Page 4 of Italy and Forever

‘You knew it was me standing here.’

‘Well, yes—’ He recognised her voice – the way he identified most of his friends. Not that she counted as a friend. More like a colleague he had an uneasy relationship with, perhaps.

‘Then you shouldn’t have let me go on about—Fuck!’

As he already knew, for a chatty wedding planner whose hair was always glossy and neat, she swore a surprising amount. In fact, he knew more about Ginny than he was comfortable with.

‘I thought you realised it was me.’ It was the truth, but it sounded like a poor excuse.

‘I didn’t mean to tell you to your face that you hate me!’

‘I know.’ It was clear she didn’t want to talk to him about anything except his camera skills – and even those wouldn’t be right for her purposes. He knew he’d have to turn down her request and his chest felt heavy.

‘I didn’t think this could get any worse,’ she said through her teeth.

‘It’s all righ⁠—’

‘You think it’s all right?’ The agitation in her voice made him itchy, but there was nothing he could do about it. ‘You let me make a fool of myself, when it’s difficult enough to ask you a favour when you don’t want to help me.’

‘Ginny…’ he began. Even saying her name felt strange, given how much that word had bounced around in his trapped thoughts since the first time he’d met her, in this exact pub, over a year ago.

She was looking at him and he forced himself to return the eye contact. He could never picture her face as soon as she turned away – that was the same for everyone. But he’d learned by now that the colour of her eyes struck him every time. From the work he’d done with an occupational therapist, he knew they must be green, but that spectrum had turned into an indistinct bright silver-grey since his accident.

He knew he liked her face – a lot. Strange, how he could react to what was essentially abstract lines, curves and shadows but as soon as she turned away, he couldn’t picture it.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned on the bar and continued, ‘You don’t need to make everyone like you.’

She drew back suddenly, her chin coming up, and he realised she hadn’t taken his words the way he’d intended. ‘At least I feel vindicated,’ she said through clenched teeth.

‘I didn’t mean me – just people in general. Take up space. Ask your question.’

Her lips opened as she considered her response. ‘Does that mean you’re going to take the wedding job?’

‘No.’ Hesitation and sugar-coating wouldn’t help.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ she said behind her hand. She swallowed heavily. ‘What is your problem?’

He had several, but he didn’t think she’d want to hear about them.

‘Just because you’re some fancy award-winning photographer – who’s mysteriously working behind the bar today, as if just to humiliate me – doesn’t mean you can leave your friends in the lurch!’

‘I work here almost every day and I’m not leaving you in the lurch on purpose⁠—’

‘I meant Sophie and Andreas!’ she interrupted him.

Ah, of course she didn’t count herself as a friend.

‘Don’t you think if there were any other photographers available on our books, I would have hired them? I mean, you made your point, grumbling about the wedding last winter. I understand you don’t like crowds, but that’s not an excuse this time. You’re coming to the wedding anyway. I thought you’d rather have your camera in your hand than stand around and chit-chat, but maybe you were planning to just loiter in the corner and frown at everyone. In which case, be my guest. I’ll take the fucking pictures myself!’

The little glimpse of her teeth suggested she wished she’d stopped talking two sentences ago, but she’d hit the intended nerve.

The winter wedding in Tyrol at New Year’s had been his first – and hopefully last – wedding behind the camera. Capturing people’s precious moments when he couldn’t distinguish the groom from the groomsman in a close-up meant guaranteed failure. He’d rather work behind the bar than earn a wad of cash by clicking away indiscriminate photos of naïve, happy people.

She whirled around, making a belated, dramatic exit, her trendy trainers squeaking on the old floor. She wore baggy jeans and a cropped sweater and both of those things marked her as far younger than him – so young that he shouldn’t even be wondering whether it was a decade or more between them, and whether that would make any difference.

Since the accident, he was an old man.

Before he could tear his gaze away from the fall of her hair to her shoulder blades, she turned back, tossing her head. ‘What do you mean, you work here every day? You’re a photographer.’