Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson
sofa. She’s watching me with mild amusement as I tear around, ransacking the house. ‘Stop looking and it’ll turn up.’
‘I can’t stop looking!’ I yelp. ‘If I don’t find it, the whole day will go pear-shaped!’
Mallory examines her nails. ‘It’s a piece of jewellery,’ she murmurs. ‘Not some magical talisman.’
‘But it’s not just any old brooch. It’s my lucky charm,’ I call, running upstairs to check my bedroom drawers for the twenty- seventh time.
‘Which jacket were you wearing at your last wedding?’ calls Mallory.
Her question stops me in my tracks.
‘Brilliant!’ I yell, diving for the wardrobe. Sure enough, there it is, pinned to the lapel, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Dad bought me the beautiful ceramic brooch years ago. It’s a single, perfectly formed daffodil and the yolk yellow petals are so vibrant against the pale green stem, they cheer me up just to look at them. Dad said the brooch reminded him of the first ever photograph I had framed for him and Mum. It was a black and white shot of a daffodil in a slim vase and it hung on the living room wall ever afterwards and – much to my complete mortification – was pointed out fondly every time we had guests.
Usually, Mum did the gift-buying in our house, so the brooch from Dad was really special. I’ve had it for ages but it’s in perfect nick, except for a tiny stress fracture running down the centre, which is barely noticeable.
I wore it when, filled with butterflies and nervous excitement, I shot my very first wedding. The day turned out to be perfect, so now I have to wear the brooch to make sure things go smoothly. (When things do get hairy occasionally, Mallory will remark wryly, ‘So much for the lucky charm.’ But I counter that by pointing out how much worse things could have been without it.)
Apart from anything superstitious, the brooch makes me feel I’ve got my dad close by.
Dad worked as an accountant when he left college, but he always dreamed of being his own boss. And when he was forty, he took the plunge, left his job and started up the sandwich business he’d long been planning and scheming in his head. Of course we had to downsize because selling sandwiches didn’t bring in nearly as much as Dad’s steady nine-to-five job. So there were no more holidays to Spain or nice meals out. But even though he had to work crazy hours, I think that was the happiest I ever saw him. He’d have been so proud of what I’ve managed to achieve, all by myself, slowly building up a solid reputation in the industry.
When things are tough and I’ve got a headache trying to juggle money, robbing Peter to pay Paul, I think of Dad’s favourite saying: ‘Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.’
That always spurs me on.
When I wake next morning, I feel hung-over. Which is a bit unfair since I didn’t have anything to drink.
I’d stayed awake until the early hours, practically propping my eyelids open with matchsticks, getting my accounts up to date. (Numbers aren’t my thing so balancing the books regularly taxes my brain to its limits.) As a result I was in the deepest sleep ever when the alarm went off and it felt like only ten minutes since I’d crashed into bed.
I pour strong coffee down my throat while making last-minute checks of my equipment. I once ran out of batteries in the middle of shooting a wedding for an extremely uptight bride. Not an experience I ever want to repeat. If it hadn’t been for a junior guest, who apparently kept a supply of triple AAAs in his pocket at all times in case of a gaming controller emergency (no, I didn’t understand it either), I’m pretty sure the bride would have spontaneously combusted.
Needless to say, I now have spare batteries on me at all times.
I’m meeting Mallory at the venue.
In theory, I like to arrive twenty minutes before we’re expected so that we can park up and take our time checking out the lay of the land for the photos later.
The reality tends to be a little different.
Like this morning.
Just as I’m opening the front door, the house phone rings.
I pause, thinking I’ll let it go to answer machine. But then there’s always the thought that it could be Mum in trouble, so I close the door and go to check.
It is Mum.
We chat for a few minutes then I say I have to go but I’ll call her later.
‘If you could, love. Because I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Tell me now.’
She hesitates. ‘No. It can wait till later.’
‘Mum?’ A feeling of foreboding prickles my scalp.
I straighten up. ‘What is it?’
I hear her sigh at the other end.
Then she says, in a low voice, ‘Sienna’s coming back.’
Sienna’s coming back.
Mum’s words swim around in my consciousness.
I’d always wondered how I’d react if Sienna returned. Actually, I feel quite numb.
Gently, I place the phone in its stand. And when it rings a few seconds later, I’m already closing the front door behind me.
I drive to the venue in a daze, almost missing the turn-off. I have to brake suddenly and the driver behind me slams the horn three times and races furiously past me. Trembling, I pull into the side of the road and turn the engine off, then I sit there, staring ahead, grasping the steering wheel as if it’s a lifeline.
A cold feeling settles in my heart.
Then an ambulance hares past, its siren blaring, bringing me to my senses.
For a few seconds, my mind is blank. Where was I going? What was I doing?
I glance at the clock.
The wedding!
I set off, driving almost as fast as the ambulance, determined not to be late for Andrea.
The sight of Mallory, jokingly flagging me down in the car park and pointing accusingly at her watch, brings me back to the present. Mallory is actually really laid back about this sort of thing. She’s only doing the watch thing because she knows I’ll be anxious to get going.
‘Chill, darling,’ she says when I emerge from the car. ‘They’re probably not even ready for you yet. You know what these fussy brides are like.’
‘Hey, don’t be so hard on brides. It’ll be your turn in December.’
In stark contrast to my plain navy suit, crisp white shirt and navy heels, Mallory’s wearing a floaty, mauve dress, cream fake fur and little pixie boots. All charity shop, of course. Anyone else would look appalling in this ensemble but Mallory has the personality to pull it off.
‘Great tree,’ she points out.
I look across at the old, gnarly oak whose magnificent branches look like they’ve been arranged precisely with us in mind. ‘Perfect backdrop for the bride and groom shots,’ I agree.
I glance up at the hotel. Behind one of those gorgeous Georgian windows, Andrea and her bridal entourage will be in a state of nervous excitement, talking Kim and Kanye. And hair, make-up and veils. And probably quaffing far too much champagne.
It always feels a privilege to be there, among the bride’s family and friends, on this most intimate of occasions.
Some families embrace me like they would a family friend, which is lovely, while