A Christmas Wedding(3)

Alex and I met about six years ago at an eighties club night in London – he was on a stag do and I was on my Aussie friend Polly’s hen night. We ended up talking and bonding over the course of the evening and he confided that he’d recently broken up with his long-term girlfriend, Zara – or, technically, she’d broken up with him, labelling it ‘a break’. Later, he walked me back to my hotel and we spent the night together. It all happened so fast, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. I really liked him, way more than I could’ve thought possible, considering we’d only met earlier that night, and the feeling seemed mutual.

So we both felt torn and confused the next morning when Zara texted and asked to meet him for lunch, claiming that she’d made a mistake. I was only in the UK for a couple of weeks for Polly’s wedding, so the smart option seemed to be saying goodbye and going our separate ways, but it hurt.

A year and a half later, I went back to the UK, this time on a one-year work visa. I’d landed a job at Hebe, the aforementioned magazine. To say I was shocked when Alex turned out to be the new Art Director is an understatement. I was thrown to discover he was engaged to his former ex and set to marry her later that year. We formed a tentative friendship, but the chemistry between us intensified until it became overwhelming and he stepped right back. He didn’t want to leave Zara, whom he’d been with for a decade. They had a shared history that felt too hard to walk away from.

Now Alex and I have history, too. Whether or not we still have chemistry doesn’t bear thinking about.

‘Hello?’ Bridget’s tinny voice comes down the receiver.

‘Bridget!’ I cry, relieved that she answered.

‘Bronte!’ she cries in return. ‘I was just about to call you, I promise I was!’

‘Why?’ I ask, confused at her slightly panicked, slightly guilty tone.

‘Has Elliot not told you?’ she replies.

‘Told me what?’

‘Oh! I thought that was why you were calling!’

‘Bridget!’ I exclaim. ‘What’s going on?!’

I hear her inhale quickly and let her breath out in a rush, while I wait for her to speak.

‘I’m getting married.’

I almost fall off the sofa. ‘What?’

‘I’m engaged. Charlie proposed to me. I’m getting married,’ she repeats. And then she bursts out laughing.

‘What? How?’ I ask with surprise. ‘When?’

‘Next summer.’

‘No, I mean, when did he propose?’

‘Two days ago,’ she replies. I can’t see her face, but I know that she’s beaming from ear to ear.

‘Wow.’ I’m astonished. She and Charlie met a year or so ago and have only been a proper couple for half that time. ‘That was quick!’

‘I know,’ she replies, her enthusiasm dampened slightly by my reaction. ‘But when you know, you know.’

‘And you know?’ I ask weakly.

‘I’ve never been more certain about anything in my entire life,’ she states calmly but firmly.

A belated bubble of excitement bursts inside me and I let out a squeal. She cracks up laughing again, relieved that I’m finally responding appropriately.

‘I thought Elliot must’ve told you!’

Realisation dawns on me. ‘He’s out with Lachie. Lachie said he seemed pretty down. Is that why?’

‘Yeah, I called him earlier.’ Her tone becomes subdued.

‘He didn’t take it well?’

‘No. He was knocked for six.’

I’m not surprised. I’m reeling, myself. Bridget has been in and out of love so many times, and, even though she’s told me that it’s different with Charlie, that he’s unlike anyone she’s ever known, I didn’t really believe it. Now I know I underestimated their feelings for each other.

It’s funny, I always thought of my friend as an open book: warm, outgoing and the best person to be around. But there’s a side to her that I never got to know in the time that we lived together. She’s never struck me as a particularly maternal person – she and Elliot were alike in their desire not to have children, I thought. But Charlie has a young daughter, April, and the way Bridget talks about her with such obvious adoration makes me wonder if I ever really knew her at all.

‘Where did he propose?’ I ask with a smile, determined to try to make up for my initial lack of enthusiasm.

‘At the beach,’ she replies. ‘The one with the sea glass.’

‘I remember. So you’re thinking next summer for the wedding?’

‘Yes. And, Bronte, please will you come?’

‘Of course I’ll come!’ The thought of returning to England feels surreal, but I’m awash with nerves at the reminder that Alex will be coming here, well before then.

‘I was kind of hoping I’d be able to persuade you to do the wedding photos,’ she adds with slight trepidation.

‘Oh… I haven’t done any weddings since I left the UK.’

‘I know.’ She sounds uneasy. ‘I still don’t really understand why.’

‘Work is so busy…’

‘You managed to squeeze them in before, when you had a full-time job.’