For the first time since Lachie and I broke up, the world feels full of possibilities.
A day later, Charlie and Bridget tie the knot. I’m not the only emotional wreck at the wedding – I don’t think there’s a dry eye in the house. The shot I capture of Charlie at the altar, looking down the aisle to see Bridget coming towards him, is one I know they will treasure forever. His golden eyes are glistening with tears, and his face is lit with love and hope. I have no idea how I manage to keep my camera steady.
Bridget herself looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. She’s wearing a cream-coloured, crystal-studded, floor-skimming gown that hugs her stunning figure perfectly. She wanted her hair to be loose and natural, but, after a couple of trial runs, she asked me to braid the front section of her hair so it goes up and over her head, leaving the rest in long, lovely waves. On her feet are dusty-pink flats, which she needs to wear in order to be able to walk down the narrow, bumpy track to the beach where the picnic reception is being held.
The other sixty or so guests help carry chilled bottles of booze, Tupperware containers full of picnic food, armfuls of pink peonies, white and grey picnic rugs, cushions and camping chairs for those who need them. The children each hold bunches of pink and white helium balloons. It is such a glorious sight, the whole congregation walking down the track beside a bubbling brook with dappled sunlight filtering down from the trees overhead. The photos are going to look amazing.
Sometimes we come across the occasional set of playground equipment that keeps the children entertained on the long journey. I snap some shots of Bridget helping April to navigate her way across some wooden stepping stones, but rush to her aid when April slips and falls, bursting into tears.
Bridget scoops her up, and several people watching gasp at the sight of April’s muddy feet streaking brown dirt across Bridget’s dress.
Her mum loses it. ‘Oh, my God, darling, give her to me!’
‘It’s fine, Mum, it’s only a bit of mud,’ Bridget replies, completely unfazed.
‘But it’s your wedding dress!’ her mum squeals.
‘Yeah, and April’s my daughter,’ Bridget replies pointedly, carrying the little girl until she wriggles to get free again.
I lift up my camera and am just in time to snap off a shot of Charlie glancing sideways at his new wife as he takes her hand in his.
I think he loves her more, right then, in that moment, than he ever has.
The day after I wave goodbye to Bridget, Charlie and April, who are off to France in their campervan, Hermie – formerly belonging to Bridget’s dad, but passed down to them as a wedding gift – I travel to London to meet up with Simon, my former boss. I emailed him earlier in the week, hoping to say hello in person, and he asked me to come to his office for a cuppa.
I’m nervous as I walk into the big, marble-lined lobby, on full alert in case I see Alex. I know it’s unlikely at this time in the morning – it’s eleven o’clock, an unusual hour to be coming in or out.
Simon now heads up a men’s lifestyle magazine in my old building and I’m taken aback to spy a couple of familiar faces as I walk in: Pete, who used to work on the news desk at Hebe, and Tim, who worked under Alex in the art department. They were both friendly with him years ago, and my pulse races as we all exchange hellos. Will they tell him I’m here?
‘Bronte!’ Simon exclaims from the other side of the office. I excuse myself and make my way over to my former boss.
Simon has worked with Bridget on and off over the years and wants to know all about her wedding while his assistant makes us tea. By the time we’ve moved on to his showing me pictures of his newborn baby, I’m feeling much more relaxed in his company.
When I’m ready, I take a deep breath and say what I came to say.
‘I really am so sorry for letting you down when I left.’
He pulls a face. ‘That’s way back in the past. I hope you’re not still stressing about it.’
‘I do still feel bad,’ I confide.
‘Well, don’t. It was a privilege to work with you while I did. In the end, you did what you had to do. And when you told me what had been going on…’ He shakes his head in dismay. ‘I’m not surprised you wanted to jack it all in and go home.’ He pauses. ‘Are you catching up with Alex while you’re here?’
I’m surprised at his directness. ‘I have no plans to. I saw him in Sydney when he was there last year.’
He nods. ‘He mentioned it.’
‘Do you see much of him?’ I ask in turn.
‘We have lunch about once a month. We met up a couple of days ago, funnily enough. He’s been very preoccupied with his new business.’
My brow creases in confusion. ‘His new business?’
‘He set up his own design agency.’ He opens a drawer in his desk. ‘I’ve got a card in here somewhere.’
I feel a little funny inside as I watch him root around in his drawer, eventually pulling out a business card. ‘Here it is.’ He pushes it over.
It’s square-shaped and geometrically patterned in colours of green, grey and yellow. I turn it over and read Alex’s name and contact details on the back.
‘He’s based in Camden now?’ I glance up at Simon.
‘Yep.’
So there never was any chance of me bumping into him today.
Rachel has invited me over to hers tonight to go through Bridget and Charlie’s wedding pics – she lives in Golders Green in north London, so it’s an easy trip up the Northern line – but I have hours to kill before then, so I decide to go for a wander around Covent Garden.
It’s lunchtime and it’s busy, the usual charity workers out in force as they call out to anyone who might have a minute. I look into the windows of shops without really seeing the contents, and, before I know it, I’m heading towards the market and the church where Alex married Zara.
There are buskers performing outside – two jugglers on unicycles – but I ignore their antics and pass by into the churchyard, coming to an abrupt stop outside the alleyway where best man Ed tried to urge Alex down the aisle.
I drag my eyes away and walk up the steps to the front door.
St Paul’s in Covent Garden is a beautiful church – it’s known as the Actors’ Church, its connection to the theatre illustrated by memorials to famous actors and actresses along the walls. My eyes drift up the aisle as I picture the sea of red winter berries and dark-red roses flanked by green pine hanging from the ends of pews. Up at the altar, I can still see the dozens of pillar candles in tall clear vases, burning and flickering.
It should have been a beautiful wedding.
I sink down onto one of the pews and think back to the way his dark-blue eyes seemed to sear into my soul as I waited to photograph his reaction to seeing Zara in her wedding dress.
It hurt so much.
I loved him. A part of me still does, even now.