Page 106 of The Wedding Forecast

We keep chatting and he has me in various poses while sitting on a stool in front of a bookcase. I change outfits, and we take shots on the concrete staircase. I put on my leather jacket, and I actually do feel a little bit cool and edgy. I already know I’ll be using a shot from in front of the bookcase for my website, but I’ll hold on to the concrete stairwell ones, if for no other reason than to look back on one day when I’m on my deathbed.

At the end of the session, Patrick touches my arm.

‘Hey so. Did anything ever happen with you and that guy?’ he says.

‘What guy?’

‘The one from the wedding.’

Patrick gets up and walks over to his desk as he’s talking. He shuffles through files for a while, before finding the folder he was looking for, and he pulls out a picture.

‘I always print out some test shots, before I send the files to the bride, just to make sure everything is looking good. And I printed this one, because I thought it was a nice picture of you. I thought, if you responded to my text, I could give it to you. But then when I looked at it again, it seemed…better not to do that.’

He hands me the photo. It’s me on the dance floor at Hayley’s wedding. And it is a gorgeous picture. It’s in black and white, taken at a flattering angle, and I’m almost but not quite laughing. I’m looking up at Mac. We’re dancing, my hands are around his neck. He’s smiling, eyes bright, looking at me like he never wants to look at anyone else for the rest of his life. We look like—well—we look like we’re falling in love.

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘Did anything ever happen?’ he says.

‘Um. Sort of. Not really. He lives overseas.’

‘Well, you can keep that print, if you want.’

‘Thank you. It’s a really nice photo. You didn’t give it to Hayley as part of her wedding pics?’

‘I didn’t. I put it in the reject pile. Which was really petty. But you never replied to my text.’ He smiles at me.

‘I meant to reply,’ I say, my cheeks warm. ‘I just…you know I wasn’t in a great place. And work was really busy. And I had a book deadline.’

Too many excuses. Stop.

‘That’s okay, I understand.’

I look back at the picture. It feels hot in my hand, like it’s burning its way through my skin. Through my heart. I can hardly bear it. I can’t focus on Patrick. I can’t focus on anything while I’m looking at it. I put it in my bag, sliding it carefully into the front of my notebook.

Patrick takes one of his business cards and hands it to me as I’m leaving.

‘In case you ever change your mind, or get less busy, and you want to get a drink sometime,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

I smile at him. ‘I do already have your contact details though.’

‘I know. Think of the card as a tangible reminder of me,’ he says, smiling back.

There’s a beat of silence, and I can feel the disapproving impatience of the universe, of Sue the Psychic, of the mums, as they wait for me to do something, anything. But my mind is on the picture of Mac and me.

I say goodbye and leave.

When I get home, I put the photo and Patrick’s card in the top drawer of my bedside table.

34

A FEW WEEKS later, I sleep in longer than usual on a Saturday and when I go downstairs, I find Hayley in the lounge room holding a crying baby. It takes me a second to realise it’s Birdie.

I almost say, what’s she doing here? But referring to a baby as ‘she’ feels much too passive aggressive. Or maybe aggressive aggressive.

‘Hi,’ I say, bending down to her. She keeps scream-crying.