Would we have children by now?
Maria puts her arm around my shoulders, startling me back to the present. ‘And ifyouhadn’t agreed to cover Sally that weekend in Scotland,’ she says, referring to Rachel’s former unreliable assistant, ‘then you never would’ve met Lachie.’
‘Why did Sally cancel again?’ Bridget asks.
‘She had a new boyfriend,’ Maria reminds her.
‘So, basically,’ I say, grinning at Bridget, ‘youare marrying Charlie, the undisputed love of your life, because Rachel’s former assistant hooked up with a new man.’
‘The world works in mysterious ways,’ Marty says when we’ve all calmed down from laughing.
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Bridget raises her glass and the rest of us happily follow suit.
When Rachel arrives in Cornwall, she and I go out for a coffee together to catch up on old times, while Bridget stays behind to talk flower arrangements with her mum.
Bridget has been totally relaxed about the wedding on Wednesday, insisting on keeping it simple and doing a lot of the work herself and with Charlie – although I’ve also been helping out, obviously – but now her mum wants in on the action. Bridget is trying her best to indulge her, but I think she wants to tear her own hair out.
‘It’s so good to see you again!’ Rachel enthuses when we’re sitting opposite each other in a cosy café in Padstow with windows overlooking the sailing boats in the tiny harbour. The town is gorgeous, full of quaint buildings painted in shades of green, blue and white, narrow winding streets and a hilly backdrop.
‘I’m so glad to be working with you again,’ Rachel says.
‘Me too,’ I reply. ‘Although I’m a bit nervous.’
‘There’s absolutely no need to be. You always were a natural,’ she says, trying to reassure me. She furrows her brow. ‘Why did you stop, if you don’t mind me asking? Was it because of that last wedding? I was worried it had traumatised you for life.’
Rachel didn’t know beforehand that Alex and I had a connection – she never would have asked me to step into Sally’s shoes if she had.
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Sure, I was traumatised, but I think I stopped pursuing wedding photography because it felt so intrinsically linked to England and my time here. I don’t think I could bear to face up to how much I missed it. It felt safer to go back to what I knew, and, when I was offered the job atHebeAustralia, it seemed too good to be true. I guess life ran away with me after that.’
I glance out of the window at the estuary, titchy in comparison with Sydney’s vast, beautiful, blue harbour, but, for some reason, I feel a pang at the idea of going home.
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like if I stayed, if I didn’t go back to face my horrible new boss and long working hours. What if I didn’t have to deal with packing up the flat or finding somewhere new? What if I didn’t have to see Lachie again and feel the intense pain of our break-up? What if I could just bury my head in the sand and run away from it all?
But no. I’m not doing that again. I need to follow through cleanly and properly so I might actually stand a chance of closure this time around. I want to move on with my life without a dark cloud hanging over me, and then, hopefully, Iwillmeet someone new and wonderful and we’ll do all of the things that I dream about doing.
This doesn’t mean that I won’t come back to England one day. There’s nothing stopping me.
Apart from a visa, obviously.
But it’s something I could look into, once I’ve picked up the broken pieces of my life and attempted to put them back together.
For the first time since Lachie and I broke up, the world feels full of possibilities.
A day later, Charlie and Bridget tie the knot. I’m not the only emotional wreck at the wedding – I don’t think there’s a dry eye in the house. The shot I capture of Charlie at the altar, looking down the aisle to see Bridget coming towards him, is one I know they will treasure forever. His golden eyes are glistening with tears, and his face is lit with love and hope. I have no idea how I manage to keep my camera steady.
Bridget herself looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. She’s wearing a cream-coloured, crystal-studded, floor-skimming gown that hugs her stunning figure perfectly. She wanted her hair to be loose and natural, but, after a couple of trial runs, she asked me to braid the front section of her hair so it goes up and over her head, leaving the rest in long, lovely waves. On her feet are dusty-pink flats, which she needs to wear in order to be able to walk down the narrow, bumpy track to the beach where the picnic reception is being held.
The other sixty or so guests help carry chilled bottles of booze, Tupperware containers full of picnic food, armfuls of pink peonies, white and grey picnic rugs, cushions and camping chairs for those who need them. The children each hold bunches of pink and white helium balloons. It is such a glorious sight, the whole congregation walking down the track beside a bubbling brook with dappled sunlight filtering down from the trees overhead. The photos are going to look amazing.
Sometimes we come across the occasional set of playground equipment that keeps the children entertained on the long journey. I snap some shots of Bridget helping April to navigate her way across some wooden stepping stones, but rush to her aid when April slips and falls, bursting into tears.
Bridget scoops her up, and several people watching gasp at the sight of April’s muddy feet streaking brown dirt across Bridget’s dress.
Her mum loses it. ‘Oh, my God, darling, give her to me!’
‘It’s fine, Mum, it’s only a bit of mud,’ Bridget replies, completely unfazed.
‘But it’s your wedding dress!’ her mum squeals.
