Catherine Ferguson - Four Weddings and a Fiasco

Rupert’s always like this – rather theatrical, fond of extravagant gestures, right at home as the life and soul of every party. But none of it is forced, for effect. It’s just the way he is, and everyone warms to him. His pleasure at seeing me is, I know, absolutely genuine.

‘The shirt looks good,’ says Mallory, giving him a thumbs up.

I nod, enthusiastically, and he looks pleased. The shirt’s pretty colourful, patterned all over with exotic birds. It suits him perfectly.

He comes into the room and spins round so we can admire the full effect. Then he gyrates his way over to the coffee pot, singing, ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts .’ His tight butt in the pale, paint-spattered jeans moves perfectly in sync.

Rupert is an artist. He paints watercolours of hills that all look the same to me, although I’m probably doing him a grave injustice. My art appreciation skills are dubious, to say the least. For instance, I’ve always thought the Mona Lisa was a little bit boring. She’s famous for looking mysterious and ‘enigmatic’. But frankly, the only mystery to me is why on earth she didn’t get some body into that lank hair before she sat for the great Leonardo. (I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?)

Anyway, enough said. I wouldn’t know a masterpiece if it fell from outer space and landed on my head. For all I know, Rupert’s paintings could be truly magnificent.

His artistic nature has certainly come to the fore with the wedding plans. He’s created this beautiful ‘mood board’ of colours and fabrics. I’ve never known a groom be so interested in the finer details and Mallory couldn’t be happier – practically all that’s left for her to do is choose the dress.

I can’t believe I’ll be photographing their wedding in December. It’s all happened so fast.

It was his mum, Serafina, who first introduced Mallory to Rupert.

Mallory and Serafina met several years ago, just after Mallory had set up Vintage Va-Va-Voom. There had been a mix-up with an order and as the customer lived locally, Mallory had offered to jump in her car and deliver the dress in person. Apart from anything else, she was curious to meet the person who’d fallen in love with the lilac jacquard silk fitted evening gown, elegant enough to grace the red carpet at an Oscars ceremony.

It turned out to be Serafina Lorenzo, whose striking dark looks and willowy frame complemented the dress perfectly. By the time she’d offered Mallory a martini and tried on the gown – declaring it perfect for her charity midsummer ball – the two had bonded over the wonders of Chanel and YSL, and were on their way to being firm friends. Their families moved in the same circles, so they even had acquaintances in common. (Although while the Lorenzos holidayed on their private island in the Caribbean, the financially stretched Swanns could barely afford a week in Bournemouth.)

It was almost a year later – last summer, in fact – that Mallory finally met Rupert. She’d known of Rupert, of course, through Serafina. His mother always spoke so proudly of her artist son, who she’d given birth to at the relatively young age of nineteen, after conceiving on honeymoon. She and Rupert’s father enjoyed a strong marriage and always planned to have a large family. But after their daughter, Arabella, was born, there were no more children. So Rupert was their only son. (And spoilt rotten, according to Mallory.)

Rupert, who’s seven years younger than Mallory, was entranced by her style and her laid-back attitude to life, and they quickly became a couple, much to the delighted approval of his mum and sister.

In a relatively short space of time, Mallory has almost become one of the family. She meets Serafina and Arabella for coffee, and they’ve treated her to a few totally indulgent spa weekends, from which Mallory always returns happy and glowing. I’m really pleased for her. I can’t help thinking the lustre to her complexion is less to do with creams and potions, and far more a result of feeling she belongs.

After a lifetime of playing second fiddle to her own parents’ wanderlust, I can totally understand this. I just sometimes wonder if maybe the lure of being part of a ‘proper family’ isn’t colouring her judgement slightly. But she’s clearly very happy with her new fiancé, so I should probably stop worrying …

Rupert gives Mallory a lingering kiss, while I try not to look, and he teasingly refuses to tell her where he’s taking her for her birthday dinner.

They’re so sweet together, I’d probably throw up if she wasn’t my best friend.

‘Right. Toodle-oo, ladies!’ Rupert blows kisses at both of us and disappears off to check out some art studio in a local crafts complex he’s thinking of renting. And Mallory and I kick off our shoes and settle in for a gossip.

It’s getting dark by the time I leave.

On the drive home, I reflect on how amazing it is that Mallory and I met only a little over eighteen months ago. I honestly feel like I’ve known her for years.

We met when I was shooting a wedding at the Greshingham, a five-star country house hotel just a few miles from Willows Edge.

It was a bad time for me.

Sienna had buggered off to Paris a few months earlier, leaving me completely in the lurch. I was doing my best to keep the business going on my own while trying to cope with the aftermath of our traumatic fallout.

I knew I would have to employ someone to help me at the weddings, but my head was all over the place. I was finding it hard enough to get through the days, never mind trying to focus on finding an assistant I knew I could trust.

The wedding that day at the Greshingham was proving a challenge, to say the least. The wedding party were in fine spirits – quite literally. (The groom’s Uncle Bob was breathing a particularly fine whisky spirit all over me from pretty much the word go, joking around in a harmless but distracting way.)

Trying to corral a group of ‘well-refreshed’ guests onto the lawn for the photos, I began to feel a new appreciation for sheepdogs. I’d get ninety per cent of them there, then a small group would break away and start wandering back to the bar. My voice was hoarse from cajoling.

At one point, I thought grimly: Come back, Sienna, all is forgiven!

Except it wasn’t, of course.

And it never would be.

I was close to tears by the time the outdoor photos were done and I’d scuttled into a dark corner of the bar to take stock.

I sat there, trying to check down my list, terrified I might have missed something vital.

But there was a woman with a loud, plummy voice on the next table who kept barging into my thoughts, messing everything up. She was all, ‘Oh, totally , darling!’ and ‘I say, how absolutely awful for you!’

It seemed I couldn’t get peace anywhere.

Then, the crowning glory, Uncle Bob found my hiding place and plonked himself and his whisky breath down right beside me.

I had an urge to run off screaming.

But I took a deep breath and did my best to be polite and smile, turning down his repeated offers of a drink on the grounds that I was working.

At some point, I made accidental eye contact with Plummy Voice over Uncle Bob’s shoulder. She pointed at my half-cut companion and made a revolted expression.

Bob tried to swing round to see who I was grinning at and nearly fell off his chair.

I bashed my forehead to mime how fed up I was and she burst out laughing then turned to murmur something to the woman beside her.

Bob, meanwhile, had shuffled his chair so close, he was practically sitting on my knee.

‘Show me how it works,’ he slurred, making a stab at picking up my camera and knocking over his whisky glass instead.