Catherine Ferguson - Four Weddings and a Fiasco

There are times in life when nothing but a hug from your mum will do.

And for a second, I find myself wishing desperately that Mum were here. Sitting on the sofa next to me, absently playing with the lump of rose quartz on the chain round her neck and delving in her homemade raffia bag for the little bottle of foul-smelling anti-stress tincture that Annabeth gave her to ‘balance her system’. I don’t know if she uses it, but it goes everywhere with her. (It smells like something died in her handbag, which makes her slightly embarrassing to go shopping with.)

I stand up, as Mum talks on, and walk through to the small conservatory, which is bathed in an eerie semi-light from the full moon.

I know it’s a mark of how concerned she is that she bravely brought up a forbidden subject and risked me hanging up on her. I just wish she could understand that the days of Sienna and I being as close as sisters could be have gone forever.

I do not need Sienna’s help. We may have worked together for the first six months, but I’ve managed to keep the business afloat all by myself since Sienna left, almost two years ago.

And as far as I’m concerned, the day she left for Paris, leaving me with an avalanche of debts, was the day she relinquished all rights to being my cherished baby sister. Let alone my business partner.

I will do this alone.

Without help from anyone.

I know that Mum has weekly phone conversations with my sister and, at times, I can tell she’s itching for me to ask her how Sienna’s getting on. But I don’t because I’m really not interested.

After Mum says her goodbyes, I stand there in the conservatory, staring out into the inky blackness, clutching the handset to my chest. I feel silly now for having reacted so violently to the ring of the phone.

Angry tears prick my eyes.

I will not live in fear of Dominic!

An owl hoots and my heart leaps into my mouth.

Suddenly the shape of the hawthorn tree, in my little patch of back garden, looks ghostly and sinister – a black, looming figure with clutching hands reaching out towards me …

I close the door on the darkness beyond the windows. Then I go round the rest of the house, swishing curtains shut and turning on lights until the place could seriously outshine Blackpool Illuminations.

But only once I’ve unplugged the phone and checked that the doors are locked can I finally breathe easily.

Barricading myself in makes me feel safer.

But as I kick off my shoes and start chopping salad for supper, the spectre of Dominic and his threats still hangs over me.

Turning a key in a lock is not going to banish him from my life. If only it were that simple …

Next morning, I’ve got my meeting with Miss Polar Ice Cap, aka Cressida and her groom-to-be, Tom.

They’re getting married in June.

So far, I’ve only spoken to Cressida on the phone. But today I’m meeting them in person to get to know them and chat about the wedding arrangements.

Cressida made it clear that strict schedules – and people being on time – were a top priority of hers. Which means spotting the white meter van out in the street just as I’m about to leave for our meeting fills me with double panic.

I can’t possibly leave now and risk having my meters read, so that means I’ll be late for Cressida.

Feeling sick, I scamper up the stairs before meter man has a chance to spy me through the glass in the front door. Then I rush into the bathroom and peer cautiously out through the frosted glass.

Evading meter readings is a vital part of my life. It’s not that I don’t pay my gas and electricity bills. Of course I do. But the thing is, my direct debit amount has been way too low ever since I moved here.

Before I arrived, there was an oldish lady living here who obviously didn’t use much power because the estimated monthly bill was very small. And some glitch in the system meant I carried on paying this tiny amount each month, while thanking my lucky stars for old Mrs Jennings and her frugal nature.

I always knew they’d catch up with me eventually but I sort of kept brushing the thought away. (I was having to cope with other, more pressing demands for money.)

And then they did. Catch up with me. A couple of months ago, a stern official letter arrived.

I read it in the car before I set off for an appointment with one of my brides. I was running late, as usual, but seeing those stark words requesting up-to-date meter readings as a matter of urgency sent a bolt of cold fear through me. I thought I was going to be sick. I had to put my head back and do the breathing exercise Mum’s friend, Annabeth, taught me until I felt well enough to drive. I’ve been on high alert ever since, dreading a second letter demanding the readings.

Now, I take another peek out of the bathroom window. The white van’s gone. Phew! I dive downstairs, grimace at my reflection in the hall mirror to check for lipstick on teeth, grab my briefcase, coat and keys and hare out to the car.

Of course, all that furtive hiding malarkey has made me late.

I turn on the engine and roar off, managing – by some miracle and obliging traffic lights – to screech to a halt outside Cressida and Tom’s only two minutes late.

She answers the door before I ring the bell, and I get the distinct impression she’s been pacing and checking out of the window since first thing.

‘Ah, you found us!’ she exclaims with a tight smile and a pointed glance at her watch.

Cressida is tall and very thin. She’s wearing a dark grey tracksuit and her brown hair is cut in an angular bob that makes her rather broad face seem even more so.

She ushers me through to the living room.

‘Do sit down, Miss Peacock. Coffee?’

‘Er, yes please.’

She nods and disappears, and I hear her calling sternly up the stairs. ‘Tom? The wedding photographer is here .’

I glance around the room. Everything is immaculate. Just like its owner. I open my briefcase and get out my sample wedding albums and my notebook and pen.

Minutes later, I hear a tray clanking in the hall. ‘ Tom? Could you come down ?’ An icy pause. ‘ Now please? ’

I wince slightly, feeling vaguely sorry for the groom-to-be. It’s fairly clear who wears the trousers here. Already, I’m picturing how she’ll be on her wedding morning.

Normally a nice chilled glass of champagne is enough to calm everyone down. For Cressida, I’m thinking horse tranquilliser.

Tom, who was apparently upstairs working, proves to be an amiable Geordie with a wicked sense of humour, the complete opposite of his fiancée.

We drink our coffee as Cressida perches on the edge of her seat and goes on and on about the absolute ‘deal-breaker’ of having people with their eyes closed in photos. ‘So I’m thinking at least fifteen takes of every group shot , just to be on the safe side,’ she concludes.

I nod reassuringly at them both. Lots of brides are anxious that I might not take enough shots, and I get that. I’d probably feel exactly the same if it was my wedding. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have plenty of choice. I always take multiple shots of everything, from different angles and distances, so that we end up with as near perfect a photo as we can possibly get.’

She eyes me sternly. ‘Yes, but near perfect isn’t quite good enough, is it?’

Tom, who’s been lying back in his seat, taking it all in with a look of mild amusement, obviously catches my panic. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much, pet. I get that every night.’

Cressida glares at him like a teacher warning a naughty pupil.

Totally unfazed, her husband-to-be leans forward, takes her hand and gently kisses it with a smile that’s full of affection. ‘I’m joking, like.’