Four Weddings and a Fiasco

Great. Just what I need. A guest who fancies himself as another David Bailey.

Well, just as long as he doesn’t get in my way …

I spot Mallory crossing the lawn to join me.

‘Who’s that?’ I nod at the man.

‘Whoever do you mean? Sexy Hugh Jackman over there?’

I laugh. ‘He doesn’t look in the least like Hugh Jackman.’

‘How not?’ asks Mallory, lingering on the view. ‘Dark hair, broad shoulders, great smile, very nice.’

I shrug. ‘He’s far too tall.’

‘Well, Hugh Jackman’s tall. At least six foot, I’d say, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, but I bet he’d never go to a wedding looking like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. He’s not even wearing fancy dress.’

‘Hmm.’ Mallory takes her time considering. ‘You do have a point. Sexy, though, that dressed-down jeans look. Exceptional bottom—’

The penny suddenly drops. And I swear it’s absolutely nothing to do with the exceptional bottom.

‘Oh God, I don’t believe it,’ I mutter. ‘It’s him.’

SEVEN (#ulink_8433ea91-9933-5c4a-a447-4a3418fb7e37)

‘Who?’ demands Mallory. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s that man,’ I say faintly. ‘The one I maimed, leaping over the fence.’

‘Really?’ Mallory stares intently. Then she scrabbles in her bag and brings out her glasses.

‘What are you doing?’ I demand.

‘Having a closer look, darling. What do you think?’

‘Mallory!’

Terrified he’ll spot her ogling him, I hurry off to the wedding annexe, pausing once to beckon for her to follow me. And doesn’t she choose that very moment to call helpfully, ‘He doesn’t seem to be limping now.’

My face flushes the colour of a ripe tomato.

I don’t dare look back to see if he heard.

Mallory gives me a funny look as if I’m making a mountain out of a molehill but I just ignore her. Sometimes I wish she wasn’t quite so tuned into my emotions.

The room where the wedding ceremony is taking place has a peaceful, soothing effect. I force myself to take in the sumptuous details – the rich fabric of the wine-coloured chairs, set out theatre-style, the log fire burning in the grate, casting its reflection in two of the most spectacular crystal chandeliers I’ve ever seen. At either end of the aisle, a glowing church candle sits atop an ornate holder entwined with foliage and white roses.

The place is filled with a delicate floral scent, and I stand at the back of the room, taking a few deep breaths to help me focus on the task in hand. It’s proving to be quite a challenging day, what with Mum’s news about Sienna and now Runner Man turning up out of the blue to shake my composure by reminding me of the fence incident (so embarrassing). But I have a job to do and I will not allow anything to distract me.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ asks Mallory, appearing at my elbow. ‘You look a little distracted.’

‘I’m fine.’ I plaster on a smile to prove it. ‘Actually, I was just wondering what’s behind those curtains,’ I say, quickly improvising, and walking away from her curious looks.

Every time I’ve photographed a wedding here, the curtains have been closed, I suppose to enhance the warm, candlelit ambience of the room.

I peer behind the heavy red and gold drapes at the window nearest the altar. Patio doors lead out onto a terrace and instantly I’m thinking about the natural light that would flood in and how, from a position on the terrace, I could get some lovely shots of the bride and groom signing the register at the table in the corner.

But a quick word with the manager, who’s hovering nearby, reveals that those patio doors are never opened during the winter months.

‘Guests would start wandering in and out,’ she murmurs confidentially. ‘The carpet would be ruined.’

‘I’d only be a moment,’ I say.

But she shakes her head apologetically. ‘Sorry. Hotel policy.’

Feeling slightly frustrated at the wasted opportunity, I nonetheless smile and nod. Rules are rules.

I scan the room. There’s a low hum of conversation and an air of contained excitement as guests file into the room in small groups and settle themselves into seats. A string quartet is playing at the back, and Ron is there at the altar, looking surprisingly dapper in his plain black tuxedo and white shirt. And buzz cut.

As I take some shots of him, the groom’s best man cracks a joke and Ron gives a strained laugh. He’s clearly very nervous. He keeps running his hand over his head as if his buzzed hair might have somehow grown back.

I catch Mallory’s eye and we retreat to the back of the room for the entrance of the bride and her father.

And that’s when I notice Runner Man sitting slumped in his seat at the end of a pew, arms folded, one long leg encroaching on the aisle. He looks oddly out of place wearing jeans among all these ‘celebrities’, especially as he’s sitting next to an elaborately dressed Elton John in his powdered wig party phase. (The wig is so massive, it’s blocking everyone’s view and probably required a wedding invitation all of its own.)

In the same row I can see Wallace and Gromit, a couple of Oompa Loompas and a Derek Zoolander with a pink bandana round his head.

They’ve all gone to so much trouble with their costumes – and it just highlights Runner Man’s complete lack of effort in the dressing-up stakes. And lack of effort in the staying awake stakes as well, I reflect a minute later. He looks worn out, as if he might topple off the end of the pew at any minute.

And then the doors open and in walks Chloe, with Sophie a few steps behind her. They look like fairy-tale princesses. Chloe looks around, spots me with my camera and gives me a wink, which I manage to snap.

Runner Man turns in his seat at that point to take in the scene and to my horror, his eyes travel around the room and land on me. I look away immediately, praying he hasn’t recognised me as the loon who bashed into him.

But a second later, he looks over again and I realise he has.

It’s just a brief glance. But the amused twist to his mouth suggests he’s rumbled me all right.

Bugger. But I suppose it had to happen eventually. You can’t exactly hide away when you’re the chief photographer.

Andrea enters a second later in her dramatically backless dress, smiling radiantly on the arm of her dad. Her stunning train glides along the carpet as they make their way up the aisle to the strains of The Wedding March, played by the quartet.

The whole room seems to swell with the emotion of the occasion.

I spot Princess Fiona laying her head on Shrek’s shoulder. And a middle-aged Pamela Anderson, in leopard print and blonde wig, snuggling closer to her Baywatch lifeguard. Keith Lemon gives his nose a trumpeting blow.

The ceremony turns out to be beautifully simple, which quite surprises me. I suppose with her love of all things celebrity, I was expecting Andrea to go slightly overboard with the bling and the extravagant gestures. Perhaps a dove or two flying up the aisle to deliver the matching rings? But there’s none of that. Just Andrea and Ron promising to love each other.