Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

the screen where the Princess Royal is making a speech at some charity gala. ‘Doesn’t that just prove it?’

      ‘Prove what, Beth?’ asks Grace.

      ‘Well, I’ve only just realised her chin is exactly like mine. Look.’ She sticks out her chin, angling her head helpfully.

      As one, we all transfer our baffled gaze from the Princess Royal’s chin to Annabeth’s.

      ‘Well, what do you think?’ The action of thrusting out her chin makes her sound like she’s just had heavy dental work.

      Mum tips her head thoughtfully to one side. ‘They’re very, um, similar chins, Annabeth.’

      I nod. ‘Very similar. As chins go …’

      Annabeth nods at Grace in a told-you-so sort of way.

      Grace snorts. ‘If we’re related to royalty, I’m a bloody corgi’s auntie.’

      After sitting through the chin programme, trying to keep a straight face, and drinking coffee made by Grace, Mum and I take our leave and go back to her flat.

      ‘Did I tell you I’m doing Ron and Andrea’s wedding on Saturday?’ I ask, knowing she’ll be interested.

      She frowns. ‘Really? Well, you take care. When that man has a drink in him, he’s more slippery than a wet fish. And he does like his drink.’

      I laugh. ‘It’s his wedding day, Mum. I’m sure even Ron can be trusted to stay sober and keep his hands to himself on the day he marries Andrea.’

       I’d like to think so, anyway.

      Mum shudders. ‘Do you know he once propositioned me in the supermarket?’

      I nod, smiling. I’ve heard this story a thousand times before. ‘I was a toddler in the trolley and he asked you how to judge a melon’s ripeness.’

      Mum nods, looking affronted but enjoying it all the same. ‘When I showed him how to press the end, he waggled his eyebrows at me and suggested we continue the lesson back at his house!’

      I grin. ‘If you’d said yes to the melon-pressing, I bet Ron would have run a mile.’

      She purses her lips. ‘That’s not the point.’

      ‘What’s this?’ I ask, noticing a hardback book with a black cover on the side table. Thinking it’s a thriller, I pick it up and my eyebrows rise at the title: Talking to the Dead: Seven Ways to Successful Communication with the Other Side.

      I hold it up and Mum waves her hand. ‘Oh, nothing. Just something Venus left behind. She thought I might be interested, what with the séance and all.’

      ‘She’s been here?’ I ask, surprised Mum hadn’t mentioned it.

      ‘Oh yes. Annabeth and Grace were coming for tea anyway, and Venus sort of invited herself along.’

      I run my hand over the glossy cover. ‘Have you read it?’ I ask curiously. Mum’s always dismissed such things as utter tosh.

      ‘No,’ she scoffs. ‘As if. I just took it to be polite. I’ll get it back to her at the next yoga class. I think she’s a bit New Age nuts to be honest.’

      I laugh. ‘And doing headstands on the grass is normal behaviour?’

      ‘Touché.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘But that’s just a bit of fun to please Annabeth.’

      I get up reluctantly. ‘Right, I’d better go. Tons to do.’

      ‘Well, don’t work yourself into the ground.’ She cups my face in her hands and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘And listen?’

      ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ I chant with a grin.

      This is Mum’s motto. She even said it to the postman once – to which he remarked that since her gas bill was due, there was a distinct possibility he’d be back as large as life the next day.

      She opens the door and gives me a playful push.

      I catch something red and sparkly out of the corner of my eye.

      It’s a key fob, dangling in the door.

      I stare at it. It’s a cheap thing with a big sparkly letter ‘S’ on it. ‘Where—?’

      Mum’s eyes slide away. ‘I was clearing out the spare room and I found it in a box.’ She shrugs and adds, a touch defiantly, ‘I like it. And I needed a key ring.’

      I turn to go but Mum grabs my arm.

      ‘Katy,’ she murmurs. Her tone is tinged with pity, which only makes things worse. ‘When it was you two girls running the business, you seemed to have such fun. It almost didn’t seem like work at all.’ A pause. ‘Don’t you think things would be so much better if Sienna were still here?’

      A little bolt of shock zips through me at the mention of my sister’s name.

      There’s a pleading tone to Mum’s question, and I can understand her bewilderment. Often, I wonder if she blames me for not trying to get Sienna to come home.

      She’s aware we had a major falling out which was why Sienna left, but she has no idea what we rowed about. I’ve certainly never told her and I’d bet my house and all its contents that Sienna will have remained silent on the subject.

      On the way home, I think about Mum and her constant hope that Sienna and I will eventually be reconciled. I wish she’d stop it and realise, once and for all, that as far as I’m concerned, that’s never going to happen.

      I suppose if Mum knew how precariously I’m living – always looking over my shoulder, in fear of yet another demand for money I can’t pay – she might understand why I still can’t think of my sister, two years later, without feeling sick and shaky.

      Sienna is the reason I now struggle daily to keep the wolf from the door.

      At first when Sienna left, Mum – grieving over Dad’s death a year earlier – was devastated and tried her best to smooth things over between us. I know she had long talks with Sienna on the phone, although I can only imagine what was said. And she tried to convince me that family was everything. We’d lost Dad. Did I really want to lose my baby sister as well?

      But sunk in my own grief and despair over Dad’s death and all that had happened with Sienna, I was in no mood to forgive. My life was in ruins. She’d left me high and dry, committed to paying off the loan I’d taken out to buy equipment all by myself. The loan payments were pretty hefty. Shared with Sienna, they were manageable. But paying it on my own – on the last day of every month – kept me constantly on edge, worrying whether this was the month I’d be forced to admit I couldn’t cope and throw in the towel.

      But while the business ended up being a millstone around my neck in many respects, ironically, I think it also saved my sanity.

      By the time Sienna left, we already had ten or so weddings in the diary, so I absolutely couldn’t back out, even if I’d wanted to. I could never have let my clients down. So I just dived right in, doing the best job I could, learning as I went along all the particular skills needed to be a good wedding photographer.

      I pour everything into giving couples a great service and a beautiful album at the end of it all. I’m busy from early in the morning to late into the evening and I collapse into bed at the end of each day, glad of the oblivion. And working hard does have some advantages. It occupies my mind and keeps the nightmare thoughts at bay.

      I know Mum thinks I should put the past behind me. That I should care enough about the baby sister I once loved so much to hold out an olive branch.

      On occasion, when I’ve felt especially low, I’ve been tempted to pour out the whole sorry mess to Mum. Tell her exactly what happened to wreck our sisterly bond forever.

      But something always stops me.

      I