Four Weddings and a Fiasco

‘Chloe’s going to be an actress,’ says Andrea, stroking her daughter’s hair proudly. ‘Aren’t you, darling?’

Chloe squirms away. ‘Yeah.’ She glances at me. ‘I’m playing the lead in the school play just now. And Mum and I are going to start a drama group in the community centre. We’ll be putting on our first show at Christmas time.’

‘Really? That sounds great fun,’ I say, gathering up my things, hoping she’s not going to ask me to become a member. I’d rather eat my own toenails than stand up on stage in the spotlight being stared at.

‘You can join if you like,’ says Chloe.

I grin at her. ‘Thanks but I think I’d be a bit wooden to be honest. I’m far more comfortable this side of the camera.’

Andrea gives me the list of wedding photos they’d like. As I leave, she and Chloe are discussing the merits of Cinderella over Snow White and the Seven Dwarves for their Christmas show.

‘But where would we get all those little people?’ frets Andrea, clearly going down the heigh-ho, heigh-ho route.

‘I hope you’re not being politically incorrect there, Mother,’ comments Chloe.

‘What on earth do you mean? You know I’m not into politics. I didn’t even vote at the last election …’

Back home, the next hour is spent at my computer screen, editing photos and waiting for Rose’s album to arrive. She’s been on the phone three times this week to double-check she’ll have it by tomorrow.

The pressure is huge. I feel like a sumo wrestler is taking a nap on my head. A little knot of anxiety has been sitting in my stomach since yesterday afternoon.

Apart from the thought of having to deal with a horrendously upset client if I don’t deliver – and getting paid late, which frankly would be disastrous – I really don’t want Rose to be disappointed. I always feel honoured when a bride trusts me with her special day, and I’ll do anything necessary to make sure I don’t let her down.

When the doorbell rings, I rush to answer it. It’s the postman with an album-sized parcel and I can’t decide whether to throw my arms around his neck or weep with relief.

I check through the album, holding my breath anxiously, hoping nothing has gone wrong. But, thankfully, it looks fantastic, so I parcel it up to send off to Rose.

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.