Four Weddings and a Fiasco

‘What?’ I stare at her, confused.

She laughs and waves a hand at my daftness. ‘Not our wedding, silly. Dieter Hanson’s wedding to Blaze Jorgensen.’

‘Oh. Right. I see.’ To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it.

‘It was meant to be today? The same day as ours?’

‘Yes. I remember now.’

She nods at the open tabloid newspaper on the bed. Dutifully, I go over and glance at the headline. Sure enough, there it is. The whole story with a picture of Dieter Hanson emerging from some building with his head down, looking understandably devastated.

I must still be feeling fairly wobbly after hearing about Sienna’s imminent return, because his plight suddenly strikes me as incredibly sad. The breakdown of a relationship once so full of promise. All those dashed hopes and dreams. One person left to pick up the pieces of their life …

My throat is suddenly thick with emotion. I’m no stranger to the trauma of love gone wrong. I know exactly how Dieter Hanson must be feeling today.

‘I felt so sorry for him, I sent him an invitation to our wedding,’ says Andrea.

Her announcement is so unexpected, it instantly catapults me out of my sudden gloom.

We all stare at the bride for an incredulous moment. Then Chloe and Sophie burst into gales of laughter.

Andrea purses her lips. ‘Well, that’s not very nice, I must say. The poor man must be absolutely devastated.’

‘Oh, Mum, we’re not laughing at him being jilted.’ Chloe looks guiltily at me. ‘It’s just do you really think he’s going to want to come to your wedding?’

Andrea shrugs huffily. ‘Probably not. I just thought it might cheer him up to be asked.’

Chloe looks at me as if to say, A film star at my mum’s wedding? I think not!

But when Andrea glances at me for support, I find myself nodding. ‘Absolutely. You need all the support you can get at a horrible time like that, when you feel as if nothing makes sense any more and all the colour has been bleached out of your world.’ I swallow hard. ‘And your guts are being slowly dragged out through your mouth by an alien force …’

All heads whip round to me. I suddenly remember where I am and my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.

‘Right, let’s get some shots of this amazing dress,’ I say hurriedly, moving round to find the perfect angle.

Bloody hell, it’s not like me to overreact like that. Especially in a professional setting. Mum’s bombshell news about Sienna coming home has knocked me completely off-kilter.

Andrea fills a glass with champagne, which she shoves into my hand, clearly thinking I need it after my bout of emotional leakage. A glass of delicious fizz would definitely help. But after taking one sip, I set it firmly down.

I’ve learned from experience.

At one of my first ever weddings, the champagne in the bride’s room was flowing freely and I was so nervous, I drank two glasses on an empty stomach then spent the next three hours trying to enunciate my words and keep the camera from wobbling. I have no memory of taking the photographs, although strangely, it turned out to be one of the best albums I’ve ever produced. What it lacks in formal group shots, it more than makes up for in candid, relaxed photos of all the guests, which suggests I was snapping away happily as if I was on my holidays.

Thankfully, the bride and groom loved that album. Even if I did have to delete an unsually high number of blurry images and photos of nothing but feet.

I’m very aware it could have been a different story altogether.

I steer clear of the champagne now, tempting though it is. One sip is definitely enough.

The girls are admiring themselves in the mirror and chattering away about the cancelled wedding.

‘I feel dead sorry for poor Dieter,’ Sophie says, thrusting her face close to the mirror to apply more lip gloss. ‘It was bad enough when Ryan dumped me last year, but imagine how horrible it would be having it splashed across the front pages like that.’ She nods at the tabloid newspaper on the bed. ‘I’d absolutely want to hide away forever.’

‘I hope it’s not a bad omen,’ says Andrea with a nervous giggle. ‘Ron had better show up.’

Chloe laughs. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum, of course he will.’

Andrea smiles fondly and reaches for her daughter’s hand. ‘Oh, isn’t this lovely?’ Her eyes are misty. ‘You know what I wish? I wish I’d thought to bring a notebook and pen so I could have written down the whole story of our wedding day – all the tiny little details that are so special to me, then I’d never, ever forget them.’

‘If you were writing all day, you’d have no time to get married,’ giggles Sophie.

‘Oh, God,’ exclaims Andrea. She looks up, opens her eyes wide and blinks furiously. ‘My eye make-up’s going to smudge.’

I whip out a paper hanky from the stash I carry for emotional emergencies.

Andrea carefully blots her under-eyes, then all three stand by the elegant, free-standing mirror so that I can take some shots of their reflection. Then I take some of the two girls fixing Andrea’s veil before saying, ‘Right, come on, everyone, pick up your glasses and let’s do a toast for the camera!’

Finally, I position Andrea next to the tall sash window, holding her bouquet and looking out dreamily over the lawns, the perfect showcase for her incredible dress.

Everyone goes silent. My own throat is suddenly thick with emotion again.

‘Oh, Mum, you look absolutely stunning,’ breathes Chloe. ‘Have you got another hanky, Katy?’

I dig one out for her.

Then I leave them to finish off getting ready, and go off to find Mallory and check out the room where the ceremony is to be held.

The official part of the day takes place in a purpose-built annexe a few yards from the main hotel, and several intriguingly dressed guests are already lingering outside the room, waiting to be allowed in.

The Queen and Prince Philip are chatting to Posh and Becks about the traffic on the bypass.

‘Posh’ looks model lean and elegant in a figure-hugging black dress, cut an inch or so below the knee, with impossibly spindly heels and what I suspect is a shiny black wig in a sleek, geometric cut. Her ‘Becks’ is standing, arms folded, looking extremely awkward in his sarong.

‘Mind, I don’t know how she does it,’ the Queen says. ‘I’ve had this thing on for less than an hour and already it’s irritating the life out of me. Plus it’s too big.’ She shakes her head and the gem-studded crown slips down over one eye.

Posh, seeing me – and therefore an audience – straightens up, takes David’s arm and slinks into a catwalk pose, staring poutingly into the distance with a bored look on her face.

A helpful male member of staff opens the door for me and I go inside. I’ve photographed many a wedding in this room, but it’s always good to double-check the venue in case anything has changed.

Satisfied I’m familiar with the layout and have some idea where I’ll position myself for the photos, I go outside to find Mallory.

Standing at the hotel entrance, I survey the scene.

The car park is filling up.

A scent of damp trees and woodsmoke hangs in the clear, cold air as guests climb out of their cars and head for the wedding annexe. I spot a variety of Queens and Prince Philips, two Sonny and Chers in ridiculously big wigs, and a Marilyn Monroe with a man in glasses who I suppose is meant to be Arthur Miller. It strikes me that it’s generally the women who have gone that extra mile in the dressing-up stakes. (With the exception of the man dressed as an inflatable vibrator, emerging from a Vauxhall Corsa with his other half, the Battery Bunny.)

My attention is caught by a tall man in jeans and a well-worn casual jacket, standing at the entrance to the car park. He seems vaguely familiar although I’m struggling to place him. Every now and again, he stops a group of guests, charms them into posing and quickly takes a few shots.