Kitabı oku: «Four Weddings and a Fiasco»

ONE

‘Ooh, this is cosy!’ says Andrea, simultaneously adjusting her bra for better effect and getting her stiletto stuck in the lawn.

Her enhanced cleavage has Ron’s eyes out on stalks.

I have to admit, I’m grateful for the reprieve.

I’ve been dodging Ron’s slightly moist clutches from the moment I walked into their house and followed them out into the back garden.

Ron is the original Space Invader.

Not that he goes around blasting aliens to smithereens in a very 1970s computer game sort of way. He just crowds you, so you spend the entire time (subtly) backing away until you eventually find yourself in the next room.

Ron and Andrea live in my cul-de-sac. Despite being well past the first flush of youth, they’re known around here as a couple who like to have fun. And their snowdrops are definitely looking perky today.

I glance around the garden, looking for the best place to get down to it.

‘Can we do it against the fence?’ I instruct, aiming as always for ‘friendly but firm’.

As they obligingly reposition themselves, I compliment Andrea on her dress and laughingly suggest that Ron might be boxing a little above his weight there. (I’m only half-joking about this. And I know Ron won’t take offence. He has an ego the size of a small Baltic state.)

The point is, couples can be quite shy about throwing off their inhibitions, so a joke can really break the ice.

I’m trying to relax and just go with it, but it’s not easy when my mind keeps drifting to the backlog of work I need to tackle when I get home.

‘It’s like that dress Lucy Mecklenburgh wore at the Baftas,’ says Andrea, breaking away from Ron to do a little twirl. It’s a strapless mini, heavily embellished with large silver and bronze sequins. A little over the top for a bleak, parky February afternoon, but Andrea does have the figure for it.

I nod, pretending I know what she’s talking about.

But Andrea is not fooled. (I probably should have looked more impressed.)

‘Lucy Mecklenburgh?’ She frowns. ‘You know, the Towie girls? Jess Wright? Ferne McCann? Danielle Armstrong?’

I look at her, confused, feeling like I’m in an exam I haven’t revised for.

I shake my head apologetically. ‘Sorry, no. Is Towie an area of London?’

Even Ron laughs at that. It’s clear I need to get out more.

The thing is, if it’s not on the nine o’clock news, I tend not to know about it. I force myself to watch the news, just so I know what’s happening outside the narrow confines of my world. But work consumes practically every other waking minute in my life these days – mainly because I really need the money.

I think of Dominic’s recent, late-night phone calls and a dark cloud descends. His tone is friendly on the surface but the sense of threat is all too evident. I’ve started letting the phone go to answer machine in the evenings, even though I know from experience that he’s not going to give up that easily.

Suddenly aware Andrea and Ron are staring at me, awaiting instructions, I force a jolly smile. ‘Right, can you put your hand on Ron’s chest? That’s right. Lovely!’

There’s a peculiar intimacy to these open-air encounters with my clients, Ron and Andrea being a case in point. Peculiar in that generally, we’re not much more than friendly acquaintances.

I place my hand on Ron’s leg. ‘Could you move slightly sideways so Andrea can … that’s it. Lovely!’

He gives me a full-on, teeth-whitened smile that’s obviously designed to render me helpless with lust but actually makes me want to giggle. ‘Would you like my hand on her chest?’ he growls suggestively, leaning closer.

‘Ha-ha! That won’t be necessary, Ron.’ I leap nimbly away.

I’ve never been keen on threesomes in the back garden. Not since the time a wasp landed on the bloke’s ear, just as the woman was moving in to nuzzle his neck. The insect did its worst, which resulted in the man being carted off to hospital, suffering mild anaphylactic shock.

The shock to my bank balance was much worse.

No engagement photo. No payment.

I cross the lawn and ask them to stand under the willow tree, which I think will provide a perfect frame. Having snapped a dozen or so, I study them in the camera’s viewfinder.

Great. Job’s a good ’un. I can now dash home to finish the photo editing I was working on until the early hours. Plus, I need to take delivery of a completed album, which the print company promised would arrive in today’s post, so that I can send it off to the bride as a matter of urgency. Rose, the bride, is lovely, but during the wedding preparations, she had a tendency to get very stressed if everything didn’t go exactly according to plan. She’s apparently organised a party so that everyone can see the photos for the first time – and I really don’t want a hysterical bride shouting down the phone that her family gathering is ruined because she didn’t get the album in time.

Andrea offers me a coffee and normally, I’d stay to chat out of politeness, but I have too much to do. Also, because it’s a freebie session, I don’t feel quite so bad having to rush off.

When they asked me to take their wedding photographs, I invited them round and showed them some of my sample albums.

‘Ooh, lovely,’ enthused Andrea. Then she said something that sounded like, ‘We’re having a Cayman Cannier wedding.’

‘Oh?’ Cayman Cannier? It sounded swish. And expensive. ‘Is he your wedding planner? This – er – Cayman person?’

Andrea looked at me blankly. ‘No. Kim and Kanye,’ she said, enunciating the words very slowly for the benefit of the idiot in the room.

Light dawned. ‘Oh, Kim Kardashian and – erm—’ I frowned, clicking my fingers. ‘Kanye Thingy!’

‘Kayne West, yes.’ She beamed. ‘Everyone’s coming dressed as a celebrity.’

‘Gosh. Right.’

‘My dress is to die for. Just like Kim’s.’ She clasped her hands over her chest. ‘And Ron’s going to look ever so sexy.’

She twinkled at Ron, who merely grunted. (I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing or just expressing weary resignation.)

I nodded as my mind went into boggle overdrive.

Rapper Ron? Now there was an image to conjure up.

A disturbing vision flashed into my mind. Ron. In dropped-crotch trackies and dark glasses. Alarming grannies and flexing his ‘swag’ to the max.

Should make for an interesting album.

I’d gone out of the room to turn up the heating, at which point Ron oozed into the kitchen after me and started telling me about his new camera and how he’d love me to give him a few pointers. Then he’d ‘charmed’ me into agreeing to take some engagement photos as a little extra freebie.

Actually, it wasn’t his ‘charm’ that swung it.

He’d been wafting garlic over me as he waxed lyrical about his camera and I’d flattened myself against the fridge freezer. I’d watched in queasy close-up as a bead of perspiration wobbled at his hairline then broke loose. I’d only said yes so I could slide away before it skidded down his face and landed on me …

Now, engagement shoot done, Andrea says she’ll fetch me the list of wedding photos they’d like, so I stand awkwardly in their living room as Ron busies himself putting Frank Sinatra on the music system. ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ fills the room. Ron gives me a wolfish grin and, to my alarm, starts swaying in time to the music.

I plaster on a smile, wondering if he’s expecting me to join in.

I can’t help being fascinated by his relationship with Andrea. It’s a second marriage for both of them and, on balance, I think Ron’s getting the better end of the deal. Andrea is fun, slim and glossy-haired; a great advert for being fifty-something. But I’m struggling to pinpoint what she sees in Ron. Looking beyond the paunch, ‘disguised’ by a loose shirt, and the dyed brown hair brushed forward to hide the bald patch, you can tell he was probably good-looking in his younger days.

But Ron’s problem is he still firmly believes he’s the Milk Tray man. His sexual confidence is astounding. (If it could be bottled I’d order a weekly supply immediately.)

Luckily, Andrea shimmies back in at that moment, her fourteen-year-old daughter in tow.

‘Hi, Ron. How’s it hanging?’ Chloe asks, with a sly grin at me. She takes out her chewing gum, frowns at it and pops it back in again. ‘Still determined to marry Mum instead of just living in sin?’

Andrea gives her a warning look.

‘You’re damn right I am,’ declares Ron in a cringy American accent, grabbing Andrea in a showy embrace. ‘Hello, soon-to-be-Mrs-Watson.’ He winks at me. ‘Am I not the luckiest man in the world?’

Andrea pushes him away but I can tell she’s chuffed.

Behind them, Chloe crosses her eyes and does a vomiting mime, and I try not to smile.

‘Not quite the luckiest, Ron,’ Chloe remarks. She gulps down some juice from the fridge then scrabbles in her patchwork bag and throws a magazine onto the table. It falls open at a double-page spread, featuring a newly engaged celebrity couple. He is chisel-jaw handsome, and the woman’s crimped blonde hair and scarlet, figure-enhancing dress are pure Hollywood glamour.

‘Oh, is that Blaze Jorgensen and her man?’ says Andrea, clipping over in her fluffy mules to have a look. She turns to me and says proudly, ‘They’re getting married the same day as us, you know.’ She does an excited little clap.

I try to look enthused. ‘Lovely! I didn’t even know Blaze Jorgensen was engaged.’

In fact, who the hell’s Blaze Jorgensen?

Chloe darts me a puzzled look, as if I’ve suddenly grown thick facial hair and a pair of antlers. ‘But they’re Hollywood royalty,’ she says.

‘Are they?’ I shrug cheerfully.

‘Er, ye-es! Crikey, what planet exactly do you live on?’

Andrea laughs. ‘Don’t be so rude, Chloe.’ She purses her lips at her daughter, although I can tell she’s thinking exactly the same.

Chloe shrugs. ‘But everyone knows she’s marrying Dieter Hanson.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much, Katy,’ soothes Andrea. ‘Dieter Hanson’s a very minor celebrity.’

The conversation moves to Blaze Jorgensen’s acrimonious divorce from her previous husband, also a very minor celebrity apparently. She seems to specialise in them, possibly to make her own star shine more brightly? Actually, I haven’t got a clue. I’m not into all this celebrity gossip.

Ron is staring out of the window, letting the girl talk wash over him, and for a second, I feel a pang of sympathy for him. He was chairman of a big software company until he retired last year, used to rubbing shoulders and intellects with a veritable ‘who’s who’ in the industry. The only who’s who in his world now is likely to be who’s marrying who in Hello! magazine.

‘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.

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.