re thinking next summer for the wedding?’
‘Yes. And, Bronte, please will you come?’
‘Of course I’ll come!’ The thought of returning to England feels surreal, but I’m awash with nerves at the reminder that Alex will be coming here, well before then.
‘I was kind of hoping I’d be able to persuade you to do the wedding photos,’ she adds with slight trepidation.
‘Oh… I haven’t done any weddings since I left the UK.’
‘I know.’ She sounds uneasy. ‘I still don’t really understand why.’
‘Work is so busy…’
‘You managed to squeeze them in before, when you had a full-time job.’
‘Anyway, I’m also a bit out of practice.’
‘You’ve got almost a year before I walk down the aisle.’
I can’t help but smile at her perseverance. ‘You really want me to start doing weddings again, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she states. ‘You loved it. You were great at it.’
‘It feels like a lifetime ago,’ I say sadly.
‘It kills me that he ruined it for you!’ she snaps.
‘Who? Alex?’
‘Yes, Alex!’ she cries.
Bridget is not Alex’s biggest fan.
I sigh heavily. I don’t really know what to say to that. I don’t want to blame Alex. Yes, photographing his wedding set me back a bit, but it’s my own fault for letting that part of my life slip through my fingers.
‘He emailed me today,’ I tell her.
‘What?’
‘Alex. He emailed me today for the first time in years to tell me that he’s coming to Sydney next month.’
There’s no reply from the other end of the line, so I keep talking.
‘He thought he should let me know in case we bump into each other in the lift, or somewhere. He doubts he’ll need to come into Vivienne, but he’s going to be in the building. You know he’s the Art Director for the whole of Tetlan now?’
‘Yes, I did hear that,’ Bridget replies quietly.
I don’t remember passing that information on.
‘Russ and Maria told me,’ she answers my unspoken question.
Russ used to work with me at Hebe and Maria is the make-up artist who introduced me to Rachel, my wedding photographer mentor. Maria and Russ got together on a work night out and are now married with two children.
‘When were you talking to those two about Alex?’ I’m taken aback.
‘They came to Cornwall on holiday back in June and we caught up. I was just wondering if they ever saw or heard anything of him.’
I feel slightly strange that she asked about him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Bridget says gently. ‘I was just curious, to be honest, but I didn’t think you’d want that whole can of worms opening.’
‘Oh.’ Can of worms officially opened.
‘How do you feel about it?’ she asks. ‘Him rocking up in Sydney?’
‘I’m freaking out,’ I admit.
‘Oh, B,’ she murmurs. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I haven’t written back yet. I thought I should tell Lachie first.’
‘Good plan. Do you want to see him?’
‘No!’ My reply is instant.
‘Are you sure?’ she persists.
Butterflies cram my stomach. ‘He was only telling me out of courtesy,’ I say eventually, deflecting her question. ‘He didn’t ask to meet up with me, and Lachie would hate that, so I won’t see him unless we really do bump into each other.’
My heart contracts, suddenly, inexplicably. Alex is going to be here in Sydney. The thought of not seeing him fills me with the oddest array of confusing, conflicting emotions.
I’m still feeling confused and a little miserable later that night when I’ve sunk half a bottle of wine and am fixing myself toast for dinner because I can’t be bothered to cook. Lachie isn’t home and I haven’t heard from him again. He’s no doubt helping Elliot to drown his sorrows. El may have moved on physically from Bridget, but it’s clear he’s still emotionally attached. I don’t think he expected this thing with Charlie to last, either, so the marriage proposal will definitely have knocked him for six.
Could I really photograph Bridget’s wedding? She’s taking a risk in asking me – what if I’m rubbish these days? But, deep down, I know I’m not. I was good at it. Sure, I made mistakes, but nothing too major, and I always managed to get the one shot that Rachel told me was the most important: the groom’s reaction to seeing his bride for the first time.
A memory assaults me from out of nowhere and my heart folds in on itself. Before I can think about it, I’m opening the wardrobe in our bedroom and digging out my old laptop. Guilt pricks at my gut as I wait for it to fire up, and then I’m searching the items in my documents, looking for a folder deceptively entitled ‘Boring Bits’. Hidden right at the bottom of that folder I find three photographs called WA1, WA2 and WA3. WeddingAlex. I highlight and click on all three of them.
Alex’s face appears on the screen, his blue eyes staring straight back at me. The look on his face is so tortured, so uncertain. He had just told me that he loved me, that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he wasn’t sure if he could go through with marrying Zara. I wasn’t supposed to be photographing their wedding – Rachel had called me the night before in a panic because her regular assistant had caught the flu – but I agreed to do it because Alex had said that he’d be fine with it.
Lachie actually called things off with me when he heard that I’d consented – he’d been travelling around Europe and had phoned to ask me if I’d join him in Paris for the weekend. I told him of my alternative plans and he hit the roof. But he did an about-turn and was there, waiting for me, when I came out of the church. I couldn’t follow through with the job – it was all too much – but I’d got the most important shot, the one Rachel had entrusted to me.
I still remember that totally surreal feeling of willing Alex to turn around and look at his bride-to-be coming down the aisle. I wanted to do a good job for Rachel – and for Alex and Zara. But he didn’t look at Zara: he looked at me.
These are the pictures I took of him, staring straight down my lens.
Why have I still got them? I ask myself in a daze. Alex means nothing to me now. Lachie is everything. I should have binned them long ago, but I didn’t. What’s stopping me?
Nothing is stopping me.
I should get rid of them.
I should.
I close down the photographs, inwardly wincing at the sight of Alex’s deep-blue eyes disappearing from my screen, one after the other. I highlight the three files and drag them to the trash, hovering over the icon. Feeling slightly sick, I let them go.
But I know they’re still retrievable, so I force my fingers up to Finder on my desktop menu and s
croll down to ‘Empty Trash’.
Come on, Bronte. Just let go. Let him go, once and for all.
A cold sweat comes over me and I hastily click off the menu and go down to the trash to hunt out the photos, restoring them to my ‘Boring Bits’ folder.
I’m scared to discover he still has a hold over me.
Terrified.
I’m in bed, trying to sleep, when Lachie gets home at close to midnight.
‘You awake?’ he whispers loudly, pulling his T-shirt over his head.
‘Yes.’
‘Bronnie!’ he cries with delight, stumbling into the wardrobe as he attempts to take off his jeans.
‘How drunk are you?’ I ask with mild amusement as he flops his long, lean body onto the bed and gathers me up in his arms.
‘Very,’ he replies, pulling me against his muscled chest.
Despite how beery he smells, I love being in his arms. His warm, strong, familiar arms.
He slides one leg between mine and kisses my neck. Is he naked? I have a quick feel for his boxers and realise they came off with his jeans.
‘How was Elliot?’ I ask.
‘Bad. Bridgie’s getting married.’
‘I know. I spoke to her.’
‘Thought you might’ve.’ He kisses my neck again.
‘So Elliot’s in a bad way?’
‘He was. He’s pretty happy right now, though. Fliss took him off to a club.’
‘I didn’t know she was out with you tonight.’ I don’t sound thrilled.
‘Bumped into her and she stuck around.’
I bet she did.
Fliss – Felicity – is a friend of Lachie’s from work. She and her older sister, Georgina, run a catering company and they’ve been putting a lot of weddings his way. I’m sure she wants to get into his pants, but Lachie insists she only sees him as a mate. He reckons I’d like her if I gave her a chance.
