Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

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      ‘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.

      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

      ‘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.

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