Lachie actually called things off with me when he heard that I’d consented – he’d been travelling around Europe and had phoned to ask me if I’d join him in Paris for the weekend. I told him of my alternative plans and he hit the roof. But he did an about-turn and was there, waiting for me, when I came out of the church. I couldn’t follow through with the job – it was all too much – but I’d got the most important shot, the one Rachel had entrusted to me.
I still remember that totally surreal feeling of willing Alex to turn around and look at his bride-to-be coming down the aisle. I wanted to do a good job for Rachel – and for Alex and Zara. But he didn’t look at Zara: he looked at me.
These are the pictures I took of him, staring straight down my lens.
Why have I still got them? I ask myself in a daze. Alex means nothing to me now. Lachie is everything. I should have binned them long ago, but I didn’t. What’s stopping me?
Nothing is stopping me.
I should get rid of them.
I should.
I close down the photographs, inwardly wincing at the sight of Alex’s deep-blue eyes disappearing from my screen, one after the other. I highlight the three files and drag them to the trash, hovering over the icon. Feeling slightly sick, I let them go.
But I know they’re still retrievable, so I force my fingers up to Finder on my desktop menu and scroll down to ‘Empty Trash’.
Come on, Bronte. Just let go. Let him go, once and for all.
A cold sweat comes over me and I hastily click off the menu and go down to the trash to hunt out the photos, restoring them to my ‘Boring Bits’ folder.
I’m scared to discover he still has a hold over me.
Terrified.
I’m in bed, trying to sleep, when Lachie gets home at close to midnight.
‘You awake?’ he whispers loudly, pulling his T-shirt over his head.
‘Yes.’
‘Bronnie!’ he cries with delight, stumbling into the wardrobe as he attempts to take off his jeans.
‘How drunk are you?’ I ask with mild amusement as he flops his long, lean body onto the bed and gathers me up in his arms.
‘Very,’ he replies, pulling me against his muscled chest.
Despite how beery he smells, I love being in his arms. His warm, strong, familiar arms.
He slides one leg between mine and kisses my neck. Is he naked? I have a quick feel for his boxers and realise they came off with his jeans.
‘How was Elliot?’ I ask.
‘Bad. Bridgie’s getting married.’
‘I know. I spoke to her.’
‘Thought you might’ve.’ He kisses my neck again.
‘So Elliot’s in a bad way?’
‘He was. He’s pretty happy right now, though. Fliss took him off to a club.’
‘I didn’t know she was out with you tonight.’ I don’t sound thrilled.
‘Bumped into her and she stuck around.’
I bet she did.
Fliss – Felicity – is a friend of Lachie’s from work. She and her older sister, Georgina, run a catering company and they’ve been putting a lot of weddings his way. I’m sure she wants to get into his pants, but Lachie insists she only sees him as a mate. He reckons I’d like her if I gave her a chance.
‘I thought she was doing this wedding with you tomorrow.’
‘She is. She’s picking me up at six.’
‘She’s driving? And she’s still out drinking? She’ll probably still be over the limit when she gets behind the wheel!’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Lachie mutters, while I have this horrible feeling I sound like his mother. ‘Anyway, George will probably drive.’
‘So Fliss is out with Elliot right now?’ I ask as he kisses my neck again.
‘Mmm.’ The vibration of his lips on my skin makes me wriggle.
‘Does she fancy him?’
Lachie shrugs. ‘I don’t know. He fancies her, though, so that’s a good start.’
‘Isn’t she a bit young for him?’
‘Says the cradle snatcher,’ he snorts with amusement.
Lachie is twenty-eight, the same age as Fliss, while Elliot is thirty-five, just one year older than I am. My boyfriend has a point, but I shove his shoulder indignantly, regardless.
‘Doesn’t she care that she’s his rebound shag?’
‘Can we stop talking about El and Fliss?’ he asks pointedly, rolling onto his back and pulling me on top of him. He runs his hands up inside my top and cups my breasts.
There are other, far more pressing things to talk about, but right now, there are also far more pressing things to do.
I have to drag myself from bed the next morning when Lachie’s alarm goes off.
‘You don’t need to get up,’ he says in a deep, groggy voice.
‘I’ll make you a coffee,’ I reply, stumbling into the kitchen. It’s quarter to six. The shower turns on and, a few minutes later, Lachie joins me, wearing black jeans, a grey T-shirt and a dark-blue beanie pulled over his blond hair. He never wears a suit when he gigs.
He presses a kiss to my temple. I turn and slide my arms around his waist and he pulls me close, engulfing me with his warmth.
‘You okay?’ he asks, withdrawing to gaze down at me with tired but beautiful blue eyes.
I sigh and place my hands on his face, running my thumbs across his stubble. After going clean-shaven for a year, he’s growing back his beard.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go today.’
He looks dejected. ‘Sorry, Bron,’ he whispers. ‘Fliss and George need to get there early to prep. I could’ve driven later, but it seemed crazy to pass up the offer of a ride.’
‘I know. Don’t worry.’
He reaches past me to grab his coffee from the counter, and, at the same time, we hear a knock on the door.
‘I’ll get it.’ I open the door to find Fliss before me, looking a bit worse for wear, but still gorgeous. Her dark hair is pulled up into a high, tousled bun and her big brown eyes stare out at me from behind a thick fringe. We’re around the same height at five foot seven.
‘Hey,’ she says in a huskier voice than usual.
‘With you in a sec,’ Lachie calls from the kitchen.
‘Good night?’ I raise one eyebrow at her and lean against the doorframe.
She smirks. ‘Could say that.’
‘Did you shag him?’ Lachie asks with a grin, materialising at my side, coffee cup still in hand.
‘No, I did not!’ she replies mock-indignantly. ‘What sort of a girl do you think I am?’
He shrugs and grins and my insides clench. There’s something about this girl that makes warning bells go off in my head.
‘I thought you were desperate,’ he teases.
Has she been divulging to my boyfriend how much she wants sex?
She rolls her eyes at him. ‘Not that desperate.’
‘You could do worse than Elliot,’ I chip in, feeling suddenly defensive of our friend.
She screws her nose up. ‘He’s way too old for me.’
Cheeky bitch! I know I said the same thing last night, but now I feel like she’s implying that I’m too old for my boyfriend.
‘Come on, Lochness, time to go,’ she urges.
Lachie is actually pronounced Lockie, and, somewhere along the line, Fliss got the idea of nicknaming him after the Loch Ness monster. Lachie and I met in Scotland, while Fliss has never even been to Europe, but that’s not why I find the nickname irritating. I hate how familiar and cutesy this girl is with my boyfriend. And Lachie, who has always been a flirt, doesn’t discourage her.
Lachie downs his coffee and plonks the cup on the table, picking up his guitar case and bending down to peck me on the lips. ‘Have a good day,’ he says.
‘You too,’ I reply.