‘I thought you hated your new job…’ She raises an eyebrow, sassily, and I laugh. Who knew Rachel could be so persuasive? Surely she’s not really suggesting I jack in my job and come back to the UK?
‘You wouldn’t regret it,’ she says, still dangling her carrot in front of my nose. Dangle, dangle, dangle. ‘The cred you’d get from this one job would set you up for life as a wedding photographer.’
Suddenly I’m no longer laughing. Sheisserious. Could this be my future? Could I be a wedding photographer? My own boss? Full time?
‘I’ll give you a couple of months before I ask anyone else,’ she says knowingly as the cogs in my head turn. ‘Think about it.’
Oh, I will.
‘Rachel has asked me to do a job with her this Christmas,’ I find myself telling Alex as soon as I’m in his car.
‘Really?’ he replies with interest. ‘Back over here or in Oz?’
‘Here. All expenses paid. I’m seriously considering it. It’s a celebrity wedding,’ I whisper. ‘But I don’t know whose.’
He chuckles. ‘Why are you whispering, then?’
I giggle, too. ‘I don’t know.’ I glance out of the window and then back at him. ‘Am I really going to stay at yours?’ I’ve sobered up since leaving the pub and this fact is only just now sinking in. ‘I don’t have any of my things with me.’
‘I’m sure I can find you a spare toothbrush and lend you a T-shirt.’
‘Yeah, and I can set off back to Polly’s early.’
‘There’s no rush, is there? I thought she was working.’
‘True. Why, are you planning on cooking me a nice fry-up?’
‘I’ll cook you a fry-up if you like,’ he replies with a smile.
I feel a tiny bubble of joy burst inside my stomach, but it’s deftly followed by a hefty kick.
How would Lachie feel if he could see me now, in Alex’s car, laughing away, without a care in the world?
He’d be shocked. Gutted. Disappointed.
The guilt is immense.
And then I wonder if Lachie also feels guilty spending time with Fliss. Is he seeing more of her since we broke up?
Probably.
I try to put him out of my mind.
I get out my phone and type a quick message to Polly, telling her that I’m staying ‘up here’. I don’t reveal who I’m with. She’ll only flip out if I tell her I’m with Alex, not Rachel, but she’s not my mother.
Even if she sometimes acts like it, bless her.
Alex lives only a couple of miles away from Rachel’s and it takes us around ten minutes to get there. It’s dark – almost 10 p.m. – so I can’t really tell what his area is like, but, from the wide street and the trees growing outside on the pavement, I’m guessing it’s pretty nice.
He lives in a maisonette in a Victorian terrace with its own entrance on the lower-ground level. I follow him down the steps to the front door.
Inside, his place is bright and modern, with some cool designer furniture and light fittings. The kitchen is to the front of the house; the living room to the back, overlooking a private garden.
Alex flicks on the outdoor lights when I ask to see what it’s like out there and a mini-oasis is revealed, the surrounding walls almost completely obscured by ferns and bamboo and other greenery.
‘Wow!’ I say, looking at the round white table on the patio, surrounded by four differently coloured chairs. If it’s sunny in the morning, that’s where we’re having breakfast. I’ll insist on it.
The surreal feeling comes over me again, followed by another stab of guilt. What am I doing? Is this really just about closure?
