A Christmas Wedding(20)

She’s already told me as much. Bridget’s dad ‘invested’ in a flat in Chalk Farm years ago, but it’s obvious he bought it primarily to help his beloved daughter get onto the property ladder. Property prices in London have skyrocketed in recent years, so he made an absolute packet when he sold it and insisted on using the profits to help Bridget buy a family home with Charlie.

‘He’s so great,’ I say, and I know this from experience. I met Bridget’s dad many times when we lived together. I’ve never met her mum, but I will do in a few days when she’s here for the wedding. Bridget said it was a complete faff trying to agree on a date that suited her.

She doesn’t talk about her mother much, but I understand they’ve had a slightly strained relationship over the years, not helped by the fact that her mum chose to go back to work on a cruise liner, travelling the world, when Bridget was just six years old. Her dad raised her pretty much on his own.

‘He’s thinking about selling up the pub and retiring down here,’ Bridget says of her dad.

‘No way!’

‘Yeah.’ She grins and gets her keys out of her purse.

‘What does Charlie think about that?’ I ask in a low voice in case he can somehow hear me.

‘Oh, he’s delighted. They get along like a house on fire. Dad says Charlie’s the son he never had.’

‘That is so cute.’

‘Yeah, it’s lovely,’ she says fondly, unlocking the door.

‘Hey!’ A male voice calls out, and, a moment later, Charlie appears from a door off the hallway, a big grin on his face. ‘Hello, Bronte,’ he says warmly, coming forward to embrace me. ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you properly.’

‘You too,’ I reply with an equally big smile as we hug.

He withdraws and ruffles Bridget’s hair. She bats him off with a smirk, blushing. Has she gone all shy? She has! She really wants us to like each other, I realise.

Charlie’s even better-looking in person. His eyes, which are a sort of golden hazel and are really striking, don’t come across on the small screen when Bridget has made us say hi via FaceTime. He’s also taller and broader than I expected, with shortish, dark-blond hair, the same sandy shade as Lachie’s, I think with a pang.

I haven’t wanted to talk about Lachie yet, but I know that Bridget will get the whole story out of me later.

‘You want a cuppa, Bronte?’ Charlie offers, jerking his head towards what I assume is the kitchen.

‘Yes, please.’

‘April!’ Bridget calls out. ‘Where is she?’

‘In the living room,’ Charlie replies over his shoulder.

‘She’s quiet. What’s she doing?’

‘Go and see,’ Charlie calls back with amusement.

‘What are you up to?’ Bridget asks in a high-pitched voice as we round the corner. There’s a small, blonde-haired girl in a red-and-white spotted dress lying on her tummy on the wooden floor. She’s surrounded by about two dozen brightly coloured crayons and several sheets of paper covered with messy scribbles.

‘Oh, wow, these are beautiful!’ Bridget exclaims, crouching down beside her adopted daughter.

April grins up at her and then looks at me.

‘This is Bronte,’ Bridget introduces us.

‘I see Bonty on phone,’ April replies, pointing at me.

Oh, my goodness, she’s adorable. She’s not quite three.

‘Yes, Mummy talks to Bronte on the phone quite a lot, doesn’t she? She’s Mummy’s very good friend.’

‘Hello!’ I say to April, sitting down cross-legged and proceeding to act as if her artwork were worthy of Picasso’s protégé.

She seems to like that.

That evening, once Charlie has taken April upstairs to bed, Bridget and I retire to the living room with a bottle of rosé.

‘How are you feeling?’ Bridget asks, and I know it’s time to talk about the break-up.

‘I’m going to need tissues,’ I alert her.

She passes me a box from under the sofa, followed by a pack of baby wipes. ‘There are more where those came from,’ she says.

I tearfully bring her up to date.

‘Can I speak completely freely?’ Bridget asks after a while.

‘When do you not speak freely?’ I reply with an emotional grin. ‘I’d expect nothing less. I want nothing less.’

She smiles. ‘Well, I’m kind of surprised that you and Lachie lasted this long.’

I’m a little taken aback.

‘I never really thought he was your forever love,’ she says. ‘Did you?’

I shake my head. ‘I guess not, if I’m also being honest with myself. He was there at the right time and the right place and I loved him to bits. But you’re right. If you’d asked me back then if I thought we’d still be together four years later, I don’t think I would have said yes. Lachie is still all of the things that worried me about him when we first met. Young and carefree and flirty. And I did grow to like that about him, but I’ve been getting increasingly tired of it. I just wanted him to grow up a bit, take things up a notch. But if anything, he’s been hitting the pub more than ever lately, almost as though he’s rebelling against getting older.’