Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

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      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ