He’s sitting up on his board, watching me, and lifts his hand in a half-wave. I do the same before letting him go.
As is becoming tradition, Alex comes to collect me from the airport. We stand in each other’s arms, holding each other tightly for I don’t know how long as the other arrivals swarm around us and pass by. He rests his head against my forehead.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he murmurs.
‘Me too.’
‘I can’t believe you’re here.’
‘For good, hopefully, if I can get that visa sorted out.’
‘I’ve lined up an immigration lawyer,’ he says with a smile, letting me go to take the trolley containing all my luggage.
We go straight back to his place.
‘Are you sure you’re happy with me staying here?’ I ask with slight trepidation as he lugs the last of my suitcases down the stairs. I paid excess to bring what I could, giving away quite a bit before I left. Luckily, Lachie and I only ever rented and the flat was fully furnished, so I don’t have a crazy amount of possessions.
‘More than happy,’ he says, digging into his pocket and giving me a key.
We spoke at length about this before I left Australia. He talked me out of getting a place myself, saying it was ridiculous when we’d probably end up living together anyway. Also, he has a spare room, which he says I can use as my own if I ever need a little space.
‘I will pay rent,’ I say firmly.
He sighs. ‘You don’t need to.’
‘I want to pay my way.’
‘I’m in a good place. I don’t want you to stress about money.’
‘I won’t. Did I tell you that Simon has some work for me in January?’
‘No?’ He looks amazed and then a touch concerned. ‘I thought you were going to focus on wedding photography.’
‘I am. This is just a bit of freelance picture work until I get on my feet. I won’t take another full-time job.’
He smiles and tugs me towards him until we’re toe to toe.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ he says.
‘The feeling’s mutual.’
He leans down to kiss me, but I step away. ‘I need a shower.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Can I join you?’
I give him a cheeky grin and take his hand, leading him up the stairs.
I don’t think I’m going to need to worry about digging out fresh clothes any time soon. I doubt we’ll be moving from his bed.
A few days later, I go to see Rachel. She looks like she’s going to burst as I read over the confidentiality clause, finally signing my name.
‘Spill it!’ I say with a laugh.
‘Joe and Alice!’ she yells.
‘Joseph Strike?’ My eyes nearly pop out of my head.
She nods manically.
‘No way!’ I gasp. This is way, way bigger than I ever could have imagined.
Joseph Strike is a huge Hollywood star, like, proper A-list. Alice was his first love – they met when they were eighteen, but lost touch. She married someone else, but she wasn’t happy and, when Joe opened up about his feelings for her on a chat show years later, Alice’s friend called in and the show put them back in touch. Everyone knows their story.
They’ve been engaged for donkey’s years, but have had two children in the meantime, so it didn’t seem like they were ever going to get around to tying the knot.
Funnily enough, I organised a Joseph Strike Baby Bump cover for Hebe once when my friend Lily in Adelaide offered me the pictures.
I was in Simon’s good books big time after that. I’ve felt kind of indebted to the actor ever since.
‘Where’s the wedding taking place?’ I ask Rachel.
‘A country house up in Cambridgeshire,’ she replies. ‘It’s all very hush-hush. Joe and Alice don’t want the press to cotton on and harass them on their big day.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘I told you I think it’ll set you up. It really will,’ she says. ‘I also wanted to ask you if you’d like to take on Misha’s weddings from next spring?’
She’s already told me that her assistant is having a baby and going on maternity leave.
‘Do you really need to ask?’
‘I know you’ll go it alone eventually,’ she says with a smile. ‘But I do so love working with you.’
‘I love working with you, too, and I’m in no rush to run my own show. Not yet, anyway.’
Joe and Alice are getting married in early December and Alex and I decide to make a minibreak out of the weekend, heading up to Cambridge on the Friday night before the wedding. We stay in a hotel with a great view of the River Cam, and spend a cold but lovely evening wandering around the frosty streets of the fairy-light-laden city.
Early the next morning, I kiss Alex goodbye and leave him to a day of Christmas shopping and sightseeing, while I jump into a cab and head to a sleepy village a twenty-minute drive away.
Rachel told me that Joe and Alice wanted to prepare for the big day together at home with their two small children, and we need to be there to capture the proceedings.
I’m nervous. Hebe was great grounding, but you never get quite used to working with famous people. Joseph Strike is a major celebrity, and even Alice is almost as recognisable as her fiancé these days. I hope I don’t balls this up.
To avoid any likelihood of the cab driver alerting the press, I get out of the car a good few hundred yards early and walk up the muddy country lane to the imposing gates at the end. I press the buzzer and they glide open after a moment, delivering a view of the stunning sixteenth-century Tudor mansion within.
I’m in awe as I crunch across the icy gravel driveway with my kitbag slung over my shoulder, looking around for Rachel’s car. I’m alarmed to find that it’s not there – she was supposed to arrive before me.
The heavy wooden front door swings open well before I reach it and a woman in a white fluffy robe and bare feet beams out at me.
Oh, my God, it’s Alice. The Alice!
‘Hello!’ she calls. ‘You must be Bronte!’
‘Hi!’ I call back.
‘Rachel’s running a bit late. There was an accident on the A1.’ She holds out her hand for me to shake as I reach her. ‘She tried to call you, but couldn’t get reception. It’s a bit patchy round here.’
Despite her bare-faced appearance, Alice is stunning. Her complexion is flawless, the sort that would make Maria weep – what a shame she’s not doing the make-up today – and her hair is jet-black and dead straight, falling to just below her shoulders.
‘Do you need to see my credentials?’ I ask, a bit taken aback that she’s opening her own front door. Don’t they have staff falling over themselves to do that sort of thing?
‘Nah.’ Alice waves me away and her green eyes seem to sparkle. ‘Anyway, Rachel showed me a pic. I know it’s you. You want a cuppa?’
‘I’d love one.’
‘Joe, this is Bronte,’ I hear her say as I follow her into a large, warm country kitchen, complete with natural stone flooring and an Aga.
‘Hey.’ Joseph Strike jumps up from the table where he’s spoon-feeding a baby. ‘Joe,’ he says, giving my hand a firm shake and smiling warmly.