“Oh my God, it’s that hot photographer again,” Amanda hisses when James leaves to join Nadia next to her car. Unlike Nadia, James made quite the first impression on both Amanda and Kate when he’d come to the house for the first article. They’d been all giggly and silly in his presence like they were sixteen-year-old schoolgirls. He’d been nothing but professional, though, almost too professional. He had refused to be drawn into small talk, and as soon as he was satisfied he had the right photo he packed his things away hastily and left while I was getting changed. It had seemed rude, which confused me because I’m normally a good judge of character, and my first impression of him was not that.
“Is it?” I answer Amanda, feigning nonchalance.
She elbows me. “Oh, whatever, Ava. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice last time. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.”
I’m rescued by the arrival of the farm owners, a lovely couple in their fifties who, according to their messages, fled the rat race of the city to farm goats, make cheese, and host weddings in the barn they had converted specifically for the purpose. The couple, Ruth and David, are as warm and welcoming in person as they were in their messages offering the barn and their services. She takes my hands and wells up with tears when we are introduced, which threatens to set my mother off too.
“Is there somewhere Ava can try on the dresses?” Sophie asks. She is carefully holding a few dress bags, maybe five or six, in one hand. They are not made of see-through flimsy wrap like last time. These are cream-colored and sturdy, and the bulky size of some of them suggests to me that they are most likely…
“Wedding dresses?” I ask.
Her eyes widen as she nods. “Oh my God, wait till you see them. They’re gorgeous. I had so many to choose from, it was seriously hard to narrow it down, but I picked a few that I know you’ll look amazing in. It’s your choice, though, of course, which one you decide to wear for the shoot.”
“You want me to wear one?” I point to my own chest.
She looks at me like I’m a bit thick. “Well, yeah. You’re the one having the wedding, remember?”
“I know that, but why?”
“Because the editor thinks it will be more interesting for the readers than just you in a pair of jeans checking out a barn. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Nadia interrupts. “I know for you this is all about the big day itself, but we really want our readers to feel like they’re also on this journey with you. We want them to understand, through the article and photos, just how much this means to you.” She waves her hands around theatrically as she speaks, using them for emphasis on the pertinent points.
She’s full of shit, of course, but if it means I get to dress up I really don’t care.
“Plus you get to be pampered and wear a seriously divine dress,” Kelly adds.
They all look at me expectantly.
“Is that OK with you?” Nadia asks.
I nod. “You had me at ‘pampered.’”
“I promise we won’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable with,” James says.
“That’s a shame,” Amanda sniggers.
Chapter Seventeen
Oh, yes.” Mum claps her hands to her cheeks so soundly I’m worried she’ll leave a mark. She nods her head energetically. “Definitely that one.”
“You said that about the last three.”
“Sorry. I can’t help it. You look amazing in them all.” She turns to Sophie. “She gets her figure from me, you know.”
Sophie smiles diplomatically.
“Which one did you like the best?” Kelly asks. “After all, it’s your day, your decision.”
I turn back to the mirror and study the dress I am wearing. It’s made of a soft material that drapes gently over my body, and even though I am much thinner than I should be, it mystically gives me a womanly appearance. Curves where there are none. Long enough for me to trip if I’m not careful, it also has a lacy top with cap sleeves. I can’t stop looking at myself. It is beautiful, and I feel beautiful in it.
“This one,” I say.
Sophie sets about pinning the hemline to prevent accidents, while Kelly curls my hair into waves. She pins a silk flowered garland into my hair, and applies subtle makeup, gentle bronzes and golds, ever so slightly shimmering in the right light.
When they step back to admire their handiwork I wait, breath held, for the verdict. Together with Mum, Amanda, and Ruth, they huddle around, shoulder to shoulder like a rugby scrum, and look me up and down.
“Well?”
“You look amazing. Like one of those brides in a bridal magazine,” Amanda says.
“Have you ever read a bridal magazine?”
“Hell no. Never. Well, not willingly, anyway. But you were always shoving them in our faces when we were kids. Remember whenever we went to the corner dairy for lollies you’d flick through the pages, drooling over the dresses, until the old man behind the counter yelled at us that it wasn’t a library and if you weren’t going to bloody pay for it, put it back on the shelf?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” I say wistfully. Any reminder of my childhood gives me nostalgia lately. “I don’t think he liked kids very much.”
“Would you, if you had to stand there waiting for them to decide which lollies to spend their ten cents on every day?”
“Good point.”
“You look absolutely stunning.” Mum smiles proudly. Ruth, to all our surprise, starts crying. Silent tears that trickle down her cheeks like raindrops on a window.
“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping them with her sleeve. “It’s just you remind me so much of her.”
“Who?”
“My sister. Connie. She died five years ago but it feels as if it were only yesterday.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mum says.
And just like that, I know what’s coming. I hear the words rushing like waves to the seashore, their thundering crescendo building.
“She had breast cancer too,” Ruth carries on. “Awful death it was. I watched her fade away till her body just couldn’t fight it anymore. That’s why when I saw your story I knew we had to help if we could.”
I look down to where my feet are hidden under the dress. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”
Why can I never escape it? Why do there have to be reminders everywhere I go? My diagnosis brought me access to a special club, the Cancer Club. Far more members than you would expect, you realize once you’re in. It’s not the cool kind of club where you sip champagne out of crystal flutes in fancy rooms while deliciously hot young men in black-and-white penguin suits pass around trays of caviar and shrimp as you converse, reveling in the exclusivity of your membership. This is the kind of club that meets in a drafty Boy Scouts hall, where the tea bags are bought in bulk and taste like it, and the biscuits are stale because no one ate them last week so they were tipped back into the Tupperware container because, well, waste not, want not, after all. This is a club that no one wants in on.
There is an awkward silence because no one knows what to say next. Ruth looks ready to crumble under the weight of her memories and grief. I know I should say more, but I can’t. I don’t want to. I want to forget, for however brief a moment. I have only a finite number of moments left, and I have to fill them wisely. Selfish and ungrateful maybe, probably. But I can’t help how I feel. I just don’t have the energy in me to help anyone else cope with their grief.
I am saved by a knock on the door and James’s impatient voice.
“Is Ava ready? There are clouds on the horizon, but the light is good right now. We should make a start.”
“Yes,” I call gratefully. “I am.”
He has his camera around his neck and a small black bag hanging over one shoulder to bounce at his hip.
Mum and the others have followed us outside.
“You don’t all have to come, do you?” I ask, suddenly shy. The thought of posing with all of them watching is unappealing.
“I don’t,” Nadia says. “The photos are James’s business. I’ll take care of the words.” She turns to Ruth. “I’ll need to see the”—her shoulders give a light shudder—“barn, please.”
“Of course. I’ll show you around.” Ruth has composed herself again. “And afterwards we’ll go inside for afternoon tea. I’ve baked scones and whipped up some cream, and we have a drawer full of the largest range of herbal teas in the district. Some of which we make ourselves. My echinacea and lemon is particularly delicious. Good for your health too.”
“Do you have coffee?” Amanda asks. “I don’t drink things I can’t pronounce.”
“Philistine.” Mum sighs.
Amanda shrugs. “Can’t pronounce that either.”
“There aren’t any goats in the barn, are there?” Sophie asks.
“Don’t be silly, of course not,” Ruth answers. “Can’t have wedding guests treading in poo all the time, now can we?”
“Why is it called Marmalade Farm?” Kelly asks. “Do you make your own marmalade here too?”
“No, we don’t. I can understand why you’d think that’s the reason—everyone does. But it’s not.” Ruth starts walking toward the path that leads up the lawn to the barn and the others follow. “It’s quite a funny story, actually.”
“Is it long?” Amanda mutters, trailing after them and rolling her eyes at me. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m just going to take you back to the field I saw as we were coming up the driveway, for a few shots,” James says once they are gone. “If that’s OK?”
I nod, feeling absurd standing in front of him in full bridal dress and makeup.
Mum’s eagle ears hear him and she stops and turns, frowning.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says. “The driveway is about two kilometers long. That’s too far for Ava to walk.”
“I wasn’t planning on making her walk. We’ll go in my car.”
“I guess that will be OK. I’ll come with you.” She starts back down the path.
“No,” I say too loudly and too quickly. They both look at me, surprised. “Sorry. I just think you should stay here with the others, Mum. You did say you couldn’t wait to see inside the barn.”
“I can see it later. You might need help.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want you wearing yourself out.”
“I won’t. Besides, what are you going to do, carry me?”
“If I have to.” She has her determined face on.
I step forward to give her a hug and speak softly in her ear.
“Please don’t treat me like an invalid, Mum. I’m not dead yet. I know my limits. Let me enjoy this.”
Her arms tighten around my ribs with as much pressure as she dares exert. She is worried, my mother, about hurting me. Her extreme gentleness is heart-breaking.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes back. “I just want to protect you. Stupid, I know.”
“It’s not stupid. It’s lovely.”
She steps back to hold me at arm’s length, her eyes betraying her emotion. “Hang on.” She scrambles in her purse. “I need to send a photo to your father. Where’s my bloody phone?”
“He’ll see me when it’s published, Mum.” I am conscious of James waiting, watching.
“Yes, I know that, but as your father I think he should get a sneak preview, don’t you? Ah, here it is.”
She fishes her phone out of her bag and also, throwing a frown at James, her glasses. Putting them on, she peers at her phone until she finds the right icon and jabs at it a few times because no matter how many times I tell her you don’t have to double-click on your phone like you do on a computer, she just can’t break the habit.
“Stand over by that tree,” she says.
“No. Just hurry up and take the photo.”
James clears his throat impatiently. “Would you like me to take one of you both together?”
Mum takes her glasses off quickly. “That would be nice, thank you.” She passes him the phone. “You just push that little camera-looking picture on the bottom. Make sure you hold it steady, though, or it’ll be blurry. And watch you don’t put your thumb in front of that little square bit there. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve done that.”
I see James stifle a smile as I groan.
“He’s a professional photographer, Mum. I think he can work a phone camera.”
“Oh, yes, silly me.”
She comes to stand beside me and we hold each other’s waists, heads together, and we smile as James snaps off a couple of shots.
How many photos of me in my lifetime? With my mother? My father? With anyone?
“Thank you,” Mum says, taking the phone off him and texting one off to my father. “Are you sure you don’t need me to come with you?”
I shake my head. “Go join the others. You’ll just make me feel self-conscious if you come.”
“OK.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Look after her,” she says sternly to James.
“Of course.”
“Sorry about that,” I say once we are in the car, bouncing our way down the gravel driveway. “She’s just a bit protective.”
“It’s understandable.”
“And unnecessary.”
He flicks a sideways glance at me. “You can’t blame her, though.”
“No, I can’t. Of course not. I just feel like she’s putting too much pressure and guilt on herself.”
“Isn’t guilt part of a mother’s job description?”
I smile. “Good point. Is your mother overprotective as well?”
“We’re here.” He changes the subject abruptly, pulling the car over onto the grass shoulder and parking it under the shade of a cherry tree. I’m nervous. This is so far out of my comfort zone it’s like the other side of the planet, but that’s exactly why I want to do it. My mindfulness app told me the other day that we only regret the things we didn’t do, not the ones we did. I haven’t done enough things.
I get out of the car and follow him over to an old wooden farm gate. He climbs up and over in one smooth movement, dismounting on the other side with the agility of a cat. Then he holds out a hand.
“Need help?”
I walk to where the gate meets the fence and unlatch it, opening it to walk through. “No, thanks.”
He stares at me for a moment before starting to laugh. He does it naturally and unashamedly and I watch in delight. If I had to describe him, I’d say he’s a man’s man. He is physically large but not in an obvious way, just a vibrant larger-than-life kind of way. He exudes vitality, and next to him I feel almost wraithlike. Like I am fading out of this world and, as much as I try to hang on, my fingers are slipping.
Seize the day.
You only regret the things you didn’t do.
“Well, that just made me look a bit of an idiot, didn’t it?” he says when he quietens back down to a chuckle.
“How old are you?” I blurt out without thinking.
His eyes widen with his surprise at the question, but he answers. “Thirty-four. You?”
“Twenty-eight. Just. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Am I auditioning for something here?”
“Just answer the question.”
“No. Not anymore. We broke up a few months back.”
“Sorry to hear that.” I’m not, though.
“Anything else you’d like to know?” he asks. “Only we really should get on with the photo shoot.”
“One more question.”
“OK.”
“It’s a big one,” I warn. “And you have to promise you’ll answer honestly.”
He looks at me curiously. “OK.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
I like that he doesn’t answer immediately. That he respects me enough to give the question his proper consideration. “Yes, once.”
“What was it like?”
He looks dow
n and starts fiddling with his camera, adjusting settings or something, and I think I’ve gone too far. That he is trying to think of a polite way to tell me to mind my own business.
“It was both amazing and awful,” he says finally.
“Awful? Why?”
“Because when it’s over, when it all goes wrong, you think you’ll never survive.”
“But you did.”
“I did.”
“So is it true what they say? That it’s better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all?”
“I’m not sure. And that’s me being honest.”
I sigh deeply. “Thank you.”
“Do you question all guys like this?”
“Only the cute ones.” I smile sweetly.
“OK. Come on,” he says, looking down to hide a smile. He jerks his head. “There’s some old farm equipment on the other side of the field under that big tree. I want to get a few shots there. And then over amongst the flowers.”
I’m so conscious of him walking beside me that I don’t look where I’m walking and trip on some uneven ground. He quickly places a hand on my arm to steady me.
“You OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Here.” He takes my hand and tucks it through his arm. “Hang on to me.”
“I am capable of walking still,” I say, even in the face of evidence to the contrary.
“Nevertheless, I promised your mother I would return you in one piece, and I have no intention of getting on her bad side.”
I wonder if he feels how my pulse quickens at his touch.
“Lead the way, then.” I smile up at him. He looks down at me and his expression is peculiar, as if he is unsure about something. I see his features harden with decisiveness and he stops suddenly, our hips bumping together.
“Wait,” he says. “As we seem to be all about honesty today, I have a question for you.”
“Sounds slightly ominous. But go ahead.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asks.
I am deliberately obtuse. “This? What, wearing a wedding dress? Posing for photos in a field?”
“No.” His face tells me he knows I understand. “This whole wedding thing. Isn’t it a little bit…morbid?”
My eyes widen at his choice of word and he hurries to elaborate.
Photos of You Page 9
