Thirteen Weddings

by Paige Toon

  ‘I didn’t know you did that last wedding?’ I say. Rachel didn’t mention it.

  ‘Yeah.’ He gives me an odd look and then shakes his head, chuckling under his breath as he zips up his backpack. ‘I thought you must’ve been avoiding me.’

  ‘No,’ I say resolutely. ‘No. Not at all.’

  He slings his backpack over his shoulder and turns to face me. ‘How are you?’ His question is packed full of meaning.

  ‘I’m alright,’ I say unenthusiastically.

  ‘How’s Alex?’ His tone is dry, but there’s even more meaning crammed into this question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell him truthfully, my mouth turning down. He raises one eyebrow in silent query. ‘He’s been working in another building. I haven’t seen him since just after Russ and Maria’s wedding.’

  ‘Oh.’ His blue eyes study me. ‘And are you alright with that?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m trying to be,’ I answer truthfully.

  He snatches a set of keys from the kitchen countertop and stuffs them into his pocket before grabbing his guitar case.

  ‘Ready.’

  I lead the way back down the stairs, past the scattered piles of junk mail and out of the front door. Rachel is nowhere to be seen. Then she appears around the corner and pulls up.

  ‘Quick!’ she shouts through her open window. ‘Police car behind me.’

  She screeches away from the kerb. There’s not a lot of room in the back and the whole of Lachie’s left-hand side is pressing into me.

  ‘Are you alright there?’ Maria asks him apologetically. ‘Sorry, sitting in the back makes me feel sick at the moment.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Lachie says before glancing at me. ‘Will my guitar fit in the boot?’ he asks Rachel.

  ‘I don’t think so, sorry,’ she replies.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I tell Lachie, but he takes my kit bag from my lap and finds room for it under his guitar case.

  I’m still not feeling very chatty, so I listen while the three of them make conversation before switching off and staring out of the window.

  I finally spoke to Polly yesterday. She admits that she has a problem and she’s trying to combat it, with Grant’s – and Michelle’s – support. She apologised to me for mouthing off at the pub that night – Grant told her all about it. She tried to strike up a conversation about me going home for Christmas, but I’m still not ready to open up to her about that.

  Lachie’s body is warm and comforting against my side and I suddenly feel very tired. I close my eyes.

  I’m playing the organ, my small fingers tripping across the keys. I can’t believe I’m making this big sound – me! All by myself! Pride swells inside my heart as my feet press on the pedals below. It’s only a simple tune, but surely Daddy will be proud of me. Oh, please let him be proud of me! I just want him to love me. Then suddenly he’s there, staring down at me, but he’s not proud, he’s not happy. He’s angry. My fingers falter, my feet freeze, and then his hand closes over my wrist and he drags me off the stool.

  The dream jerks me awake, and Lachie jerks in turn. He sleepily unfolds his arms and looks down at me, blinking slightly as he comes to – he must’ve drifted off as well. ‘What’s up?’ he murmurs. Rachel and Maria are talking, oblivious to the two of us in the back.

  My pulse is racing and my heart has sped up.

  ‘Hey,’ he says gently. I grab his hand and squeeze it tightly, pressing my eyes closed to block out the memories, but I can’t.

  My schoolmates are pointing at me, sniggering and whispering. Their expressions are hateful as they revel in my discomfort. I’m not doing anything to deny the rumours are true...

  I want to shove open the door and get out of the car, but we’re travelling at such speed, it would be suicide.

  ‘Bad dream?’ Lachie asks me and my eyes fly open.

  I nod quickly and reluctantly let go of his hand, placing it back on his lap. But he shifts and puts it around me instead, pulling me into the crook of his arm. The gesture makes me want to cry. He’s so kind to me, so sweet and gentle and funny. I don’t deserve him. But I don’t want to let him go, either. I turn into him and bury my face in his chest and he holds me tightly as my breathing regulates. His hand moves up to stroke my hair and I turn my face so I can breathe more easily, but I don’t want to move away. His lips press onto my forehead and my breath does an about-turn, quickening instead of calming down. I pull away and look up at him. If Alex’s eyes are the same shade as a cool blue ocean, Lachie’s are the colour of a summer sky. My gaze drops to his lips and I remember the passionate kiss we shared at Pete and Sylvie’s wedding. He removes his arm from around me and that snaps me to life. He slowly rests his head back on the headrest, but his eyes never leave mine. His face is full of regret, but I drag myself away and turn to look out of the window. I’m attracted to him. I’ve always been attracted to him. But whatever Bridget said about me jumping back on the horse, I can’t do that with Lachie, even if he wanted me to. He deserves better than to be my rebound guy.

  We’re staying in the same B&B as the groom, so we check in and drop our bags off before going to the bride’s parents’ house.

  I don’t pick up on the atmosphere at first, but after a while it becomes clear to me that we do not have a happy bride on our hands. Her name is Hester and Rachel flashes me an apprehensive look when she tells Maria she doesn’t mind whether she wears her hair up or down.

  It’s not that she’s being easy or simply bowing to the expert. She doesn’t care. Her mind is on other things. And no matter how much we try to cheer her up or tell her she looks beautiful, the most we get is a distracted smile.

  ‘Didn’t Maria have a practice run with her?’ I ask Rachel.

  ‘No. She said she didn’t want one.’

  I have to say I’m worried when I set off to the church.

  The groom, Billy, is in much higher spirits, and I try to convince myself that his bride-to-be is just nervous as I take a deep breath and get to work photographing yet another old English church. The flower arrangements are especially beautiful and bursting with autumnal colours: yellow sunflowers, red chrysanthemums and orange freesias. I jolt slightly at the altar when I see the organ. I run my fingers over the cream-coloured keys as I remember the little girl from my dream.

  I wonder if he ever feels sorry. I wonder if he feels anything at all.

  ‘You must be the photographer.’

  I jump as the vicar appears at my side. He’s a young man with a warm, open face. I nod quickly, swallowing to try to keep my tears firmly at bay.

  ‘Yes. Hello. I’m Bronte.’

  He holds his hand out and shakes mine. ‘Father Phillip. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘We’ll keep out of your way,’ I start to say.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ he says. ‘The bride and groom want you here, and that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you play?’ he asks me, indicating the organ.

  I nod, biting my lip.

  ‘The piano?’

  ‘No, well, yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘I play the organ, too. At least, I used to.’

  ‘How interesting,’ he says. ‘Not too many people choose it as an instrument these days.’

  ‘My dad was an organist.’

  ‘Was he?’ He smiles with pleasure. ‘Oh, here’s Nicholas, our organist, now!’ he exclaims brightly. ‘This young lady plays the pipe organ,’ he calls to Nicholas as he approaches.

  ‘I’d better keep going,’ I say quickly. I can feel the vicar’s confused gaze following me as I hurry away.

  I haven’t photographed the stained-glass windows, but it’s too late because the bridal party is here. I hurry out to the porch in time to see Hester’s three bridesmaids climb out of the car wearing long, flowing floor-length gowns of cherry red. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder at the vicar. He’s talking to the groom, smiling and nodding and putting him at ease, no doubt. He seems like a ni
ce man.

  I breathe in deeply and inhale the damp scent of my surroundings. I used to love this smell. I think back to how panicked I was at my first wedding this year – Suzie and Mike’s. It all feels a little surreal now. I don’t mind the smell so much any more – at the very least, it doesn’t give me chills.

  Once upon a time, I used to love being in church. I loved the vast, cool, beautiful spaces – a guaranteed haven in the hot Australian summer, a place for quiet contemplation. No matter what was going on at home, I could come to church and feel at peace.

  I turn to see Hester coming towards me. She looks absolutely beautiful in a strapless sweetheart corset studded with sequins and pearls. She’s wearing a veil and as she turns to the man beside her and allows him to take her arm, something dawns on me. That’s not her father – he’s much younger. Her brother perhaps? Has her father passed away? Is that why she’s not smiling?

  Rachel pulls a face at me as she passes. ‘Here goes nothing,’ she says worriedly.

  I get into position as Nicholas starts to play Wagner’s infamous piece.

  I click off some shots of Hester as she passes, but she’s still not smiling. I capture Billy turning around and giving her an encouraging nod, and I wonder what Rachel’s book will look like with the complementary shots next to each other. I have my doubts that these pictures will be some of this bride and groom’s favourites.

  Hester continues her march to the front, the overhead spotlights causing the diamantés along the hem of her veil to sparkle beautifully like tiny flashguns going off. As the music dies down and the vicar starts to speak, Hester backs away from her groom.

  ‘Hess,’ Billy says, his expression turning into one of horror.

  Even from back here, I can see her shaking her head. He holds his hand out to her in a silent plea and a murmur passes over the congregation. ‘I can’t,’ she mumbles, and then she turns and runs back down the aisle, carrying her long skirt as she goes.

  ‘Shit, really?’ Lachie’s face is a picture. ‘Fuck. Where’s the poor guy?’

  ‘Downstairs,’ I tell him.

  ‘In the bar?’ he asks with surprise.

  I nod. I’ve just given Lachie the news. He was chilling out in his room, reading a magazine on his bed when I knocked on his door. He wasn’t due to play at the reception for another few hours.

  ‘What happened?’

  I fill him in on the morning’s proceedings, trying not to be distracted by his biceps. He’s still only wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt and his tan is relentlessly clinging on from summer. He’s the most warm-blooded person I know.

  ‘So what now?’ he asks after he’s muttered a few profanities on behalf of the jilted groom.

  ‘I don’t know. Rachel and Maria are downstairs.’

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ he says, touching his hand to the small of my back before instantly snatching it away. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles as I jolt in surprise.

  What, so now he thinks he has to apologise for touching me? I hate that I’ve made him feel that way.

  Downstairs, the bar is full of wedding guests. Probably about one fifth of the people who attended the service are here, groom included. Rachel and Maria are at the bar.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Rachel asks us as we approach.

  ‘Are we staying?’ I reply in confusion. I kind of assumed we’d drive back to London.

  ‘May as well. We have rooms. Also, Billy and his family asked us to join them, and I feel like I need a drink after all that.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I agree.

  ‘Great,’ Lachie says. ‘What shall we go for? Bottle of red?’ He glances at me.

  ‘Sure.’ My eyes scan the room to hunt out the groom. He’s sitting hunched forwards in an armchair. His mother is kneeling at his feet with her hands on his knees. She’s taken her hat off but she still looks resplendent in a long, silvery-grey skirt and matching blouse. I don’t know what she’s saying. We’re outsiders looking in, not privy to personal details – at least, not many. Chances are we will never know why Hester left Billy at the altar. And we have to let it go – that’s our job, however much the curiosity might kill us. But whatever Billy’s mother is saying to him is making him nod. Lachie nudges me. He has a bottle of wine in his right hand and three wine-glass stems protruding from between the knuckles of his left. Maria is on the soft stuff.

  There’s a small table free in the corner so we go over to it and squeeze around it.

  It’s a strangely heart-warming evening, considering the sad events that have led us here. It’s hard not to get swept up in the emotion of it all. We watch as the members of Billy’s extended family and not so close friends disperse, until finally it’s just the groom, his parents, his close family and friends remaining. They laugh, they cry, they smother him with love and affection, and after a while we join forces with them and become part of their gathering. Well into the evening, someone suggests to Lachie that he get his guitar. He’s happy to oblige, and when he returns, the accommodating hotel manager closes up and we have our very own lock-in while listening to Lachie’s deep, tuneful voice. He avoids his more upbeat wedding collection and instead sings slow, soulful songs about love and loss and everyone has to get more tissues out. It’s strangely cathartic though – even I have a little cry.

  Maria calls it a night first, slipping out quietly so as not to disrupt Lachie’s private concert. Rachel goes next, patting me gently on my back. ‘Don’t stay up too late,’ she warns with a mischievous glint in her eye as her gaze flickers towards Lachie. I’m feeling slightly dazed as my attention refocuses on his toned arms, watching his muscles flex as he plays his guitar. He’s singing a stripped-back version of The 1975’s ‘Sex’ and it’s so sexy. He’s sexy. Suddenly he looks at me and a bolt of desire shoots straight through me. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. His blue eyes are smouldering, scorching, burning into me as he sings ‘talk about sex’. The way he says that last word makes me want to have some with him.

  Seriously, if he wants to sleep with me tonight, I’m his. Without a shadow of a doubt. A tiny, less drunk part of me realises that this is probably a Bad Idea. But I don’t care right now. He gives me a quizzical look as he strums a fast acoustic section. His hands are wasted on his guitar. I want his fingers to work their magic on me. I’m so jittery, so on edge and completely turned on when he strums the last chord and calmly meets my eyes.

  ‘Thanks, folks,’ he says, breaking eye contact with me as everyone applauds, as they have done for all of his songs so far. He stands up. ‘I’m going to hit the sack.’

  With me? Please with me. I haven’t had sex in way too long.

  He shakes hands with Billy. ‘Good luck, mate. It’s going to be okay. You’ve got good people around you.’

  I’m so breathless I can barely speak, let alone commiserate with the groom again. But I’ve done plenty of that throughout the evening, so I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile and make my way to the door. I turn around to wait for Lachie. He’s packing his guitar away. He snaps the case shut, smiling and saying goodnight to everyone as he passes. As he walks past the last table, his eyes meet mine and my breath quickens.

  ‘Okay?’ he drawls, looking down at me.

  I nod quickly and move to the stairs. I’m intensely aware of his body right behind me. I go straight to his room.

  ‘Aren’t you down the hall?’ he asks me wryly, leaning against the wall in the corridor. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a key, then he opens the door and holds it back for me without saying another word. I’m taking this as a very clear, very welcome indication that he wants me too.

  He closes the door behind me and locks it again. I take a step towards him, my gaze fixed on his lips. His hands come to rest on my waist and I suck in a sharp intake of breath. He stares down at me.

  ‘You only ever want to kiss me when you’re drunk,’ he says in a low voice.

  ‘That’s not true.’ I shake my head. ‘I wanted to kiss you in th
e car.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Even with all the debilitating alcohol running through my veins, I blush my response.

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’ he asks, and the feel of his thumb stroking my waist through the flimsy fabric of my shirt is distracting.

  ‘I want to kiss you now – isn’t that enough?’

  ‘We’re there now, are we? Just as I’m leaving? Is that what you do? Go for people you can’t have?’

  His words floor me. I shake my head, speechless. Is he right? Is that what I do?

  ‘Why?’ he asks quietly. ‘Why do you do that? Don’t you think you deserve to be happy?’

  ‘Stop,’ I say, squeezing my eyes shut. ‘Just stop.’ He’s only twenty-four. How does he come out with things like this at his age?

  ‘I’d give anything not to fall for someone I can’t have, Bronnie,’ he says sadly, and then he asks me the question I really didn’t want him to ask me. ‘Are you still in love with Alex?’

  The sound of his name breaks my ribcage open again and my heart is bare and bloody and broken. I force myself to answer him, putting my hand on his chest and gently pushing him away. He lets his hands fall to his sides.

  ‘It’s been almost two months,’ I mumble. ‘I haven’t seen him. I don’t know. I’ve been a mess, but I’m feeling better. I’m a lot better.’

  I dare to look up at him and when I do, his eyes are full of sadness and pain and something else – compassion?

  Maybe not the last one, because he knows his next words will hurt me. ‘Rachel told me she saw him and Zara recently.’ Rachel always catches up with her brides and grooms at least twice before the service – she wants them to feel as relaxed around her as possible. ‘She said they seemed happy. More than ready to tie the knot.’

  He may as well have torn into my heart with his teeth. I wince and turn to put my hand on the door.

  ‘Come here,’ he says, drawing me back into his strong embrace. ‘I’m sorry. It’s going to be okay.’

  I take a deep breath and relax against him. He’s so comforting.