A Christmas Wedding(9)

I pull out my chair, sit down, and send a text to Lachie, giving him one last chance to back down.

He doesn’t.

‘I’m sure,’ he replies. ‘Good luck.’

I text back that I love him, but don’t get a reply.

Opening up a new email, I type out a brief message to Alex:

Are you here? Want to go for lunch sometime?

He replies within minutes.

Yes and yes. Today?

We agree on 1 p.m., but I shirk his suggestion to meet downstairs in the foyer, naming a coffee shop a few blocks away. If I’m going to see Alex again, I don’t want anyone I know to bear witness to it.

I leave early and walk quickly, hoping to get there first and settle myself in before he appears. But, despite my best efforts, he’s already there, leaning up against the stone wall outside the coffee shop with his feet crossed at the ankles and his attention fixed on his phone screen. His posture reminds me of how he looked on the night we first met, leaning up against a pillar at the eighties club, playing Angry Birds on his phone.

He’s wearing a red-and-black checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, layered over a white T-shirt with black jeans and black boots. He glances up and instantly clocks me. My stomach does a somersault and his eyes widen.

‘Hi,’ he says, his face breaking into a grin as he stuffs his phone into his back pocket.

‘Hey.’ I force a smile in return, but my insides are going haywire as I come to a stop two feet in front of him.

He’s suddenly awkward, not knowing how to greet me. I make the decision for both of us, stepping forward to give him the briefest of hugs. His hands only just touch my back before I retreat, but there’s time enough for his catnip to hit me, full force.

‘I hope they have a table,’ I mumble, blushing as I turn away to push the door open. I’m hyper-aware of his proximity as he follows me inside.

There’s a table right at the back and I brace myself as I sit down and come face to face with him again.

He rakes a hand through his dark hair to push it back from his forehead and then rests his elbows on the table between us.

He hasn’t changed a bit.

‘How are you?’ he asks, studying me. His eyes are ocean blue, several shades darker than Lachie’s.

‘Really well, thanks,’ I reply, reaching for the salt shaker to play with. I’m nervous. ‘You?’

‘Good.’

I lie. He has changed. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper than they once were, and now there’s a hint of grey in the hair at his temples. He must be thirty-six – two years older than I am.

‘Let’s order and then we can chat,’ I decide, picking up the menu.

‘What do you usually go for?’ he asks, his eyes levelling mine over the top of our menus.

‘I don’t. I’ve never been here before.’

There’s a query in his expression.

‘I’ve been to the gift shop next door,’ I reveal.

‘Ah.’

I think it’s just dawned on him that I’ve chosen somewhere no one else I know would go to.

We need to order and pay at the counter, which I insist on doing, refusing, to his dismay, the note he tries to press into my hand. I go for the soup of the day – pumpkin and sweetcorn – while Alex opts for a baked potato with cheese.

‘So…’ he says when I return to the table. He’s swiped the salt shaker. ‘This is weird.’

‘Just a bit,’ I agree. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Almost four years.’

‘How’s it going at work?’ I ask.

‘Good, I think.’ Small talk can be a blessing. ‘It’s sometimes hard to know, but the team seem to be responding well to suggestions.’

‘That’s good. Jet lag?’

‘Terrible for the first week. I think I’m over it now.’

‘Is it your first time in Sydney?’

‘Yeah, first time. I’m cramming in my sightseeing at the weekends. After work I’m going straight back to my hotel and crashing out. The room-service staff and I are on first-name terms.’

Although he’s gently jesting, I feel a stab of pity. It sounds like a pretty lonely experience in a new city.

‘I would offer to have you over for dinner sometime, but…’ I don’t need to point out that he wouldn’t be welcome.

He looks down at the table. ‘How is Lachie?’ he asks after a moment.

Does he know for certain that we’re still together? Has anyone told him? Has he asked?

‘He’s great,’ I reply, forcing what I hope is an easy smile, despite my nerves. ‘Still the same, still gigging. He’s got so many weddings on these days.’

He leans back in his seat and folds his arms, his foot accidentally kicking mine. We both quickly move out of each other’s way.

‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘Are you still doing wedding photography?’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Not really. Not at all, if I’m honest.’

His eyebrows pull together. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He sounds genuinely regretful.

‘Bridget is getting married next summer. She’s asked me to do hers.’

‘Oh, wow!’

‘Yeah. I should probably get some practice in before then.’