Four Weddings and a Fiasco

The phone goes just as I’m about to dash out of the door. I hesitate for a moment, then pick it up. It’s a business call – an enquiry from a girl called Bethany, whose friend’s wedding I photographed last year. She’s phoning to ask about my prices and whether I’d be available to shoot her wedding. Being newly engaged, she’s brimming over with excitement about her forthcoming nuptials, even though it’s still almost a year off.

Hopeful of securing a new client, I don’t want to cut her off in mid-stream, so I chat for a while.

Her happiness is infectious. That’s one of the nicest things about my job.

Okay, the brides can sometimes get very stressed as their Big Day looms. And the grooms can be a bit stern about shelling out the cash. But mostly, I’m dealing with people who are at an incredibly joyful stage in their lives. And in spite of my own marked lack of bliss on that front, I still love to talk weddings.

Bethany and her groom are flying to Italy for the ceremony but they’re having a church blessing on their return, and they would like me to take the photographs. We have an excited discussion about the venue in Italy and how marvellously romantic it will be to sip cocktails with her wedding guests on the rooftop terrace as the sun goes down over the Bay of Naples. I can’t help sighing inwardly at the thought of such a glorious setting. I haven’t been abroad on holiday in years. But maybe one day …

I get a shock when I look at my watch.

Bugger! I’ve got precisely eighteen minutes to get to the post office in the village – a five-minute walk away – before it shuts. I’d take the car except it packed up again yesterday and it’s at the garage being fixed. (I’m bracing myself for the damage – of the financial kind.)

I used to have a lovely new Toyota Corolla but having failed – despite my best efforts – to keep up the payments after Sienna left, I was forced to give it back to the lease company. I bought this old Fiesta at a car auction for a few hundred pounds. But sadly, it’s far from reliable.

I apologise to Bethany, grab the album and flee from the house, slamming the door behind me so that the whole house shakes.

And then, just as I’m thinking I’m finally home free, a big white van draws up and a guy shouts through the window, ‘We’re here to collect the piano?’

My heart sinks. For a number of reasons that I don’t particularly want to examine.

‘I thought you said after five?’

He shrugs and climbs out with his mate. ‘Sorry, love, we need to take it now.’

Oh God, all I need now is for the gate to stick …

‘Can you get the gate open?’ I call.

They walk through without a problem and look at me like I’m mad.

Thanking God for small mercies, I dive back in the house, moving bits of furniture I think might impede their progress with my ancient upright piano. Having shown them where it is, I find myself retreating to the kitchen so I don’t have to watch it go. I’m annoyed at myself for feeling so emotional about it. I haven’t even touched the damn thing for well over a year.

I lean back against the sink, arms tightly folded, listening to their huffing and puffing as they heft the piano about, and wincing as it bashes against the doorway on the way through to the hall.

I remember the day it arrived and how my sister was pink-cheeked with excitement, anticipating my reaction. A wave of nausea washes over me. Resolutely, I push the image away.

And then finally, finally, it’s gone and the men are carting it off to the van.

And then, of course, I can’t get out myself with the parcel because the gate is wedged shut. I try to wrench it open but it’s obviously determined to sabotage my day.

Aaargh! Bloody thing! Must get it fixed.

Honestly, the whole bloody house is falling down around my ears.

I’ve got seven minutes before the post office shuts.

I yank the gate one more time, feeling the panic rise.

Oh, to hell with it.

It’s a fairly high fence and as I clamber over, it catches me in an awkward place.

I yelp in outrage.

Then I howl again as, safely over, my right shoulder whacks into someone racing past the house. The impact jolts the album parcel out of my arms and I watch in dismay as it skids along the grimy pavement and lands in the gutter in an oily puddle.

Breathlessly, I turn, wondering what just happened – and find myself staring up into a pair of icy blue eyes beneath drawn- together beetle brows.

The man they belong to is tall and dressed in running gear.

He must have been pounding the pavement at a fair old rate because his chest is still heaving beneath the white Aertex top and his dark hair is slick with perspiration. (But not in a Ron way. This man’s sweat is the impressive, vigorous exercise sort.)

‘Gosh, sorry,’ I blurt out, trying not to look at his lean, muscled legs in the black running shorts.

‘You all right?’ he demands, still breathing strongly, hands on hips, as – somewhat unsettlingly – he stares at my nether regions.

I glance down.

I’m still grasping onto my crotch, casualty of the mean picket fence.

I laugh, a bit hysterically if I’m honest, and fold my arms. ‘Fine, thanks. Just – er – scaling the fence. Always good to keep active.’ I nod at his running shorts, hoping to indicate a common interest.

‘Active?’ His grin is incredulous and I feel myself blush. ‘I think you might need a bit more practice.’ He indicates the fence. ‘Unless you want to go around actively maiming pedestrians.’

He rotates his right foot, a little gingerly, then tries putting his weight on it.

Oh, shit! He’s obviously injured.

‘Did I do that?’ I wince. ‘Sorry.’

He dismisses this with a little shake of his head. Then he bends to retrieve my parcel and I swear I hardly notice his bum and his long, beautifully flexed thighs.

He hands me the brown bundle, which is now a water-logged, soggy mess. ‘Hope it’s nothing too important?’ His expression softens into a smile.

I smile back as a surprising feeling trickles through me, making my eyes widen in a ‘hey, I remember that sensation’ sort of a way. (It’s been a couple of years, at least.)

I’m vaguely aware I should be upset about the album, but what comes out of my mouth is, ‘God, no. It’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I swallow hard, imagining how horrified Rose would be if she could see her album now.

‘Nice piano.’ He nods as the men slam the back doors of the van and climb in, preparing to move off. ‘Are you selling it?’

‘Yes. Do you want to buy it?’

He frowns at me. ‘No.’

I give myself a swift kick in the shins. Metaphorically speaking. Do you want to buy it? Chrissakes, where did that come from? No wonder he’s looking at me like I’m one leg short of a baby grand. Apart from anything else, I’ve already sold the bloody thing. It’s currently bouncing on its merry way to a Mrs Turner in Easthaven.

‘Right,’ I mumble, feeling escape is my best bet. ‘Got to pet to the ghost office.’

‘Sorry?’ His brows knit in further confusion.

‘Post office!’ I yelp. ‘Got to get to the post office.’

Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me?

Cheeks well alight by this time, I raise my hand and march off with the soggy parcel under my arm, painfully aware I’ve left him bemused. Probably wondering what sort of a halfwit climbs over the fence instead of using the gate like most normal people.

It’s only when I’ve turned the corner at the bottom of the street that it occurs to me I can’t possibly send the album off in this wrecked brown paper packaging.

But I can’t just do a U-turn. What if Runner Man is still watching? What if I have to cheerfully explain that I actually hadn’t noticed the shagging dirty marks and the wodge of something revolting that’s completely obscuring the address?

I sidle back to the corner and, feeling like a total fruit loop who’s been allowed out for the day, peer furtively along the street, clutching my damp parcel.

Phew! The coast is clear.

He must have run the other way.

‘I’d use the gate next time,’ says a voice behind me, making me jump.

Runner Man speeds past me with a cool, backwards wave, and slows to cross the road.

He half-turns his head and grins. ‘A fence can get caught in all sorts of tricky places.’

TWO

It’s almost March.

Every day this week, the residents of Willows Edge have awoken to blue skies and a silvery frost on the trees at the edge of the village green and on the roof of the cricket pavilion.

But as I walk the familiar route to the little row of shops that borders the green, I can see signs that spring is on its way. Little clumps of crocuses, in brilliant shades of violet and egg yolk yellow, are bravely defying the cold snap, and the daffodils are beginning to push through.

As a child growing up in the idyllically pretty village of Willows Edge, I took my surroundings completely for granted.

I wasn’t especially interested in the way the houses in the village centre were ranged so picturesquely around the village green and how the row of stylish and colourfully painted shops lured customers in with their tempting window displays. People came in from neighbouring villages to shop for their weekend croissants and Danish pastries at the family-owned bakery; to sip hot chocolate in the welcoming warmth of Rosa’s coffee shop; eat their ploughman’s at The Bunch of Grapes, just off the main street; and to wander into the pretty church with its ancient bell tower and low porch, set back from the green and shaded by willow trees.

The greengrocer’s on the main street was forced to close when people started shopping at the new express supermarket, but apart from that, the village has managed to retain all its charm.

It wasn’t until I moved away, first to college then to London for work, that I started looking at Willows Edge in a new light and realising how special it actually was.

This afternoon, my destination is the florist’s.

The shop owner, appropriately named Daisy, greets me with a cheerful smile.

Daisy is about my age with long dark hair in a ponytail and her one-year-old, Luke, almost permanently welded to her hip. Like the bakery, the florist’s is a family-owned business and Daisy recently took over the reins.

‘Hi Katy. How’s things? Are you doing Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’

‘I am indeed.’ I smile at her. ‘Three weeks on Saturday. You?’

Daisy has a crack of dawn start on wedding days, driving up to the London flower markets to buy her blooms dewy-fresh.

She nods and hoists Luke higher on her hip. ‘It’s going to be a wedding with a difference by all accounts.’

Luke gurgles and holds out a pudgy fist towards me.

‘It certainly is, Lukie,’ I say in a sing-song voice, bending towards him and tickling his cheek.

He biffs me smartly on the nose. It takes me by surprise and makes my eyes water.

‘Celebrity-style, I hear,’ says Daisy, after gently reprimanding Luke. ‘Are you going in fancy dress?’

I grin. ‘No, thank goodness. I’ll be blending into the background, as usual.’

‘Well, what can I do you for today?’ She places Luke in his bouncy chair and clips him in.

I glance around at the floral displays, breathing in the heady mix of scents and wondering how much a small bunch of freesias will cost. I hate having to skimp when it comes to my best friend’s birthday, but I know Mallory understands. In fact, she’d tell me off if I spent too much on her.

Mallory is similarly strapped for cash and her motto, as regards gifts, is always brisk and practical. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’ (Her thoughts usually originate in charity shops, but that’s fine by me because she’s great at hunting down amazing birthday presents that you’d never, ever guess were second-hand.)

Not only is Mallory a great friend, she also assists me at weddings, gathering folk together so all I have to think about is taking the photos. For a while, after Sienna left, I struggled on alone, trying to manage without an assistant. But then Mallory stepped into the breach, offering to help out when she could. (She runs her own on-line vintage clothing business, so she can generally be fairly flexible.)

Mallory lives at Newington Hall, a huge and draughty cavern of a place belonging to her parents, Roddy and Eleanor Swann. They’re practically never there, so she rattles around it on her own. The house was quite clearly magnificent in its heyday but now the roof leaks into buckets dotted around the place and many of the window frames are sadly rotting.

Taking my freesias, I get in the car and set off to see the birthday girl.

Even though my temperamental little Fiesta has been fixed, I find I’m still tensing up as I drive along, waiting for the dreaded knocking sound that led me to the garage in the first place. But so far, so good …

Newington Hall is situated five miles outside the village of Willows Edge, and as I turn in and bump along the potholed driveway, I can’t help wondering how on earth Gareth, the gardener, manages to keep the fairly substantial grounds from running completely wild. A much younger man would struggle, never mind someone in his fifties, however fit and strong he might be.

I park up and get out of the car, walking round to the back entrance, which everyone uses, and bracing myself for the challenge of gaining entry. The doorbell there doesn’t actually work, which means that unless Mallory is in the kitchen, or at least in one of the ground-floor rooms, you haven’t much chance of being heard. Unless you graze your knuckles knocking and yell ‘hello-o-o!’ through the letter box. Which is what I do.

Today, the door opens almost immediately and Mallory appears.

‘No need to shout, darling,’ she laughs, tossing back her long, strawberry blonde hair and wiping her hands down the front of her flower-sprigged dress.

I grin and open my mouth to say, ‘Well, actually, I do.’ But my words are drowned out by a vast sucking sound coming from somewhere in the chilly depths of the house. The noise is getting louder and angrier by the second.

‘Blast! The coffee.’ Mallory rushes off to rescue the ancient stove-top beast, and I follow her down the flagstoned corridor into the huge kitchen.

Despite the enormously high ceiling, it’s cosy in here after the biting March wind outside. Actually, it’s the only warm room in the house. The rest of it is like a massive, twelve-bedroom fridge that instantly freezes your breath and gives you ice-encrusted eyebrows. Okay, I exaggerate slightly – I think there might be eight bedrooms –- but not much, believe me.

‘Crikey. Happy birthday to you.’ I gaze at the banks of lilies arranged in family heirloom vases on various ancient dressers and work surfaces. And the extravagant display of exotic blooms in the centre of the weather-beaten wooden table that’s had one shortened leg propped up on a pile of books for as long as I’ve been coming here.

Mallory gives a bark of laughter. ‘I know, darling. You’d quite think someone had died.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘All from Rupert?’

She smiles. Her floaty, floral-sprigged dress and burnished hair make her look like a heroine from a Barbara Cartland romance. ‘What are brand new fiancés for if not to spoil a person?’

She got engaged to Rupert just after New Year and I’ll be photographing their wedding in December.

I’m really happy for her, although I can’t help thinking that it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. But she seems certain Rupert is the one for her, and I’m the last person who should be judging people’s compatibility in the romance stakes. My own track record hasn’t exactly been brilliant.

I hand over my birthday card and gift.

‘God, I’m thirty-four,’ Mallory groans.

Then she smiles and sniffs the freesias. ‘Thank you. They’re perfect!’

‘You’re welcome, Granny.’ I grin.

‘Oh, ha flipping ha! You’ll be just as ancient as me in six months’ time, darling.’

Mallory is pretty much the same age as me but she turns older first. Not that I’d ever point it out, of course. Well, not often. (Rub it in? Me? Never!)

‘Coffee?’ she asks.

‘Go on, then. But I can’t stay long.’

‘Meeting with Miss Polar Ice Cap?’

I giggle. ‘No, that’s tomorrow’s delight.’

She frowns in sympathy and reaches for the ancient stove-top coffee pot.

‘Cressida is a perfectly nice client,’ I say, grinning. ‘Not terribly warm or friendly, I grant you. But she can’t help being a complete control freak who will actually kill herself if the raisins in the wedding cake aren’t all exactly the same shade of chocolate brown.’

Mallory pours coffee into mismatched floral china cups. ‘You do realise you took your life in your hands when you agreed to do her photos?’

I sink down gloomily at the table. ‘True. If they’re not perfect, she’ll probably sue me for ruining her day.’

‘So why are we doing it?’

‘Silly question. I can’t afford not to.’

‘I know the feeling. Thank God I met Rupert, that’s all I can say.’

I flash her a dubious look and she grins. ‘Joke, darling.’

I laugh, thinking she’s probably only half joking. Mallory has a decidedly practical attitude to relationships that I actually rather admire. She thinks romance is highly overrated.

She puts a cup and saucer in front of me then sits down, lifting her dainty feet in ballet pumps onto a chair and flicking back her hair.

‘Come December, money is the very last thing you’ll have to worry about,’ I murmur.

She frowns. ‘His family aren’t that rich, you know. I mean, obviously they’re a lot more affluent than my folks, but then Daddy probably qualifies as the poorest baronet in the history of the aristocracy.’

Two hundred years ago, the Swanns were wealthy landowners, but a succession of heirs with a liking for booze, gambling and women chipped away at the money – and now, Mallory’s parents are probably even poorer than the mice in their basement.

Newington Hall swallows cash as eagerly as kids breaking out their chocolate eggs on Easter Sunday.

They’re always having to auction off paintings to cover the cost of repairs to the house.

I don’t know why they don’t just sell it.

But Mallory says it’s all to do with pride. Her father couldn’t forgive himself if he failed to hold on to the family seat for future generations.

I glance sideways at Mallory. ‘Speaking of your dad … have you heard from them?’

She barks out a laugh. ‘What do you think, darling? I’m lucky if they remember to phone me every alternate Christmas. I’ve given up expecting a birthday miracle.’ She takes a sip of coffee, her eyes clouding over, and we’re silent for a moment.

I really feel for her. I can’t imagine my lovely mum ever forgetting to include me in her Christmas plans. It would be unthinkable.

Mallory flicks a glance at me. ‘On the subject of wealth …’ She hesitates. ‘Did you manage to sell the piano?’

My heart lurches. ‘Yes. Some men came and carted it off.’ I glance down at the table. ‘Should have got rid of it a long time ago.’

There’s a pregnant silence as I continue to stare at the table, seeing its scratched surface through a blur.

Like Mum, Mallory knows that certain subjects are out of bounds and that this is one of them. I’m grateful for her silence.

And in the same vein, I know not to probe too much about her parents.

Roddy and Eleanor Swann are obsessed with travelling the world. It was what drew them together in the first place and the passion has never faded. Mallory, their only child, comes a pretty poor second to their treks in the foothills of the Himalayas and their voyages into the jungles of Borneo.

Her father, a botanist, is currently writing a book on the lesser-spotted haggis or something, and has decamped with Mallory’s mother to their converted bothy in the Highlands of Scotland. They’re tough, I’ll say that for them. It must be pretty chilly up there at this time of year.

Mallory once told me that her middle name, Beatrice, means ‘traveller’. She flicked her eyes to the ceiling and snorted. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? They name me “traveller”, then they bugger off on exotic trips and leave me behind. You can’t fault their brilliant sense of irony, though, can you?’

How these hardy adventurers made Mallory is a bit of a mystery. She’s very much a townie. Wouldn’t know what a ridge tent was if it climbed into bed with her and made her a sausage sandwich. The most pioneering she ever gets, at her own admission, is trekking along Willows Edge main street, searching out bargains in the two upmarket charity shops.

She trained in fashion and design after leaving school, and it was always her dream to have a shop selling vintage shoes and clothing. But the reality turned out to be a Saturday job in a vintage boutique, which eventually became a full-time career in retail.

Then, three years ago, Mallory finally took the plunge and – having saved a little money – set up her vintage clothing shop. On-line.

She works really hard, sourcing items from all over, and makes a modest income. But her dream is that one day, ‘Vintage Va-Va-Voom’ will hit the big time and become a household name.

The fact that she works for herself now, means she’s usually free to help me out at weddings, which is great. I can’t afford to pay her much but she enjoys the work and, as she keeps telling me, every little helps.

Which reminds me …

‘Are you still okay to help me at Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’ She laughs. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Good old Kim and Kanye. What a hoot! Are you sure we can’t dress up as the 118 boys? We’d just need curly black wigs and shorts.’

‘No! We’re there to do a job. Don’t you dare!’

She snorts. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘We have to look professional.’

She grins. ‘I know. But I do think it’s time you stopped working quite so hard. You never have any juicy tales for me these days.’

‘Aha!’ I smile triumphantly. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. As far as the gossip goes, anyway.’

She shuffles her chair closer. ‘Ooh! I’m all ears, darling.’

So I tell her about my close and rather bruising encounter with Runner Man. She listens with avid interest. Any mention of a man – even those who are ancient or infirm or living several continents away – and Mallory is alert to the cheering possibility that I might start having sex soon. (She has a very practical, down-to-earth view of sex, believing that for a balanced mind, it’s almost a medical necessity. I don’t think she quite understands that I don’t even think about stuff like that unless there’s someone fanciable right there in front of me.)

‘And I’ve just remembered,’ I say forlornly, as my humiliating tale draws to an end. ‘I made him limp. I actually made him limp.’

I’ve been trying hard not to think about my encounter with Runner Man – without much success, it has to be said. It was all so embarrassing. Clambering over the fence, getting my private parts wedged, talking a load of drivel then heading off to post a pile of shite. I mean, it doesn’t get any worse in the humiliation stakes.

I failed to make the post office before it closed. Obviously. And in order not to disappoint my bride, I had to shell out a small fortune – and go even deeper in debt – to have the album couriered all the way to Essex.

My stupidity is gnawing away at me.

‘Oh, never mind, darling. It could have been worse,’ muses Mallory.

I stare at her questioningly and she gives a light shrug. ‘You might have damaged a lot more than his foot, if you know what I mean. I’d be thankful for small mercies if I were you.’