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Praise for Paige Toon

Lucy in the Sky, 2007

‘I loved it – I couldn’t put it down!’ Marian Keyes

‘A fab debut and a great summer read’ Elle

Johnny Be Good, 2008

‘Pacy, highly enjoyable insight into life in La-La Land!’ Closer

‘All the warmth and fun that I’ve grown to expect from the talented Ms Toon’ Freya North

Chasing Daisy, 2009

‘A fast-paced and funny read… Superior chick-lit with great jokes and a thoughtful heart’ Daily Express

‘Laugh-out-loud funny and touchingly honest. This summer’s poolside reading sorted!’ Company

Pictures of Lily, 2010

‘An absorbing and emotional narrative – brilliant!’ Heat

‘Another perfect summer page-turner from Paige Toon’ Mirror

Baby Be Mine, 2011

‘Fun, summery, chick-lit with bite; if you want escapism, this is perfect’ Cosmopolitan

‘Heart-warming and gut-wrenching (yet funny and addictive),will warm the cockles of your heart’ Giovanna Fletcher

One Perfect Summer, 2012

‘Drama, heartache and tears aplenty – a refreshing take on the happy-ever-after tale’

Marie Claire

‘Sweet, charming and true to life… had us reminiscing about summer loves… amazing’ Cosmopolitan

The Longest Holiday, 2013

‘Unashamedly girly, will bring a smile to the face of anyone who has been unlucky in love… Chick-lit at its very best’ Daily Express

‘Pure, sun-drenched escapism… the perfect summer holiday read’ Heat

Thirteen Weddings, 2014

‘Witty, fun and impossible to put down!’ Closer

‘A brilliant piece of chick-lit’ Fabulous Magazine

The Sun in Her Eyes, 2015

‘Paige really ratchets up the tension. You’ll be in a reading frenzy by the end’ Lisa Jewell

‘Paige Toon’s epic bestseller shows how life can change in a heartbeat’ Glamour

The One We Fell in Love With, 2016

‘You’ll love it, cry buckets and be uplifted’ Marian Keyes

‘I blubbed, I laughed and I fell in love… utterly heart-wrenching’ Giovanna Fletcher

A Christmas Wedding

The sight of his name in my inbox causes flu-like symptoms to wash over my body in quick succession: hot flush, cold flush, prickling all over, dizziness, nausea…

<Alex Whittaker>

It’s been three and a half years since I rang and told him to stop emailing me, but it has been impossible to wipe clean the memory of his last words: ‘I love you. I’m not giving up.’

But then he did give up. He let me go, just as I asked him to. And he hasn’t contacted me since.

Until now.

With my heart in my throat and a shaking hand, I hover over his name with my mouse, feeling surreally shocked that he can still have this effect on me after all this time. What does he want? Click…

Hi Bronte,

Sorry to land in your inbox out of the blue like this but I’m going to be in Sydney next month at the Tetlan offices. It’s unlikely I’ll be coming into Vivienne, but I thought I should let you know in case we bump into each other in the lift or something.

I hope all is well with you.

Alex

My heart thumps hard against my ribcage. Alex in Sydney? Next month? In the same building as me?

Alex and I used to work together at a celebrity weekly magazine in London – he was the head of the art department and I ran the picture desk. I heard on the grapevine that he has an even more senior role now, overseeing art direction for the whole of Tetlan, the publishing company that produces the women’s style magazine where I work.

I read his email again. His tone is hard to dissect. I can’t tell if he’s being cold and detached or respectfully distant. How does he even know where I work these days? Does he keep tabs on me? I shouldn’t care about any of this, but I’m alarmed to find that I do. Massively.

My eyes come to a rest on his sign-off.

I hope all is well with you.

What was going through his mind when he wrote that?

‘Hey, you ready?’

I whip my head around to see Christie, a colleague from the Style desk, smiling down at me expectantly. We’re about to do a casting for a photoshoot. Her face falls at the sight of my expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I lie, pushing out my chair and getting to my feet. ‘I’m all set.’

Am I going to see Alex again? Do I want to? I’m not sure I should be pondering the answer to that question.

As I gather my things together at the end of what has felt like a very long day, I overhear a group of people discussing their options for Friday night drinks venues.

‘You coming, Bronte?’ Louise, the features editor, calls from across the office.

I shake my head reluctantly. ‘I can’t. Next week, though, definitely!’ I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice and feel bad as she turns away. I had planned to join in tonight – I’m quite new to this job and I haven’t fully integrated yet – but I need time to get my head together. The ferry ride home to Manly still won’t be long enough.

Today has been a struggle. I must’ve read Alex’s message fifty times, but I haven’t come close to formulating a reply. I need to talk it through with Lachie first. What will he say when he discovers that his old nemesis has been in touch?

Lachie and I still live in the same flat in the same northern beach suburb where we settled almost four years ago. Lachie was moving home to Australia permanently with his expended visa, but I was only supposed to be visiting for Christmas before returning to my job in London.

Then a certain someone rang and told me that he’d left the wife he’d married right in front of me and wanted to be with me instead.

Alex’s declaration of love was everything I had hoped to hear for months, but it was too late. I was happy with Lachie, and Alex had already caused too much pain.

I had a perfectly good plane ticket at the ready, but, rather than return to the UK to face my demons, I called my boss on the other side of the world and resigned so I could stay put in Sydney. I’ve been burying my head in the sand ever since.

I’m not proud.

Digging my phone out of my bag while waiting in line with the hordes of commuters at the ferry terminal, I type out a quick text to my boyfriend: ‘You coming home for dinner?’

Lachie replies just as I’m boarding: ‘At the pub. Thought you were out with work tonight?’

I wait until I’ve reached an empty space by the railings at the back of the ferry before I write back: ‘Change of plan…’ I hope he’s not up for a big one.

We’re already chugging out of Circular Quay by the time he replies: ‘Just got the beers in. Come join me!’

I sigh and slip my phone back into my bag, then tuck my long brown hair into my coat before zipping it up to my neck and bracing myself against the cold September wind. I don’t want to be a nagging girlfriend, but Lachie is gigging at a wedding up in Newcastle tomorrow, a couple of hours’ drive away, so that rules out pretty much the whole of Saturday. I need to talk to him about this tonight. I need to talk about this, full stop. If I don’t get it off my chest soon, I think I’ll burst.

The Sydney Opera House is cast in golden light from the setting sun as we motor past. It was sunny today for the first time in I can’t remember how long – spring is officially here, it seems – but I was too dazed at lunchtime to appreciate it.

Someone once said to me, you have to go back in order to be able to move on. Wise words, I’m sure, but the thought of seeing Alex again has always scared me. I haven’t returned to England since I left, and I still feel haunted by what happened. My boss, Simon, said he understood my decision to stay in Australia, but I’m mortified by how unprofessionally I behaved. Luckily my career wasn’t affected – at least, my magazine career wasn’t; I haven’t photographed a wedding since.

I thought that, with time, I’d start up that side of my work again, doing the occasional job on weekends, building up my portfolio, maybe even one day leaving journalism behind and going full-time as a wedding photographer. But, despite encouragement from Lachie, my mentor Rachel and my close friend Bridget, it still hasn’t happened. Work has been so full-on; I haven’t had the energy to pursue work as a weekend warrior, as well.

Sometimes, though, I find myself daydreaming about all of those Big Days that I did… Not Alex’s – I’ve buried that one too deep – but all of the others, and my head is full of images of beautiful brides and handsome grooms, flowers cascading from pews and the hands of pretty bridesmaids, sparkling champagne in crystal-clear flutes, and hazy blue skies and scented warm grass on perfect English summer days…

And then I miss it so much it hurts.

But I feel as if I left that part of me on the other side of the world and I’m not sure I could ever go back.

My stomach clenches. At this rate I won’t need to go back in order to move on. Like it or not, my past might be about to catch up with me right here in Sydney.

Lachie calls me as I’m disembarking at Manly.

‘You coming to the pub?’ he asks in lieu of a greeting.

‘Not sure I feel like it,’ I reply, shrugging my bag over my shoulder as I come out of the ferry terminal building into the darkening evening. I hang a right towards the beach.

‘What’s wrong? You okay?’

‘Bit of a strange day.’

‘Strange how?’

‘I’ll tell you about it at home.’ Hint, hint, don’t stay out too long…

‘Er, well, El’s just arrived,’ he replies. ‘He’s at the bar,’ he adds as my heart sinks. ‘Seemed pretty rough. Said he’d fill me in once he had a drink down him.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Come join us,’ he says in a cajoling voice.

‘Maybe. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Okay.’ He sends two kisses spiralling down the receiver and ends the call.

El – Elliot – is Bridget’s ex. Bridget was my flatmate in England, and I missed her terribly when I moved back home. Luckily, she’s a travel writer, and it took very little convincing to get her to agree to come and spend some time in Australia. Early on in her stay, she bumped into Elliot, whom she’d known as a teenager. They rekindled their relationship and we became an awesome foursome. It was brilliant. Until Bridget’s visa ran out and she had to go back to the UK. She and Elliot managed long distance for almost a year, but Bridget broke it off when she fell for someone else.

I love Bridget to bits, but she’s very up and down when it comes to men, a trait I recognise because I used to be a bit like that, myself. And, even though she seems besotted with her new guy right now, I wouldn’t put money on it lasting. I just can’t believe she threw away everything that she had with Elliot – with us – for yet another relationship.

The most gutting thing is, right before they broke up, Elliot confided to me that he was thinking about proposing. If they’d got married, Bridget could have settled in Australia permanently, and we all could’ve lived happily ever after…

But, clearly, El left it too late.

It was awful dealing with the repercussions of their break-up. Elliot was devastated. Lachie and I rallied round – Lachie especially – but El was a mess for months. Recently, he’s starting dating again – well, pulling might be a more apt word. I don’t love the idea of my boyfriend hanging out with a single man on a mission, but I know we need to ride it out until he’s back on his feet.

Lachie and I live in a one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a two-storey building, a couple of blocks from the beach. There’s a small balcony out the front, which in the summer hosts barbecues aplenty, but is currently being used only as a space for drip-drying Lachie’s wetsuit. Lachie surfs almost every day – I’m a little envious that he has time to. His work takes place outside regular office hours – he plays the guitar and sings, mostly at weddings, but also at birthdays and other special occasions. I met him at a wedding in Scotland – he was gigging and I was taking the pictures. I thought he was so sexy, so far from my idea of a typical wedding singer.

I unlock the door and walk in to find our home ever so slightly better off than when I left it: the breakfast things are gone from the counter by the sink and the mail has been cleared into a neat stack, but there’s still a ring on the table from where Lachie sloshed too much milk into his bowl this morning, and breadcrumbs on the board from his lunchtime sandwich preparation. I scan the contents of the fridge, relieved to see that my boyfriend at least remembered to go to the supermarket. But, before I can ponder what to cook for dinner, I have a flashback to Alex’s email and reach for an open bottle of white wine instead. I really, really need to talk to someone about this. I have to talk to Lachie, but I don’t really want to. I want to talk to Bridget, I realise. It’s Friday morning in the UK – I wonder if she’s busy. I grab the phone and go to the sofa, taking a large gulp of wine and kicking off my shoes before dialling her number.

Alex and I met about six years ago at an eighties club night in London – he was on a stag do and I was on my Aussie friend Polly’s hen night. We ended up talking and bonding over the course of the evening and he confided that he’d recently broken up with his long-term girlfriend, Zara – or, technically, she’d broken up with him, labelling it ‘a break’. Later, he walked me back to my hotel and we spent the night together. It all happened so fast, but it didn’t feel that way at the time. I really liked him, way more than I could’ve thought possible, considering we’d only met earlier that night, and the feeling seemed mutual.

So we both felt torn and confused the next morning when Zara texted and asked to meet him for lunch, claiming that she’d made a mistake. I was only in the UK for a couple of weeks for Polly’s wedding, so the smart option seemed to be saying goodbye and going our separate ways, but it hurt.

A year and a half later, I went back to the UK, this time on a one-year work visa. I’d landed a job at Hebe, the aforementioned magazine. To say I was shocked when Alex turned out to be the new Art Director is an understatement. I was thrown to discover he was engaged to his former ex and set to marry her later that year. We formed a tentative friendship, but the chemistry between us intensified until it became overwhelming and he stepped right back. He didn’t want to leave Zara, whom he’d been with for a decade. They had a shared history that felt too hard to walk away from.

Now Alex and I have history, too. Whether or not we still have chemistry doesn’t bear thinking about.

‘Hello?’ Bridget’s tinny voice comes down the receiver.

‘Bridget!’ I cry, relieved that she answered.

‘Bronte!’ she cries in return. ‘I was just about to call you, I promise I was!’

‘Why?’ I ask, confused at her slightly panicked, slightly guilty tone.

‘Has Elliot not told you?’ she replies.

‘Told me what?’

‘Oh! I thought that was why you were calling!’

‘Bridget!’ I exclaim. ‘What’s going on?!’

I hear her inhale quickly and let her breath out in a rush, while I wait for her to speak.

‘I’m getting married.’

I almost fall off the sofa. ‘What?’

‘I’m engaged. Charlie proposed to me. I’m getting married,’ she repeats. And then she bursts out laughing.

‘What? How?’ I ask with surprise. ‘When?’

‘Next summer.’

‘No, I mean, when did he propose?’

‘Two days ago,’ she replies. I can’t see her face, but I know that she’s beaming from ear to ear.

‘Wow.’ I’m astonished. She and Charlie met a year or so ago and have only been a proper couple for half that time. ‘That was quick!’

‘I know,’ she replies, her enthusiasm dampened slightly by my reaction. ‘But when you know, you know.’

‘And you know?’ I ask weakly.

‘I’ve never been more certain about anything in my entire life,’ she states calmly but firmly.

A belated bubble of excitement bursts inside me and I let out a squeal. She cracks up laughing again, relieved that I’m finally responding appropriately.

‘I thought Elliot must’ve told you!’

Realisation dawns on me. ‘He’s out with Lachie. Lachie said he seemed pretty down. Is that why?’

‘Yeah, I called him earlier.’ Her tone becomes subdued.

‘He didn’t take it well?’

‘No. He was knocked for six.’

I’m not surprised. I’m reeling, myself. Bridget has been in and out of love so many times, and, even though she’s told me that it’s different with Charlie, that he’s unlike anyone she’s ever known, I didn’t really believe it. Now I know I underestimated their feelings for each other.

It’s funny, I always thought of my friend as an open book: warm, outgoing and the best person to be around. But there’s a side to her that I never got to know in the time that we lived together. She’s never struck me as a particularly maternal person – she and Elliot were alike in their desire not to have children, I thought. But Charlie has a young daughter, April, and the way Bridget talks about her with such obvious adoration makes me wonder if I ever really knew her at all.

‘Where did he propose?’ I ask with a smile, determined to try to make up for my initial lack of enthusiasm.

‘At the beach,’ she replies. ‘The one with the sea glass.’

‘I remember. So you’re thinking next summer for the wedding?’

‘Yes. And, Bronte, please will you come?’

‘Of course I’ll come!’ The thought of returning to England feels surreal, but I’m awash with nerves at the reminder that Alex will be coming here, well before then.

‘I was kind of hoping I’d be able to persuade you to do the wedding photos,’ she adds with slight trepidation.

‘Oh… I haven’t done any weddings since I left the UK.’

‘I know.’ She sounds uneasy. ‘I still don’t really understand why.’

‘Work is so busy…’

‘You managed to squeeze them in before, when you had a full-time job.’

‘Anyway, I’m also a bit out of practice.’

‘You’ve got almost a year before I walk down the aisle.’

I can’t help but smile at her perseverance. ‘You really want me to start doing weddings again, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she states. ‘You loved it. You were great at it.’

‘It feels like a lifetime ago,’ I say sadly.

‘It kills me that he ruined it for you!’ she snaps.

‘Who? Alex?’

‘Yes, Alex!’ she cries.

Bridget is not Alex’s biggest fan.

I sigh heavily. I don’t really know what to say to that. I don’t want to blame Alex. Yes, photographing his wedding set me back a bit, but it’s my own fault for letting that part of my life slip through my fingers.

‘He emailed me today,’ I tell her.

‘What?!’

‘Alex. He emailed me today for the first time in years to tell me that he’s coming to Sydney next month.’

There’s no reply from the other end of the line, so I keep talking.

‘He thought he should let me know in case we bump into each other in the lift, or somewhere. He doubts he’ll need to come into Vivienne, but he’s going to be in the building. You know he’s the Art Director for the whole of Tetlan now?’

‘Yes, I did hear that,’ Bridget replies quietly.

I don’t remember passing that information on.

‘Russ and Maria told me,’ she answers my unspoken question.

Russ used to work with me at Hebe and 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.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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