A Christmas Wedding(2)


Someone once said to me, you have to go back in order to be able to move on. Wise words, I’m sure, but the thought of seeing Alex again has always scared me. I haven’t returned to England since I left, and I still feel haunted by what happened. My boss, Simon, said he understood my decision to stay in Australia, but I’m mortified by how unprofessionally I behaved. Luckily my career wasn’t affected – at least, my magazine career wasn’t; I haven’t photographed a wedding since.

I thought that, with time, I’d start up that side of my work again, doing the occasional job on weekends, building up my portfolio, maybe even one day leaving journalism behind and going full-time as a wedding photographer. But, despite encouragement from Lachie, my mentor Rachel and my close friend Bridget, it still hasn’t happened. Work has been so full-on; I haven’t had the energy to pursue work as a weekend warrior, as well.

Sometimes, though, I find myself daydreaming about all of those Big Days that I did… Not Alex’s – I’ve buried that one too deep – but all of the others, and my head is full of images of beautiful brides and handsome grooms, flowers cascading from pews and the hands of pretty bridesmaids, sparkling champagne in crystal-clear flutes, and hazy blue skies and scented warm grass on perfect English summer days…

And then I miss it so much it hurts.

But I feel as if I left that part of me on the other side of the world and I’m not sure I could ever go back.

My stomach clenches. At this rate I won’t need to go back in order to move on. Like it or not, my past might be about to catch up with me right here in Sydney.

Lachie calls me as I’m disembarking at Manly.

‘You coming to the pub?’ he asks in lieu of a greeting.

‘Not sure I feel like it,’ I reply, shrugging my bag over my shoulder as I come out of the ferry terminal building into the darkening evening. I hang a right towards the beach.

‘What’s wrong? You okay?’

‘Bit of a strange day.’

‘Strange how?’

‘I’ll tell you about it at home.’ Hint, hint, don’t stay out too long…

‘Er, well, El’s just arrived,’ he replies. ‘He’s at the bar,’ he adds as my heart sinks. ‘Seemed pretty rough. Said he’d fill me in once he had a drink down him.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Come join us,’ he says in a cajoling voice.

‘Maybe. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Okay.’ He sends two kisses spiralling down the receiver and ends the call.

El – Elliot – is Bridget’s ex. Bridget was my flatmate in England, and I missed her terribly when I moved back home. Luckily, she’s a travel writer, and it took very little convincing to get her to agree to come and spend some time in Australia. Early on in her stay, she bumped into Elliot, whom she’d known as a teenager. They rekindled their relationship and we became an awesome foursome. It was brilliant. Until Bridget’s visa ran out and she had to go back to the UK. She and Elliot managed long distance for almost a year, but Bridget broke it off when she fell for someone else.

I love Bridget to bits, but she’s very up and down when it comes to men, a trait I recognise because I used to be a bit like that, myself. And, even though she seems besotted with her new guy right now, I wouldn’t put money on it lasting. I just can’t believe she threw away everything that she had with Elliot – with us – for yet another relationship.

The most gutting thing is, right before they broke up, Elliot confided to me that he was thinking about proposing. If they’d got married, Bridget could have settled in Australia permanently, and we all could’ve lived happily ever after…

But, clearly, El left it too late.

It was awful dealing with the repercussions of their break-up. Elliot was devastated. Lachie and I rallied round – Lachie especially – but El was a mess for months. Recently, he’s starting dating again – well, pulling might be a more apt word. I don’t love the idea of my boyfriend hanging out with a single man on a mission, but I know we need to ride it out until he’s back on his feet.

Lachie and I live in a one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a two-storey building, a couple of blocks from the beach. There’s a small balcony out the front, which in the summer hosts barbecues aplenty, but is currently being used only as a space for drip-drying Lachie’s wetsuit. Lachie surfs almost every day – I’m a little envious that he has time to. His work takes place outside regular office hours – he plays the guitar and sings, mostly at weddings, but also at birthdays and other special occasions. I met him at a wedding in Scotland – he was gigging and I was taking the pictures. I thought he was so sexy, so far from my idea of a typical wedding singer.

I unlock the door and walk in to find our home ever so slightly better off than when I left it: the breakfast things are gone from the counter by the sink and the mail has been cleared into a neat stack, but there’s still a ring on the table from where Lachie sloshed too much milk into his bowl this morning, and breadcrumbs on the board from his lunchtime sandwich preparation. I scan the contents of the fridge, relieved to see that my boyfriend at least remembered to go to the supermarket. But, before I can ponder what to cook for dinner, I have a flashback to Alex’s email and reach for an open bottle of white wine instead. I really, really need to talk to someone about this. I have to talk to Lachie, but I don’t really want to. I want to talk to Bridget, I realise. It’s Friday morning in the UK – I wonder if she’s busy. I grab the phone and go to the sofa, taking a large gulp of wine and kicking off my shoes before dialling her number.

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