Four Weddings and a Fiasco

I get up reluctantly. ‘Right, I’d better go. Tons to do.’

‘Well, don’t work yourself into the ground.’ She cups my face in her hands and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘And listen?’

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ I chant with a grin.

This is Mum’s motto. She even said it to the postman once – to which he remarked that since her gas bill was due, there was a distinct possibility he’d be back as large as life the next day.

She opens the door and gives me a playful push.

I catch something red and sparkly out of the corner of my eye.

It’s a key fob, dangling in the door.

I stare at it. It’s a cheap thing with a big sparkly letter ‘S’ on it. ‘Where—?’

Mum’s eyes slide away. ‘I was clearing out the spare room and I found it in a box.’ She shrugs and adds, a touch defiantly, ‘I like it. And I needed a key ring.’

I turn to go but Mum grabs my arm.

‘Katy,’ she murmurs. Her tone is tinged with pity, which only makes things worse. ‘When it was you two girls running the business, you seemed to have such fun. It almost didn’t seem like work at all.’ A pause. ‘Don’t you think things would be so much better if Sienna were still here?’

A little bolt of shock zips through me at the mention of my sister’s name.

There’s a pleading tone to Mum’s question, and I can understand her bewilderment. Often, I wonder if she blames me for not trying to get Sienna to come home.

She’s aware we had a major falling out which was why Sienna left, but she has no idea what we rowed about. I’ve certainly never told her and I’d bet my house and all its contents that Sienna will have remained silent on the subject.

On the way home, I think about Mum and her constant hope that Sienna and I will eventually be reconciled. I wish she’d stop it and realise, once and for all, that as far as I’m concerned, that’s never going to happen.

I suppose if Mum knew how precariously I’m living – always looking over my shoulder, in fear of yet another demand for money I can’t pay – she might understand why I still can’t think of my sister, two years later, without feeling sick and shaky.

Sienna is the reason I now struggle daily to keep the wolf from the door.

At first when Sienna left, Mum – grieving over Dad’s death a year earlier – was devastated and tried her best to smooth things over between us. I know she had long talks with Sienna on the phone, although I can only imagine what was said. And she tried to convince me that family was everything. We’d lost Dad. Did I really want to lose my baby sister as well?

But sunk in my own grief and despair over Dad’s death and all that had happened with Sienna, I was in no mood to forgive. My life was in ruins. She’d left me high and dry, committed to paying off the loan I’d taken out to buy equipment all by myself. The loan payments were pretty hefty. Shared with Sienna, they were manageable. But paying it on my own – on the last day of every month – kept me constantly on edge, worrying whether this was the month I’d be forced to admit I couldn’t cope and throw in the towel.

But while the business ended up being a millstone around my neck in many respects, ironically, I think it also saved my sanity.

By the time Sienna left, we already had ten or so weddings in the diary, so I absolutely couldn’t back out, even if I’d wanted to. I could never have let my clients down. So I just dived right in, doing the best job I could, learning as I went along all the particular skills needed to be a good wedding photographer.

I pour everything into giving couples a great service and a beautiful album at the end of it all. I’m busy from early in the morning to late into the evening and I collapse into bed at the end of each day, glad of the oblivion. And working hard does have some advantages. It occupies my mind and keeps the nightmare thoughts at bay.

I know Mum thinks I should put the past behind me. That I should care enough about the baby sister I once loved so much to hold out an olive branch.

On occasion, when I’ve felt especially low, I’ve been tempted to pour out the whole sorry mess to Mum. Tell her exactly what happened to wreck our sisterly bond forever.

But something always stops me.

I think it’s that I know Mum would immediately set out to try to make things better between us.

But as far as I’m concerned, her efforts would be useless …

FIVE (#ulink_37b6d77e-1429-5bd9-bd62-c109f4ee0f0c)

Walking through the front door at home, I hear the buzz of my mobile signalling a new message.

It’s Bethany, the bride I spoke to recently, confirming she’d like me to take the photos at her wedding.

Angrily dashing the tears from my eyes, I push all thoughts of my sister out of my mind and immediately return Bethany’s phone call so that we can sort out dates for future meetings.

Afterwards, I stand at the kitchen window, staring out at my small patch of garden without really seeing it, thinking about Bethany and how she’s embarking on a whole new happy chapter in her life.

I’d thought that’s what Sienna and I were going to do.

We’d always had a special bond, even though I was nine when she was born. And once she was grown up, we weren’t just sisters, we were the best of friends, too.

When she left school, she decided she’d like to go and work abroad for a while, so she took a course with TEFL and ended up being qualified to teach English as a foreign language. I supported her in this, even though I knew we’d all miss her. But then, to my delight, she changed her mind and decided she wanted to follow in my footsteps. And it seemed entirely natural that she should join me in the wedding photography business.

I was just in the early stages of setting the business up, so the timing was perfect. And for a while, everything was brilliant. We were starting this exciting new venture together but it wasn’t as scary as it could have been because we had each other to talk things over with, make plans and iron out any teething problems.

But then everything went pear-shaped. And Sienna reverted to her original plan and moved to Paris.

Everything changed after she left.

There was a time, in the early days of the business, when landing a new booking filled me with excitement. The creative cogs in my brain would immediately start to whir into action. I’d picture the venue, recalling the layout of the hotel and the gardens, dreaming up perfect settings and imagining bringing together the results of the bride and groom’s big day in a glorious keepsake album.

Now, though, there’s only ever one thing on my mind.

Money.

As soon as the booking is in the bag, my head goes into mathematical somersault mode as I feverishly figure out how much profit I’ll be able to set against my credit card debt once I’ve covered the mortgage and the bank loan repayments. Sometimes, if it’s a lean month for work, there isn’t even enough to cover the basic household bills. So then I have to stall paying the bank loan so that I can keep up with the mortgage.

After a lot of agonising, I decided that I’d have to sell my house. But in the six months that it’s been on the market, there’s been no firm interest. Viewers probably take one look at the old-fashioned kitchen and slightly sad bathroom and decide their pockets aren’t deep enough to give it the care and attention it badly needs.

The threat of losing my house to the building society hangs over me constantly. However hard I try to get myself out of the mess, I don’t seem to make any real progress. It always seems to be two steps forward, three steps back.

This house – compact though it is – means everything to me and it devastates me to think I will have to hand over the key to a stranger.

It’s in the same street as the larger family home I grew up in. An ancient milestone protrudes from its tiny patch of front garden, ‘Willows Edge ½ mile’ carved into the stone. It used to fascinate me when I was a kid, traipsing past it every day to school and back. Dad said the stone was probably a century old and I used to wonder about the man who carved the letters all those years ago. It seemed odd and a little creepy to think that he’d be dead now.

I often wonder if some weird, sixth sense was telling me that one day, I’d live there. What I didn’t realise was that in the end, I’d face losing it.

Of course, I never stop praying for a miracle. Hoping that a flood of new business might transform the situation.

But I’ve got no money to advertise in the big, glossy wedding magazines. So I’m relying on word of mouth and recommendations, while still only clocking up around fifteen weddings per year. Although, to be honest, without a full-time assistant, I’m not sure I’d be able to take on more work and retain the level of quality I will absolutely not compromise on.

Something happened just before Christmas, though, that gave me a little spark of hope.