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.

I should.

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. Let him go, 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.

I’m scared to discover he still has a hold over me.

Terrified.

I’m in bed, trying to sleep, when Lachie gets home at close to midnight.

‘You awake?’ he whispers loudly, pulling his T-shirt over his head.

‘Yes.’

‘Bronnie!’ he cries with delight, stumbling into the wardrobe as he attempts to take off his jeans.

‘How drunk are you?’ I ask with mild amusement as he flops his long, lean body onto the bed and gathers me up in his arms.

‘Very,’ he replies, pulling me against his muscled chest.