Catherine Ferguson - Four Weddings and a Fiasco

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 others regard me as simply the professional photographer, who’s there to do a job. Either way is fine by me.

Sometimes my role expands to become the chief calmer of nerves, hanky provider or bridal car arrival checker. I can even be called on to help a bride choose between two shades of lipstick – obviously a decision of vital importance, so no pressure there, then. I take it all very seriously because I know how important it is that the bride feels beautiful on her special day.

I usually enjoy every aspect of it.

But today, with my legs still shaky from that phone call, all I want to do is get through the work and go home.

I draw in a breath of bracing March air. ‘Right. Better get in there.’

‘Are you all right, darling?’ Mallory peers at me. ‘You seem a bit queer.’

That almost makes me giggle. Sometimes Mallory seems to have been born into the wrong century. And the sort of day I’m having, ‘almost a giggle’ is quite a result. It reminds me why Mallory is my best friend. One of the reasons, at any rate. She has this knack of being able to perk me up instantly – whether her remarks are intentionally funny or otherwise.

‘I’m feeling better by the minute,’ I tell her honestly.

I leave Mallory scouting round the grounds while I head up to the bride’s bedroom.

Squeals of delight greet me when I enter – mainly from Chloe and Sophie, her cousin. Both are bridesmaids and both are already high as kites with excitement.

Andrea, slim and newly fake-tanned in cream satin bridal underwear, is standing by a free-standing mirror, holding in front of her The Dress.

‘Hi, Katy. What do you think?’ she squeaks. ‘Isn’t it just Kim’s dress to a tee?’

‘Gosh. Yes. It’s amazing.’ I’ve no idea what Kim Kardashian’s wedding gown looked like but there’s no denying it, Andrea’s dress is stunning.

‘It’s a mermaid silhouette gown,’ she says proudly, swishing it in front of her. ‘See the fishtail?’

‘Put it on, Mum,’ orders Chloe. She grins at me. ‘I’m Kourtney and Sophie is Kendall.’

She sees my knitted brow.

‘Kardashian?’

‘Ah. Right. Well, you both look sensational,’ I say honestly. They do. They’re wearing identical white dresses. Long and figure-hugging with posies of white roses.

Andrea’s dress, when she’s eventually in it, is quite simply jaw-dropping.

White with long lace sleeves, it’s quite modest from the front.

But when she turns and looks back at us with a coquettish little smile, we all let out a gasp.

The gown is daringly backless, plunging down almost to Andrea’s waist, with a long train stretching out over the carpet. Neither is the veil a shrinking violet. It’s quite simply the longest I’ve ever seen, swooping right to the floor. With her deep tan, Andrea carries it off perfectly. Ron really won’t know what to do with himself.

‘Ron’s getting a buzz cut,’ says Chloe, raising one eyebrow. ‘So he’ll look the image of Kanye.’ She looks at Sophie and they both burst out laughing.

Andrea seems totally unperturbed. She’s too busy swishing this way and that in front of the mirror. And to be fair, the girls’ merriment is probably far more to do with the excitement of the occasion, than deliberately taking the mickey out of poor Ron.

Andrea turns suddenly. ‘You’ll never believe it, Katy. The wedding’s off.’

‘ What? ’ I stare at her, confused.

She laughs and waves a hand at my daftness. ‘Not our wedding, silly. Dieter Hanson’s wedding to Blaze Jorgensen.’

‘Oh. Right. I see.’ To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it.

‘It was meant to be today? The same day as ours?’

‘Yes. I remember now.’

She nods at the open tabloid newspaper on the bed. Dutifully, I go over and glance at the headline. Sure enough, there it is. The whole story with a picture of Dieter Hanson emerging from some building with his head down, looking understandably devastated.

I must still be feeling fairly wobbly after hearing about Sienna’s imminent return, because his plight suddenly strikes me as incredibly sad. The breakdown of a relationship once so full of promise. All those dashed hopes and dreams. One person left to pick up the pieces of their life …

My throat is suddenly thick with emotion. I’m no stranger to the trauma of love gone wrong. I know exactly how Dieter Hanson must be feeling today.

‘I felt so sorry for him, I sent him an invitation to our wedding,’ says Andrea.

Her announcement is so unexpected, it instantly catapults me out of my sudden gloom.

We all stare at the bride for an incredulous moment. Then Chloe and Sophie burst into gales of laughter.

Andrea purses her lips. ‘Well, that’s not very nice, I must say. The poor man must be absolutely devastated.’

‘Oh, Mum, we’re not laughing at him being jilted.’ Chloe looks guiltily at me. ‘It’s just do you really think he’s going to want to come to your wedding ?’

Andrea shrugs huffily. ‘Probably not. I just thought it might cheer him up to be asked.’