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“I know. But that’s his fault. He ruined everything.”
Bronte contemplated that. A few days ago, she might have agreed, but something was shifting inside of her, a perception that was altering, lessening her anger and hurt, enabling her to see things differently. “We weren’t like you guys.”
Alice frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if Ashton and I ever really loved each other.” She bit into the corner of her toast, mulling it over. Alice was watching her with a look of complete surprise.
“I mean, we loved each other,” Bronte contradicted with a tight shake of her head. “In that way old f
riends must. But we weren’t in synch in the same way I see with you and Edward. We were comfortable together, and happy enough I guess, but that’s not the stuff of a happy marriage. It’s not everlasting love.”
Alice shook her head as if to demur.
“It’s okay.” Bronte reached across the table and put her hand over her sister’s. “I’ve been hurting for a long time but this weekend has really clarified things for me. I didn’t know how I expected to feel, seeing Ashton again. Seeing him with her.” She shrugged. “But I can honestly say I’m happy, without him.”
Alice watched her for several beats, as though trying to weigh up if Bronte was being serious or not. “And you’ve got your super Hotty McHotface Italian to soften the blow,” Alice said with a wink.
Heat spread through Bronte. Guilt, too, at the lie, but mostly a sense of warmth when she thought of Luca. In this sense, it wasn’t a lie. He was distracting her and making her feel better, he was making her feel desirable and whole.
“Yes.” Bronte squeezed Alice’s hand. “But today is definitely not about me, or Luca, or Ashton, or anyone but you.”
Alice pouted. “And Edward.”
“Ehhh,” Bronte quavered her hand in the air, to indicate ‘maybe’.
Alice laughed. “I like your thinking.”
Alice had three bridesmaids, and six children in the wedding party – a combination of page boys and flower girls, all adorably dressed in old-fashioned party wear, the girls with hair in ringlets and the boys’ styled to the side, like film stars from the fifties. As for the bridesmaid dresses, Alice had shown her kindness in the selection of dresses that were the last word in flattering. Not a hint of puffed sleeve or bouffant skirt in sight, the dresses were a pale pink and svelte, with a v-neck at the front and back, a nipped in waist and pencil skirt to just above the knees. Teamed with heels, the effect was a team of bridesmaids who looked like they could be strolling the runway at New York fashion week.
Alice’s dress was similarly flattering. She’d eschewed the big, fluffy skirts and opted for a class A-line dress in the finest cream silk, her veil secured with a crown of flowers rather than any pretence at a tiara.
“Darling, you’re perfect,” Clara enthused, tears in her eyes, as Alice prepared to leave the hotel room.
Alice blinked her lashes, her cheeks naturally pink. “I know.”
Bronte smiled, and winked at her dad. He walked towards Bronte, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “As are you, poppet.”
In the grounds of Athlestone Park stood an eighteenth century stone church, only a short walk from the house. While most of the wedding party made their way there on foot, several sleek white Jaguars with creamy leather interior had been sent for the bridal party. The cacophony of butterfly wings in her stomach intensified as their car drew closer to the church, and not just because she was excited for her sister.
Ancient oak trees formed a guard of honour, leading the car to the church, and all Bronte could think about was seeing Luca again. Soon. Within minutes. She swallowed past a cluster of nerves at the base of her throat, smiled at one of the little flower girls, then tried to blot him from her mind and focus on the duties at hand.
It was impossible. The whole time she was corralling the small participants into order, running her hands over her sister’s skirt to remove the few fine creases that had formed during the short drive, her mind was focussed on Luca with a singular intensity. She was working on autopilot, directing the children just as they’d rehearsed, but her mind was counting down until she saw him again.
“Ready?” Alice asked, squeezing Bronte’s hand. Bronte turned to her sister and smiled, a sheen of tears filling her eyes for what was about to happen, and the enormity of it all.
“You stole my line, again.”
Alice laughed. “I am more than ready. And please don’t cry because you’ll make me cry and I don’t want that to be my wedding day look.”
“Sorry, you’re right. You just – you’re stunning, Ally.”
“Aw, shucks. Thanks. Now, get going.”
Bronte nodded, looking down the long aisle. The other two bridesmaids had gone ahead, it was just Bronte then Alice to follow.
Bronte’s smile encompassed her mother and father, and then she turned, breathing in deeply, and slowly, as she entered the church.
It was this moment in particular she’d dreaded the most. Most of the guests in attendance, certainly on the bride’s side of the church had only known Bronte as one half of Ashton and Bronte. She’d hated the idea of walking down the aisle and that even a single one of them might be pitying her for the suddenly single state in which she found herself.
