Russ used to work with me atHebeand Maria is the make-up artist who introduced me to Rachel, my wedding photographer mentor. Maria and Russ got together on a work night out and are now married with two children.
‘When were you talking to those two about Alex?’ I’m taken aback.
‘They came to Cornwall on holiday back in June and we caught up. I was just wondering if they ever saw or heard anything of him.’
I feel slightly strange that she asked about him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Bridget says gently. ‘I was just curious, to be honest, but I didn’t think you’d want that whole can of worms opening.’
‘Huh!’ Can of worms officially opened.
‘How do you feel about it?’ she asks. ‘Him rocking up in Sydney?’
‘I’m freaking out,’ I admit.
‘Oh, B,’ she murmurs. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I haven’t written back yet. I thought I should tell Lachie first.’
‘Good plan. Do youwantto see him?’
‘No!’ My reply is instant.
‘Are you sure?’ she persists.
Butterflies cram into my stomach. ‘He was only telling me out of courtesy,’ I say eventually, deflecting her question. ‘He didn’t ask to meet up with me, and Lachie would hate that, so I won’t see him unless we really do bump into each other.’
My heart contracts, suddenly, inexplicably. Alex is going to be here in Sydney. The thought ofnotseeing him fills me with the oddest array of confusing, conflicting emotions.
I’m still feeling confused and a little miserable later that night when I’ve sunk half a bottle of wine and am fixing myself toast for dinner because I can’t be bothered to cook. Lachie isn’t home and I haven’t heard from him again. He’s no doubt helping Elliot to drown his sorrows. El may have moved on physically from Bridget, but it’s clear he’s still emotionally attached. I don’t think he expected this thing with Charlie to last, either, so the marriage proposal will definitely have knocked him for six.
Could I really photograph Bridget’s wedding? She’s taking a risk in asking me – what if I’m rubbish these days? But, deep down, I know I’m not. Iwasgood at it. Sure, I made mistakes, but nothing too major, and I always managed to get the one shot that Rachel told me was the most important: the groom’s reaction to seeing his bride for the first time.
A memory assaults me from out of nowhere and my heart folds in on itself. Before I can think about it, I’m opening the wardrobe in our bedroom and digging out my old laptop. Guilt pricks at my gut as I wait for it to fire up, and then I’m searching the items in my documents, looking for a folder deceptively entitled ‘Boring Bits’. Hidden right at the bottom of that folder I find three photographs called WA1, WA2 and WA3.WeddingAlex. I highlight and click on all three of them.
Alex’s face appears on the screen, his blue eyes staring straight back at me. The look on his face is so tortured, so uncertain. He had just told me that he loved me, that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he wasn’t sure if he could go through with marrying Zara. I wasn’t supposed to be photographing their wedding – Rachel had called me the night before in a panic because her regular assistant had caught the flu – but I agreed to do it because Alex had said that he’d be fine with it.
Lachie actually called things off with me when he heard that I’d consented – he’d been travelling around Europe and had phoned to ask me if I’d join him in Paris for the weekend. I told him of my alternative plans and he hit the roof. But he did an about-turn and was there, waiting for me, when I came out of the church. I couldn’t follow through with the job – it was all too much – but I’d got the most important shot, the one Rachel had entrusted to me.
I still remember that totally surreal feeling of willing Alex to turn around and look at his bride-to-be coming down the aisle. I wanted to do a good job for Rachel – and for Alex and Zara. But he didn’t look at Zara: he looked at me.
These are the pictures I took of him, staring straight down my lens.
Why have I still got them?I ask myself in a daze. Alex means nothing to me now. Lachie is everything. I should have binned them long ago, but I didn’t. What’s stopping me?
Nothing is stopping me.
I should get rid of them.
Ishould.
I close down the photographs, inwardly wincing at the sight of Alex’s deep-blue eyes disappearing from my screen, one after the other. I highlight the three files and drag them to the trash, hovering over the icon. Feeling slightly sick, I let them go.
But I know they’re still retrievable, so I force my fingers up to Finder on my desktop menu and scroll down to ‘Empty Trash’.
Come on, Bronte. Just let go. Lethimgo, once and for all.
A cold sweat comes over me and I hastily click off the menu and go down to the trash to hunt out the photos, restoring them to my ‘Boring Bits’ folder.
