Thirteen Weddings (20 page)

‘I wish I had your confidence,’ I say.

She laughs. ‘When you’ve done as many weddings as I have, not much fazes you.’

‘How many weddings have you done?’ Russ asks her.

‘Getting up towards sixty.’

‘Wow,’ he says. I’ve still only done six.

‘Always the wedding photographer, never the bride,’ she says drily.

For some reason, that makes me think of Alex.

‘This is cosy.’ Alex stands in the doorway and looks around the small conference room – our makeshift office for the next three weeks, just north of Oxford
Street.

‘I’ll say,’ I reply, watching as an IT guy hooks up my computer. I got here early and they haven’t finished setting up.

‘Are you going to be long?’ he checks with the IT guy.

‘Twenty minutes, at least,’ comes the curt reply.

‘Come and get a coffee with me?’ Alex suggests.

‘Sure, okay.’ There’s not much else I can do, and we are early. ‘How are the wedding plans coming along?’ I ask as we walk down the stairs. We’re on the third
floor.

‘Well, I think. Zara’s doing most of it. She’s good at organising stuff.’

‘Has she got a dress yet?’

‘She went shopping on Saturday with her mum.’ He gives me a meaningful look as we wander out through the lobby. ‘Came back looking pretty happy.’

‘That’s a good sign. I forgot you said they were staying. Do you get on well with them?’

‘Yeah.’ He shrugs, holding the door open for me. ‘I’ve known them so long now.’

I jerk my head in the direction we need to go and we set off along the pavement. It’s a cool morning, but the sky overhead is bright blue. It might be park weather at lunchtime.

‘I can’t believe you’ve been together since uni. That’s impressive.’

‘Mmm. So tell me about your weekend.’ He changes the subject as we walk into the café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling our nostrils. There’s nothing like
it.

‘Another wedding. This one was a nightmare.’ I fill him in on Bob’s your uncle and he’s laughing by the time we reach the front of the queue.

‘So Lachie went too?’

‘Yeah, and Maria and Russ.’

‘Those two are getting close,’ he comments.

‘I’ll say. Meeting her parents and everything.’

‘Good for them.’

‘Yep.’ Another two bite the dust.

My time with the redesign team flies by. During one brainstorming session I suggest we launch a brand-new section called Celebrity Houses, which involves the picture desk first
having to broker the deal and then going to shoot whichever celebrity has agreed to have photos of their home splashed across the pages of
Hebe.
Sometimes this will involve overseas travel
by one of the team – possibly me – to America or wherever the celebrity lives, which in turn means a much bigger Picture budget. Simon takes me with him on his meeting to convince
Clare, and I’m on top of the world when she agrees to allocate Pictures more money. Then I have to follow through on my suggestion, which involves buttering up various PR people and
eventually going to shoot hot young A-list actress Nelly Lott at her plush home in the country. Alex comes with me and if it weren’t for his very impressive skills of persuasion, I’m
not sure we would have ever got her to agree to let us shoot her in bed, wearing comfy but highly unsexy PJs and looking all dishevelled and bleary-eyed. Simon is delighted with the pictures and
gets me working on setting up the next shoot straight away.

There are so few of us that we tend to spend our lunchtimes together, when we’re not out shooting celebrities. I get to know Pete, the news editor, really well. He often comes to the pub
on Friday nights, but I haven’t spoken to him much before. Esther, Russ’s boss on the features desk, and Mike from production usually join us, but Teagan from the style desk spends her
lunches shopping on Oxford Street, and Simon tends to keep to himself. I think he likes to put a little distance between himself and his employees.

On our last Wednesday in the redesign office, it’s a stinking hot day and the five of us – Esther, Mike, Pete, Alex and I – are eating sandwiches and hanging out in nearby
Cavendish Square in the sunshine. This afternoon Clare is coming by to run through our redesign ideas so she can give us feedback before our main presentation to her on Friday. We’ll present
to the team on Monday when we’re back in the office. I’m a little nervous – it will be the first time Clare has seen my Celebrity Houses shoot.

Alex and Pete are reminiscing about the time they worked together at a Sunday supplement. It turns out the two of them are old friends.

‘When was this?’ I ask, trying to take my mind off our publisher.

‘A couple of years ago,’ Pete replies. ‘Before
Hebe.’

‘You worked at a Sunday supplement before joining
Hebe
too?’ I ask Alex.

‘Yeah,’ he replies, flicking a handful of grass at Pete.

So that’s why I never saw Alex’s name on magazine mastheads after I went back to Australia. The memory of me trailing through all of those glossy magazines makes me feel sombre.

‘It’s your last day of work tomorrow.’ Esther nudges Pete, bringing my attention back to my colleagues.

‘Yep,’ he replies with a grin.

‘Are you looking forward to being a married man?’ she asks.

‘Can’t wait,’ he tells her, with total and utter sincerity.

Unusually, I find his response heartwarming. ‘Are all of Sylvie’s family coming over?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Quite a few of them are already here and others arrive tomorrow.’

‘Nice that she wanted to get married in the UK instead of in the States,’ Esther muses.

‘She says this is her home now,’ Pete replies with a small, happy shrug.

‘It should be a great weekend,’ Mike says decisively. ‘My girlfriend has been planning her outfit for weeks.’

‘Aw, are you going?’ I ask Mike.

‘Yep. You guys are, too, right?’ Mike checks with Alex and Esther.

‘Sure am,’ Esther replies with a smile.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ Alex says, not meeting my eyes as he continues to pull up grass with his fingers. Does he feel bad that I’m the only one here who hasn’t been invited?

Pete’s eyes shift to mine and I force a bright smile. ‘Who have you got doing your wedding photos?’

‘Er, a couple called Lina and Tom,’ he replies, probably feeling bad that I’m not even doing his pictures. Those names sound familiar.

‘Lina and Tom... Her name’s not Lina Orsino, is it?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’ Pete looks taken aback. ‘How did you know that?’

‘She’s Rachel’s mentor. Rachel often talks about her. Apparently she taught her everything she knows, so she must be amazing. Will you say hi to her from us?’

‘Sure,’ Pete replies with a smile.

Later, when we’re all packing up for the day after a brilliantly positive meeting with Clare, Pete takes a call from his fiancée. I pat him on his back and give
him the thumbs-up to wish him good luck before setting off. I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear his voice.

‘Bronte, wait!’ he calls out. He catches up with me, a little out of breath. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’ he asks as I wait on the second-floor landing.

‘Er, nothing,’ I reply, puzzled. I’m not working so I was just planning on hanging out with Bridget.

‘Would you like to come to my wedding?’ he asks hopefully.

My brow furrows. I’m confused. Is he asking me because he feels bad for leaving me out?

‘We’ve just had a cancellation,’ he explains in a rush. ‘Sylvie’s American cousin has appendicitis so he and his wife have had to cancel. I’d love you to come
if you’re free.’

I waver. He seems to genuinely want me to join them.

‘You can bring someone. Everyone else is,’ he goes on to say.

It dawns on me that Alex will be going with Zara. Do I really want to meet this woman in the flesh? No.

‘Go
on. I know there’s still space at the B&B where the others are staying,’ he says.

Just say no.

‘Go
on,’ he urges, good-naturedly. ‘I feel like you’re an old friend too after all these lunchtimes.’

I can’t help but smile at him.

This is a bad idea. You don’t want to meet her.

‘Thanks, that’s so sweet. I’d love to.’

I swing by Lachie’s pub on the way home. He hasn’t answered my text or panicked phone call, so I’m hoping he’s at work. I smile with relief when I see
him wiping down the bar top. His face breaks into a grin.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks me.

‘I’ve come to ask you for a favour,’ I say, hopping onto a stool. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing much. Busking, probably.’

‘Are you working on Saturday night?’

‘I don’t have to. Why?’

‘Will you come to a wedding in Yorkshire with me?’ I ask quickly.

‘Whose wedding?’

‘Pete’s. You’ve met him at the pub. He’s just invited me to his wedding and I can bring someone. The Yorkshire Moors are stunning, apparently. It’ll be
fun.’

He looks amused.
‘You
want
me
to escort you to a wedding?’

Annoyingly, I blush. ‘As a mate,’ I hastily point out, looking down at the bar top before meeting his eyes with a hopeful look on my face.

He straightens up and continues to wipe down the bar.

‘Who else is going?’ He glances at me.

‘Um, Esther, who I think you’ve also met, a guy from work called Mike, and... Alex.’

‘Alex is going.’

It’s not even really a question.

‘Yes.’

‘And Alex’s fiancée?’

Shit. He’s cottoned onto me.

I shrug nonchalantly. ‘I would have thought so. Everyone is bringing someone.’

He looks straight at me. Once more, my face heats up. ‘And
you
want
me
to bring
you,’
he says slowly.

‘Sure,’ I say weakly.

‘Okay.’ He continues with his cleaning up.

‘You’ll come?’ I double-check that’s what he’s saying.

‘Yeah. Why not?’ He gives me a significant look, but I decide to talk about something else rather than interrogate him about it.

I’m trying not to ruin my manicure as I stare out of the window at the lush green scenery flashing past. I have a strong desire to bite my nails, and I haven’t
wanted to do that since I was a teenager. We’re on an early morning train to York and I’m sitting opposite Lachie. Alex and Zara are driving Esther and her boyfriend, and Mike and his
girlfriend drove up last night. We were lucky to get reduced rates on our last-minute train fares.

I glance at Lachie, who’s staring at me calmly. He’s wearing a well-fitted white shirt which is slightly open at the collar, and black trousers. He said he didn’t have a suit,
but I can’t imagine anyone minding too much.

‘You seem nervous,’ he comments.

I screw up my nose. ‘I don’t really like weddings.’

He laughs half-heartedly. ‘What are we doing coming to this one, then?’

I purse my lips at him. ‘I don’t know, to be honest.’

‘You’re an odd one, Bronte... What’s your surname?’

‘Taylor.’

‘You’re an odd one, Bronte Taylor.’

I grin at him, relaxing slightly because he tends to make me do that. ‘Why am I odd?’

‘You don’t believe in marriage... You don’t believe in God...’

‘I know. Miserable bitch, aren’t I?’

He grins. ‘Yet here you are, working as a wedding photographer.’

‘It’s a strange world,’ I concede.

‘And coming to a wedding which you really could have said no to,’ he points out.

I shrug and look out of the window again.

‘Have you met Alex’s missus?’ he asks. His question makes me tense up.

‘Nope,’ I reply flippantly. ‘That’s about to be rectified, though, isn’t it?’ I say with saccharine sarcasm.

He doesn’t smile at me. It freaks me out when Lachie gets that serious look about him.

‘What’s your surname?’ I ask.

‘Samson,’ he replies. ‘Nice change of subject,’ he adds.

I poke my tongue out at him.

I’m wearing a silk cocktail dress which is fitted around my waist and kicks out into a flirty A-line with a just-above-knee-length hem. The shoulder straps, side panels and back of the
dress are black, but the front centre is cream with a cream bow detail just below my bust. It’s very pretty. I picked it up in the sale yesterday lunchtime, when I was having last-minute
anxiety about going through with this. I’m wearing my hair off to one side in a fishtail plait and my nails are painted cherry red.

Lachie and I are catching a bus straight to the wedding in a little village in the Yorkshire Moors so we’re carrying small overnight bags with us. We managed to get a room at the B&B
Pete mentioned. Just the one. Lachie can’t believe I agreed to share with him at long last, but I’ve told him in no uncertain terms that either he’s sleeping on the sofa, or I
am.

There’s an accident on the way and the traffic is backed up for a mile along the country road so we’re cutting it fine by the time we arrive at the church. It doesn’t help my
already swirling nerves.

I’ve chosen to come to a wedding, a wedding of someone I don’t really know that well, I’m about to meet someone I really don’t want to meet, and I don’t even have a
camera to take my mind off things.

The wedding bells are ringing as we hurry up the hill to the church, just two of them, slowly, in different pitches:
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

The stone church tower is visible from a distance through the old market town, but as we climb a set of stone steps between a shop and a cottage, the rest of the beautiful ancient church comes
into view. I notice a young male photographer wearing a white shirt, black trousers and waistcoat waiting at the top of some steps outside the church. I wonder if it’s Tom, Lina’s
partner. And then he nods behind us and we see the bridal car down on the road.

‘Jesus Christ, we’re late,’ Lachie mutters as we hurry into the church past the vicar waiting in the porch. He looks to be in his mid-thirties and he has a slightly balding
head.

He gives us an amused look. ‘Is He here too?’ he asks sardonically. ‘That’s a good sign.’