by Paige Toon
‘Yes.’ I smile nervously.
‘Silly question. I can see that by the contraption you’re holding.’ She reaches out to shake my hand.
‘I’m Bronte,’ I tell her.
‘Best of luck,’ she replies, turning to lead her husband to the front of the church. I watch her in a daze.
I’m just Bronte. Here to do the photos. I’m an employee, on the outside looking in. I’m not part of these celebrations, not part of this wonderful, supposed ‘best day of their lives’. She has no idea who I am or what I mean to her son.
I don’t even know what I mean to her son.
I don’t think she’d like me very much if she knew the truth. The realisation makes me feel dirty and deceitful and makes me really not like myself very much.
I shouldn’t be here.
No. I am here because I’m doing Rachel – and Alex – a favour. I’m not a bad person. I’m not. With that in mind, I get on with my job.
The church has filled up considerably and it’s almost eleven forty-five, but there’s still no sign of Alex. After snapping lots of shots of the guests, I go outside to check the churchyard for him. Where is he?
The wedding starts at midday – he’s bordering on late.
What if... What if he’s changed his mind?
Despite my internal pep talk of only minutes ago, hope surges through my heart.
I am a bad person. Who am I kidding?
It occurs to me to wonder what I would do if Alex called it off, if he said he wanted me and only me?
Several thoughts fly through my mind at once: I’d be the one who split him and Zara up, the bitch who stole someone’s boyfriend of almost a decade. His mother, his father, his friends and relatives wouldn’t like or trust me. We’d start off on the wrong foot from the very beginning. Maybe Alex would come to regret his decision, maybe we’d discover we don’t have that much in common. But of all these thoughts, the one that fights its way right to the forefront is the idea of never seeing Lachie again. The pain as this thought takes hold is so intense that it takes me by surprise. Last night he told me we were done. I haven’t let that fully sink in, but now I’m overwhelmed with sadness. It hurts so much more than I ever could have anticipated.
The rational part of my brain tells me that he said we were done in the heat of the moment, that I can still change his mind – if I want to. Do I want to? Yes. Without a doubt. But that still brings me back to my initial question: where is Alex? Is he having second thoughts? And do I want him to be having second thoughts?
For the first time, I think the answer might be no. But it’s a shaky no.
And then I see him in one of the side entrances to the churchyard, in a dark alley walkway that cuts under the buildings surrounding the churchyard. My heart jumps and then freefalls: he’s here. He’s going to go through with it. A wave of grief engulfs me all over again. But he’s not coming this way. He’s with someone else: another man in a morning suit. I catch a glimpse of his friend’s face and he looks concerned. What are they talking about? Is he having second thoughts?
This is unbearable. I feel so confused. My head feels like it’s in a vice and I almost wish someone would crank up the pressure and put me out of my misery once and for all.
Without thinking, I start to walk their way.
‘Alex?’ I ask as I arrive at the alleyway.
His head shoots around to stare at me, and I’ve never seen him look more torn or anguished. He doesn’t speak, but his best man – if that’s who he is – looks straight at me.
‘We’ll be there in a minute,’ he says firmly, encouraging me to go away.
Alex turns back to him and mutters something and his friend’s face drops off a cliff.
‘What are you doing here?’ the friend asks me in what is barely more than a whisper.
‘I’m photographing the wedding,’ I reply, holding up my camera.
He stares at Alex, incredulous. ‘She’s photographing the wedding?’ he asks in astonishment.
‘I’m Bronte,’ I tell him, still unsure what’s going on.
‘I know who you are.’ The way he says it tells me that he not only knows who I am; he knows everything.
It’s a sickening realisation, but it’s Alex I care about. He’s shaking.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask him with concern, keeping my distance outside the alleyway. ‘It’s almost midday.’
He nods quickly, but he’s unable to meet my eyes.
‘Just give us a minute, would you?’ the best friend who I’ve never even met says in a tone that is bordering on anger. ‘Why the hell are you even here?’
‘Ed,’ Alex warns sharply, turning to look at him. ‘Maybe you could give us a minute?’
‘Mate, what are you doing?’ he asks with genuine distress. He checks his watch. ‘Zara’s going to be here any moment.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Alex says. ‘Please. Just give us a minute.’
Ed flashes me a hard look as he stalks past me. I quickly check over my shoulder to make sure no one else has exited the church to search for us. Alex doesn’t make any move to come out from the dark alleyway, so I venture in towards him. His eyes never leave mine.
‘I’m so fucked up,’ he whispers, tears welling up in his eyes.
My heart goes out to him and at that moment I want nothing more than to put my arms around him and try to take his pain away. But I stay exactly where I am and wait for him to speak.
‘This morning I went into the living room and there was a shaft of sunlight coming through a crack in the curtains. It lit up the dust flying around.’
A cold chill settles over me because I know exactly why he’s telling me this. He’s remembering the morning after we first met. I just don’t know why it’s relevant.
‘It’s what you said to me: you have to move out of the light to see how beautiful it is.’ Tears spill down his cheeks. ‘I couldn’t see it, Bronte. I still can’t see it clearly enough. There’s been too much pressure. Too much focus on Zara and me this year from all our friends and family. This whole engagement – it’s all been so confusing. I just want to press pause and take it all in. But I can’t. It’s all going too fast.’
‘Alex,’ I murmur, not daring to touch him.
‘I love you,’ he says hopelessly.
A little gasp slips from my mouth, and everything inside me hurts.
‘But I love Zara, too.’
Through the fog of agony, I see with extreme clarity that he’s not the only one who’s in love with two people.
‘ALEX!’ Ed’s voice reverberates loudly around the alleyway. ‘Zara is here.’
Alex and I meet each other’s eyes, but all I see is terror. I shake my head and back away from him. The decision has to be his.
Back in the church and so full of dread I can barely function, I realise that the decision is not just his. It’s mine, too. Lachie or Alex. I don’t know. I still don’t know. The light is on all of us and it’s so intense and bright that it’s hard to see straight.
I’m vaguely aware of a hushed murmuring passing over the congregation. The groom is still not at the front and news that the bride has arrived has reached some of the guests. I see Alex’s mother craning her neck towards the back of the church, worry etched across her features. And then her face breaks into a smile.
I smell him before I see him, his aftershave wafting by as he passes. I watch in a daze as he and his best man take their positions at the front, while some of the guests break into spontaneous applause and Ed takes a jovial little bow. Alex does nothing. He’s staring straight ahead. And then the organ starts to play.
‘All set?’ I’m vaguely aware of Rachel patting my arm as she passes by in good spirits, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
My hands are shaking as I lift my camera up to my face. I can’t turn around. I can’t bear to see her. I don’t want to see what she’s wearing. Rachel better have got enough shots to suffice because photographing her is one thing I cannot do
. I hear the gasps of delight and I know that she’s behind me. But my main goal is to do what I always have done as Rachel’s assistant: to capture the groom’s reaction to seeing his bride for the first time. My hands become steady as I zoom in. I can see him clearly and he’s still facing the altar. Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of white moving by. In what feels like a strange out-of-body experience, I will him to look at her, to let me do my job to the best of my abilities, and then his head starts to turn. I click off several shots, not wanting to miss the moment that his eyes meet hers, but he doesn’t look at Zara. He looks straight down my lens. Click. His blue eyes pierce right into my soul. Click. Ed’s expression is alarmed as he realises who has Alex’s attention. Then, a moment later, Zara joins him. He breaks out of his spell and turns to look at her, smiling in a slightly dazed way as though she’s a long-forgotten friend bumping into him on the street. I snap off a single shot.
She can have that one.
But the others are mine.
I don’t know how I get through the next half an hour: the prayers, the hymns, the introduction and declarations. When Alex declares his desire to marry her, I die a little inside, but it’s far from being over. A reading... The address... The vows...
‘I do...’
It’s killing me.
And then the vicar says in a loud, clear voice: ‘What God has joined together, let no man tear asunder.’
A shiver spirals uncontrollably through my body and I can’t stop shaking. I feel like I’m going to be violently sick. I can barely stand, let alone focus a zoom lens, and how would it look if I did throw up?
My kit is too heavy as I turn and walk quickly out of the church and past the huddled bodies of tourists sitting on the churchyard steps.
The camera bangs against my chest and I have an overwhelming desire to stuff it into a bin or smash it on the ground. I know I’m not thinking straight, but I feel like it’s infecting me, suffocating me – I don’t want it anywhere near me. But I have to get the bride and groom’s exit.
Just then, someone shouts my name from the direction of the church.
‘BRONTE!’
Alex?
No. I see him standing there on the steps and he’s not a tourist – at least, not really. My face crumples as Lachie jogs down the stairs towards me.
His warm, comforting arms ensnare me and I give in and sob into his shoulder. I’m vaguely aware of the guests singing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.
‘You’re shivering. Fuck me,’ he murmurs into my hair.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ I say.
‘Of course you can’t!’ he snaps, not unkindly. ‘Where’s your coat?’
Trust Lachie, the warmest person in the world, to think of my coat.
‘In the vestry,’ I manage to say past the enormous lump in my throat. ‘Leave it,’ I try to hang onto him as he pulls away from me.
‘I should let Rachel know you can’t go back in,’ he tells me reluctantly, before breaking away.
She’s going to kill me for letting her down. But I feel dead already.
I watch Lachie as he jogs back into the church and slowly pushes open the glass door, letting the sound of the organ rush out before it’s engulfed by the door swinging shut again. Less than a minute later he re-emerges, picking up an enormous backpack from the steps and shrugging it onto his shoulders as he walks. He helps me into my coat like I’m a small child and ushers me, still shivering, across the churchyard and out onto the road.
He holds me the whole way home in the taxi, but doesn’t say a word. I’m too exhausted to contemplate what’s going through his mind. The morning’s events ebb and flow within my consciousness, and sometimes I can’t help shuddering. He just holds me tighter and strokes my hair.
Outside Bridget’s apartment, he has to take my bag from me because my hands feel too weak to find my keys, let alone unlock a door. In the back of my mind I’m aware that my behaviour will be scaring him away – who can cope with their girlfriend being an emotional wreck over another man? But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m lost.
I barely have the strength to walk up the stairs, while poor Lachie lugs his heavy backpack and carries my kit bag, too. He knocks first before entering, and in that time, Bridget has come into the hall. Her face pales when she sees the state I’m in.
‘Oh, Bronte,’ she murmurs with dismay.
Lachie ushers me inside and she gives me a hug while he takes his backpack off and gently lowers my camera and kit bag to the ground. I’m too tired even to cry. The three of us go to the living room and I sit on the sofa, huddled against warm, lovely Lachie who I may only have for a short time longer. But I’m hanging onto him while I can.
‘He married her, I’m guessing?’ Bridget asks quietly.
In my side vision I see Lachie nod. Bridget sighs.
But he told me that he loved me first. I can’t say it out loud. I don’t want to say it out loud. I’m not sure that I ever will.
Bridget puts the telly on because I’m in no state to talk, and after a while she gets up to go and make us something to eat. I’ll have to force food down, but I haven’t eaten since yesterday.
As soon as Bridget has left the room, I pull away and look up at Lachie. He glances down at me, a combination of sadness and wary restraint on his features.
‘I love you,’ I whisper, staring into his light blue eyes.
He turns his head slightly away from me, but I can’t read his expression. His chest under my hand has tensed up.
‘I want you to know that. And it’s not because he married her. I loved you before.’
‘Don’t talk about it now,’ he says in a tight voice. ‘I can’t... hear it.’
I watch with despair as he returns his focus to the telly. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, tearfully. I lean up to him and press my lips against his neck. ‘But I do love you. And I’m sorry.’
I nuzzle my face against his neck until Bridget returns and only then do I pull away. By then, he’s relaxed again, but only slightly. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me. Is it possible to forgive someone for falling in love with the wrong person?
Suddenly I’m prickling all over as the enormity of this question sinks in. And I’m not thinking of Lachie any more. I’m not thinking about Alex. I’m thinking about someone else entirely.
I have another bad dream that night and I jolt awake, gasping for air. Lachie stirs beside me and a moment later I feel his hand on my arm.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.’
His hand slides away and I lie there in the darkness with my eyes open, just staring at nothing as I try to process the previous day’s events.
Alex is married. He told me he loves me. He told me he was confused. And I could see it – I could see it in his eyes. But I did nothing to stop him, to convince him not to go through with it. Should I have done? Would he have chosen her anyway? It’s too late now and the thought of seeing him again is hell. I don’t know how I will ever get over this. How will I ever return to work in the New Year after Christmas? I don’t think I will ever forgive him.
‘What was your dream about?’
Lachie’s voice cuts into my thoughts. I assumed he’d gone back to sleep.
I hear him sigh.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it,’ he says after a moment.
I go rigid and don’t reply.
‘Bronnie,’ he urges, gently. ‘There’s so much I don’t know about you. I know you had a difficult childhood, but I don’t know why. I know your dad was an organ player. I know you have a fear of churches.’
‘Not so much any more,’ I interrupt him. Although yesterday might have put me back a bit.
‘You say you don’t believe in marriage, although I’m not sure I believe you.’
‘Why?’ I’m curious.
‘The way you reacted yesterday. If you didn’t believe in marriage, you wouldn’t have got so freaked out.’
&nbs
p; ‘Alex believes in marriage,’ I tell him quietly, and that makes yesterday feel overwhelmingly significant.
‘Don’t get me started on Alex,’ Lachie mutters, his grip on my hand wavering. I tighten my hold. ‘What you said earlier,’ he says in a strangled-sounding voice. ‘Did you mean it?’
‘That I love you? Yes.’
He exhales loudly. ‘Do you trust me?’
I frown. ‘I think so, yes.’
He shifts on the bed. A moment later my bedside table light comes on and I flinch at the brightness. Lachie turns back towards me. He places his hand on my cheek and stares steadily into my eyes.
‘You can trust me. I love you.’ I see his eyes fill with tears just before my vision goes blurry. I wipe away my own tears and lean forwards to kiss him on his lips. He kisses me gently, then retreats. ‘You can trust me,’ he says again.
I take a shaky breath. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What happened when you were growing up? What are your nightmares about?’
‘I never talk about this to anyone,’ I tell him.
‘You can talk about it to me.’
‘I don’t even know where to start.’
‘Start with your dream.’
I take a shaky breath. ‘It takes place when I’m nine years old.’
He reaches over and takes my hand, holding me reassuringly.
‘Mum and Dad were not happily married, although no one would have ever known it. They were very religious and we’d go to church every weekend and Mum would smile proudly when Dad played the organ and pretend that they were a happy couple. But at home they never laughed together. Mum was always crying if she wasn’t shouting or screaming. But Dad would never shout back. He just took it. He and I didn’t have a relationship growing up. He didn’t even seem to like me. The only attention he ever gave me was when I showed an interest in learning to play the organ. I used to find church services boring, but when Dad started taking me to church after school to teach me, I saw the church in a different light. Sometimes I’d meet him there and wait in the cool, beautiful space and it would clear my head. It was one of the only times I felt at peace – away from all the shouting and crying at home. The only time he ever seemed to smile was when I was playing the organ. But at home he just seemed like a shadow of himself. He barely spoke to either of us. He was a shell and no matter how much Mum tried to get a rise out of him, it wouldn’t work. Then he started to get funny about even teaching me to play. He kept brushing me off with excuses, telling me he didn’t have time to teach me. Sometimes I would go to church anyway, and if it was deserted, I’d pretend to play and just hope that he would show up. One night Mum was crying – I could hear her through the walls. She didn’t even try to cry quietly. She didn’t care that her sobs were like nails being driven into my heart,’ I say bitterly and Lachie squeezes my hand. ‘So I took off. I snuck out. I was only nine.’ I take another deep breath, because this part is from my dream. ‘I went to church, wanting my dad, wanting him to come home and stop Mum from crying because sometimes – and only sometimes – he could. I don’t know what he’d say to her then, but I wanted him to say it to her now. There was no one in the church so I went and sat at the organ. I was too scared to turn it on, so I pretended to play.’ My breath catches. ‘I heard something. It sounded like someone was hurt.’ This is so hard to talk about. ‘I looked around the corner of the organ and saw my dad and the priest. They were kissing.’ I cringe at the memory and stare straight past Lachie as my voice drops to a whisper. ‘I had never seen anyone kiss like that. It was like they were eating each other, devouring each other. Now that I look back I can see that they were just kissing incredibly passionately, but I was only nine.’ I return my gaze to Lachie, but he’s just listening, not reacting in any way. ‘I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing. The priest had only moved to South Australia recently. He seemed quite young – I think he was probably in his twenties. But he was very popular and kind and everyone seemed to like him. I liked him. And my dad clearly did.’ I swallow and Lachie reaches over to stroke my cheek. ‘Anyway, they started to take things further. I don’t think they were going to have—’ I can’t say it. I can’t talk about sex and my dad in the same sentence.
