Thirteen Weddings

by Paige Toon

  I watch him go. He’s right. I’m a screw-up if ever I saw one.

  Chapter 26

  Somehow I manage to pull myself together and return to the marquee for another hour and a half, before slipping away to bed at an acceptable time. My head is buzzing and when I finally do manage to doze off, I have a fitful sleep plagued with bad dreams and childhood nightmares.

  I wake up early in the morning. Bridget is sound asleep beside me after hitting the sack at one o’clock when the DJ music finally piped down. I was wide awake when she came in, although I pretended not to be.

  I throw on some clothes and leave the room. The house is silent. I pad barefoot to the kitchen. The early morning light is cold and grey. I fill up the kettle and flick it on, then jolt when the front door opens. Alex comes in, his head down, deep in thought.

  My heart speeds up. ‘Hi,’ I say, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Sorry.’ I give him a small smile.

  He looks abashed. ‘I thought everyone was asleep.’

  ‘They are. It’s just me.’

  He nods, not meeting my eyes.

  ‘I’m making tea,’ I say, trying to sound normal. ‘Do you want one?’

  He hesitates a moment before replying. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’ I ask steadily.

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s the middle of the night in New York. There’s no reception here so I walked up the road to check my messages.’

  I take the tea things to the table and sit down. ‘Were there any?’

  He nods. ‘Yeah. She called yesterday.’

  When you were kissing me? I keep that comment to myself. I don’t think it would help to say it out loud.

  I pour tea into the two cups and push one towards him. I add a dash of milk to mine, watching as the white liquid swirls around the dark water like a miniature storm cloud.

  ‘A storm in a teacup,’ I murmur.

  ‘What?’ His voice is barely more than a whisper.

  ‘The teacup. Look.’ I pour some milk into his tea and watch another cloud shape form. ‘I’ve never realised where that phrase comes from before. A storm in a teacup,’ I say again, putting the milk down on the table. I look up, right into his eyes. He looks anguished. He reaches over the table and takes my hand. His touch sends a shock zipping right up my arm and I want to slide my fingers along his forearm and hold more of him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not.’

  He doesn’t speak, but his brow furrows slightly. If I don’t tell him now... I’ll regret it. He can’t marry her. He can’t. My eyes fill with tears that start trailing down my cheeks as I bare my soul to him. ‘I love you.’

  He draws a sharp intake of breath and inadvertently tightens his grip on my hand.

  ‘I love you, Alex.’

  ‘Bronte, don’t.’ He shakes his head at me and releases my hand. ‘I can’t.’ My insides freeze.

  ‘I know you feel something for me, too,’ I say with more certainty than I feel.

  He meets my eyes, but he looks torn. His face is pale and washed-out. ‘I do. I care about you. We have chemistry. But Zara and I—’

  I flinch.

  ‘We have history,’ he finishes his sentence. ‘I have to go home and speak to her.’

  Fear and dread fill my heart. ‘Will you tell her about me?’

  He closes his eyes, resigned. ‘I don’t know,’ he says eventually. ‘But we obviously have issues for this to happen.’

  This? Him and me?

  ‘You can’t marry her.’ I don’t want to beg him.

  ‘Bronte,’ he says reluctantly, not able to bring himself to look me in the eye. ‘I don’t know what to do. I can’t be with you. I can’t be near you. I need some space to sort my head out.’

  He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubs for a few seconds before letting his hands fall.

  ‘What are you saying?’ I ask as the dread in my stomach grows.

  ‘I need to speak to Simon.’

  ‘Alex, no.’ I’m begging now. ‘Don’t leave. Not because of me. It will be okay.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.

  ‘Stop saying you’re sorry,’ I raise my voice. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Shh,’ he urges me to keep my voice down.

  I shove my chair out from the table and stand up. ‘You can’t... You can’t just kiss me like that—’

  ‘I won’t kiss you again,’ he cuts me off. ‘I need to go home and put this right. I feel like a bastard for even talking to you right now. I’m going to ask Simon if I can work on a special project. He told me Tetlan is launching a new magazine, wanted me to consult on it. It will give me space to sort myself out.’

  I bite my lip, but it doesn’t stop the tears from falling. I angrily brush them away, but the stream is relentless.

  ‘I think you’re making a mistake,’ I whisper, turning to look into his deep blue eyes. I’ll never forget the look of doubt on his face as I turn and walk away.

  I barely see Alex for the rest of the day – he doesn’t come to the beach with us, and his claim that he has a stomach virus means that everyone leaves him well alone. I don’t know how I get through the day before boarding the plane that night. Turns out I’m a much better actress than I thought.

  I force myself into work on Monday – it’s my first day as Picture Director and I have no idea how I find the internal strength to not just throw in the towel. I have a backstage shoot to organise for a major music awards ceremony next week. Hebe is effectively the official photographer for the TV channel – we’ll be shooting dozens of celebrities – and the shots will appear in the magazine in a few weeks’ time. Alex is supposed to help generate ideas for the various backstage sets we’ll be using, but in meetings he avoids eye contact with me, and it’s much worse than it’s ever been between us. True to his word, he asks Simon if he can work on the new, top secret magazine that our publisher is launching. And even though the awards ceremony backstage gig is hugely coveted and only attended by a lucky few, he lets Tim go in his place. The following week, I come into work to see Tim sitting in Alex’s chair and a part of me dies. I sob my heart out that night. He may as well have pried open my ribcage and broken my heart up with his fingers.

  I tell Bridget everything. It would be impossible not to. I put a brave face on it and stumble through my days at work, but my mask slips by the time evening comes around and I can’t hold it together.

  Work is busier and harder than ever. I have to organise and art-direct shoot after shoot, which means liaising with celebrity PRs, negotiating timetables and handling many tricky personalities. I have to book locations and studios, call in styling and hair and make-up artists, and come up with countless concepts for original photo shoots. And Simon is a tough boss. He’s even more of a perfectionist than I realised, and week after week, it’s a strain. I know that if Alex were here, he would help me deal with the extra responsibility, nurture my creativity and brainstorm with me for shoot ideas. But he’s not here. I’m on my own and I’m really feeling the pressure.

  The days turn into weeks. September passes into October. The green leaves turn golden and slip from the trees, and I agree to my mother’s request that I’ll come home for Christmas. I miss a couple of calls from Polly, but I can’t yet bring myself to call her back. And then one day she gets hold of Bridget.

  ‘Polly’s going to AA,’ Bridget tells me that night, dropping her bag on the floor.

  ‘What?’

  She slumps onto the sofa, frowning at the music coming from the stereo. It’s ‘Love’ by Daughter and I’ve been playing it on repeat because it reminds me of Alex.

  ‘She rang me at work,’ Bridget continues. ‘She said she keeps calling you, but you haven’t rung her back.’

  ‘I can’t face her,’ I say with difficulty. ‘She’s going to AA?’

  ‘She said Michelle and Grant
forced her to see that she has a problem.’

  ‘Michelle?’

  ‘It sounds like they hosted an intervention, like you said we needed to do.’

  It hits me that I’ve failed my friend. I’m a horrible person. My face crumples.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ Bridget says sharply.

  Her tone snaps me out of it somewhat.

  ‘You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ she continues crossly, grabbing a handful of tissues from the nearby, nearly empty box and throwing them at me. ‘I’ve had enough of it. Stop playing this depressing song. Get over it. He’s not leaving her so you’ve got to move on. Get back on the horse. Find another man, someone who you don’t have to share. Lachie—’

  ‘He won’t be interested,’ I cut her off. ‘Not any more.’ Not after seeing the mess I was in at the wedding.

  ‘Lachie is leaving in a couple of weeks. That’s what I was going to say,’ she continues determinedly. ‘Let’s go and—’

  ‘What?’ I instantly feel cold. ‘Where’s he going?’

  She looks at me like I’m a bit dim. ‘Travelling,’ she states purposefully. ‘He wants to see Europe before he heads home. You know this,’ she adds with irritation. ‘Oh no, that’s right, you’ve been too caught up in Alex World to remember what your friends are doing.’

  ‘Lachie is leaving in two weeks?’

  ‘Yes. And despite what you say about him not being interested, he does still care about you, Bronte. He’s been asking after you.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’ve stopped going for Friday-night drinks, but Bridget hasn’t.

  ‘He’s doing the wedding on Saturday,’ she tells me with meaning. ‘One last gig.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can—’

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ she snaps. ‘Don’t be another Sally. Rachel is depending on you. You’ve already let her down once this month.’

  It’s true. I couldn’t face the last wedding I was scheduled to do, so Sally had to step in in my place. Made a change.

  I nod, still feeling tearful. ‘Okay.’ I dry my eyes and blow my nose loudly. ‘Polly’s really getting help?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nods, but there’s a wariness to her expression. ‘I told her you were having some personal issues. It’s why you haven’t called.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply quietly.

  ‘She asked if it was to do with your dad.’

  I give her a guarded look. ‘Did you tell her no?’

  She looks at her hands and doesn’t answer.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she replies quietly. ‘About your dad.’

  ‘What about him?’ I ask dully, wondering just how far back Polly went.

  ‘She said he’s sick.’

  I nod. ‘He is.’

  ‘And she said you had a difficult childhood,’ she adds carefully.

  I swallow. ‘I don’t like to talk about it. And Polly should know that. She does know that, usually, when she’s not off her face on alcohol. I thought you said she’d stopped drinking?’

  ‘She has. She was stone-cold sober.’

  ‘Then what the hell is she doing spouting off about my family?’ I ask angrily, getting to my feet. ‘If I want to talk about what happened, I’ll talk about it. I don’t need that silly bitch bringing it all up again!’

  From the look on her face, I’ve done the impossible: I’ve shocked Bridget.

  I storm into my bedroom and slam the door. I’m shaking all over – violently. I want to break something, but the feeling doesn’t last too long. It’s a good half an hour before Bridget dares to knock on my door.

  ‘Come in,’ I call.

  She does, warily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say bluntly, sitting up on my bed. I’m still angry, but I know it’s not Bridget’s fault. ‘I just can’t believe all that shit followed me around for years, and Polly knows that. The talk, the rumours, the weird stares. It’s why I left my little beach town in South Australia. I couldn’t wait to get away from there. She used to understand that.’ Sudden sadness crushes my anger and my bottom lip begins to tremble. ‘Oh God, not more tears.’ I sniff back my snot and reach for another tissue, and Bridget ventures into the room and perches on the end of my bed. ‘I felt like a leper at school,’ I tell her miserably. ‘Polly was my only friend. I thought it was just a matter of time before she ditched me, too, but she never did. I thought she’d be glad to get rid of me when I moved to Sydney, but the stupid cow followed me there a year later.’

  I laugh disconsolately and dry my eyes. Bridget regards me with compassion.

  ‘She always was a bloody nightmare,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t know why we were friends in the first place. I don’t know why we’re still friends.’

  ‘You have history,’ Bridget says gently.

  ‘We have chemistry. But Zara and I... We have history.’

  I shake my head. No. I will not bawl my eyes out again. ‘Yeah, and she still didn’t ask me to be a frigging bridesmaid.’

  Bridget starts to laugh, and I do, too. ‘Not that I wanted to be a frigging bridesmaid!’ I cry, bordering on hysterical. ‘Did you see what a nightmare she was? Poor Michelle!’

  My laughter dies eventually. ‘I guess she made the right choice in the end. Michelle was there for her, when I wasn’t.’

  ‘Polly’s not here for you, either,’ Bridget says quietly. ‘She hasn’t been here for you for a long time. Whatever history you have... I know you feel loyal to her, but sometimes friendships are meant to go their separate ways.’

  I nod shakily. ‘If I hadn’t come to that wedding, I wouldn’t be in this place right now.’

  ‘Don’t you think you still would have gone for that job at Hebe? If you had, you and Alex would have still crossed paths.’

  I contemplate this and realise she’s right. And I’m pretty sure we still would have had chemistry. ‘But I might not have met you,’ I say as a fresh bout of tears fills my eyes.

  ‘Well, in that case, I’m glad you came to the wedding.’ She sniffs as I witness another first: Bridget crying.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bridge. I know I’ve been a nightmare to live with. I’m sorry I’ve been moping about Alex. I promise to pick myself up and get on with things now.’

  ‘Starting with the wedding this weekend,’ she says firmly. ‘Don’t turn into another Sally.’

  I nod quickly. ‘Okay.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘Hey, you!’

  I smile at Maria’s warm greeting as I climb into the back seat. ‘Hello!’ I reply as I put my kit bag on the seat next to me and lean forward to give her a kiss on her cheek. ‘Wow!’ I spy her baby bump – and it’s grown.

  ‘I know!’ she puts her hands on her belly. ‘It seems to have doubled in size overnight.’

  ‘Not quite,’ I tell her, buckling my seatbelt as Rachel sets off. ‘But you’re definitely looking pregnant now.’

  ‘It feels like ages since I saw you,’ Maria says, swivelling in her seat to face me. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Really busy at work,’ I reply apologetically.

  ‘Russ said you haven’t been well?’

  ‘Not that great, no, but I’m much better now.’

  ‘But you’ve still been at work?’

  ‘Yeah.’ My health problems are mental, not physical. ‘I just got a promotion, so I’ve been pushing through it.’

  She looks concerned. ‘Take it easy, though. You don’t want to wear yourself out.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m fine now,’ I reiterate. ‘It’ll be good to get some fresh air this weekend.’

  My eleventh wedding – tenth without including Pete & Sylvie’s – is in Rachel’s home town of Bath. The journey is about two hours’ long, and we’re setting off early on Saturday morning and staying the night in a B&B.

  ‘You look well,’ I say to Maria. It’s true. I didn’t think her hair could get any glossier, but the proof is right in front of me.
r />   She smiles. ‘Thanks.’

  As Rachel drives into Camden, my nerves kick in. I haven’t seen Lachie since Maria and Russ’s wedding two months ago. He may have asked after me, but he hasn’t tried to contact me, and he hasn’t attempted to see me. If my friends and colleagues have caught up with him, it’s because they’ve gone to his pub. Considering how easily he came to be a part of our crowd, it’s strange how far he seems to have withdrawn.

  ‘Can you run up?’ Rachel asks me, as she pulls up on double yellow lines outside Lachie’s place. ‘I might have to go around the block.’

  ‘Sure.’ I prepare myself for seeing him again.

  Lachie lives in an apartment within a townhouse which is not unlike the converted house where Bridget and I live, although Lachie’s could do with a coat of paint. I’ve never been inside, so I climb out of the car and walk up the broad grey steps leading to the property’s front door. There’s a keypad with four buttons on it. I can’t see Lachie’s name, but I remember his flatmate is called Dan. I’ve met him at the pub in the past.

  I press the button with Dan’s name on it and a moment later, the door buzzes. I push it open, and hesitantly step inside. Which one is his apartment? I hear a door open on the first floor, up the communal stairs.

  ‘Come up,’ Lachie calls.

  The hallway is littered with junk mail. I step over it and climb the grubby stairs past the cream-coloured walls stained with years of handprints and who knows what else. One of the two doors at the top of the flight of stairs is ajar, so I tentatively push it open.

  ‘Lachie?’ I call, peeking my head around the door.

  ‘Bron?’ He appears in the hallway, looking surprised to see me.

  ‘Weren’t you expecting me?’ I ask, walking inside.

  ‘Well, you didn’t come to the last wedding, so I wasn’t sure. I’ll be with you in a sec.’

  My eyes scan the room. It’s tidy, but not too tidy, and there’s not a lot of furniture apart from a comfy sofa, a big flatscreen TV with a PlayStation set up in front of it and two remote controls on the smudged glass coffee table. You can tell two guys live here.