Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

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.’

      Cressida bats him away but I can tell she’s pleased.

      Not that she’s ready to let it go. ‘But I’m right, aren’t I, Tom?’ she snaps. ‘We expect the best. The very best.’

      ‘Eeh, calm yer tits, pet!’ He smiles and rolls his eyes at me. ‘It’ll be all right on the night. I’m sure our Miss Peacock here will do a marvellous job.’

      I leave an hour later, feeling as if I’ve sat a theory exam and only just scraped a pass mark.

      And I’ve still got the practical to go …

       FOUR

      A flurry of weddings over the next few weeks keeps me even busier than usual – so much so that I start to feel I’m neglecting Mum.

      But at last, a few days before Ron and Andrea’s wedding extravaganza, I finally grab an hour or two to pay her a visit.

      Driving south out of Willows Edge, after a few miles the road climbs steeply and that’s where you get the best view of Clandon House. It was a familiar landmark in my childhood. When Dad was driving us back from days out, I always looked out for it as we crested the hill because that meant we were nearly home.

      It seems slightly surreal – but somehow perfectly natural – that Mum should now be living there.

      It’s a lovely country house, built in the nineteenth century and developed ten years ago into eight apartments. The adjacent stable block has also been renovated into flats and Mum rents a bijou, two-bed place. I had grave reservations when she first decided she wanted to move there. The rent would take a large chunk out of her modest income and now that Dad was no longer here, I wanted her to have the cash to be able to socialise. Make new friends. Not be stuck in admittedly lovely surroundings but without the finance to enjoy her life.

      I agreed to take her for a tour, hoping she’d change her mind.

      But in the end, the big smile on her face – as she happily planned where her furniture would go and we took an amble around the leafy grounds – actually changed my mind.

      I hadn’t seen my mum smile like that in two years – not since Dad died.

      Now, a year later, I’m heartily thankful for Clandon House.

      I didn’t even need to worry about a social life for Mum. The country estate is popular with retired people – and in the year she’s been here, Mum’s been made to feel right at home, especially by Grace and Annabeth who both have apartments in the same block.

      Driving through the main gateway, I catch sight of Gareth and wave. He’s removing an overhanging branch from a tree near the entrance and I wind down my window, noticing he’s had his dark blonde hair cropped shorter than usual. It suits his tanned complexion.

      Gareth and his small team take care of the gardens here at Clandon House, as well as at Mallory’s Newington Hall.

      ‘Is the lady of the manor at home today?’ I ask, smiling at him through the car window.

      He wipes his forehead with the back of a huge, well-used gardening glove and grins at me. ‘She is, as a matter of fact. But I’d try over there first.’ He indicates the woodland area to the right of the main hall.

      ‘Was she in her tracksuit?’

      He nods. ‘She disappeared into the trees with a couple of the other ladies about twenty minutes ago.’

      ‘Thanks, Gareth. How’s the shoulder?’

      He was single-handedly moving a dresser for Annabeth last week and he ended up tearing a ligament. It must have been agonising, but to hear him talk, you’d think he just had a nasty bruise.

      ‘Ah, nothing wrong with it.’ He brushes off my concern. ‘But don’t tell the doc I’m still at work,’ he adds with a mischievous wink.

      Laughing, I tell him I won’t.

      I carry on up the winding driveway and park outside The Stables.

      Gareth is