Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

this lovely?’ Her eyes are misty. ‘You know what I wish? I wish I’d thought to bring a notebook and pen so I could have written down the whole story of our wedding day – all the tiny little details that are so special to me, then I’d never, ever forget them.’

      ‘If you were writing all day, you’d have no time to get married,’ giggles Sophie.

      ‘Oh, God,’ exclaims Andrea. She looks up, opens her eyes wide and blinks furiously. ‘My eye make-up’s going to smudge.’

      I whip out a paper hanky from the stash I carry for emotional emergencies.

      Andrea carefully blots her under-eyes, then all three stand by the elegant, free-standing mirror so that I can take some shots of their reflection. Then I take some of the two girls fixing Andrea’s veil before saying, ‘Right, come on, everyone, pick up your glasses and let’s do a toast for the camera!’

      Finally, I position Andrea next to the tall sash window, holding her bouquet and looking out dreamily over the lawns, the perfect showcase for her incredible dress.

      Everyone goes silent. My own throat is suddenly thick with emotion again.

      ‘Oh, Mum, you look absolutely stunning,’ breathes Chloe. ‘Have you got another hanky, Katy?’

      I dig one out for her.

      Then I leave them to finish off getting ready, and go off to find Mallory and check out the room where the ceremony is to be held.

      The official part of the day takes place in a purpose-built annexe a few yards from the main hotel, and several intriguingly dressed guests are already lingering outside the room, waiting to be allowed in.

      The Queen and Prince Philip are chatting to Posh and Becks about the traffic on the bypass.

      ‘Posh’ looks model lean and elegant in a figure-hugging black dress, cut an inch or so below the knee, with impossibly spindly heels and what I suspect is a shiny black wig in a sleek, geometric cut. Her ‘Becks’ is standing, arms folded, looking extremely awkward in his sarong.

      ‘Mind, I don’t know how she does it,’ the Queen says. ‘I’ve had this thing on for less than an hour and already it’s irritating the life out of me. Plus it’s too big.’ She shakes her head and the gem-studded crown slips down over one eye.

      Posh, seeing me – and therefore an audience – straightens up, takes David’s arm and slinks into a catwalk pose, staring poutingly into the distance with a bored look on her face.

      A helpful male member of staff opens the door for me and I go inside. I’ve photographed many a wedding in this room, but it’s always good to double-check the venue in case anything has changed.

      Satisfied I’m familiar with the layout and have some idea where I’ll position myself for the photos, I go outside to find Mallory.

      Standing at the hotel entrance, I survey the scene.

      The car park is filling up.

      A scent of damp trees and woodsmoke hangs in the clear, cold air as guests climb out of their cars and head for the wedding annexe. I spot a variety of Queens and Prince Philips, two Sonny and Chers in ridiculously big wigs, and a Marilyn Monroe with a man in glasses who I suppose is meant to be Arthur Miller. It strikes me that it’s generally the women who have gone that extra mile in the dressing-up stakes. (With the exception of the man dressed as an inflatable vibrator, emerging from a Vauxhall Corsa with his other half, the Battery Bunny.)

      My attention is caught by a tall man in jeans and a well-worn casual jacket, standing at the entrance to the car park. He seems vaguely familiar although I’m struggling to place him. Every now and again, he stops a group of guests, charms them into posing and quickly takes a few shots.

      Great. Just what I need. A guest who fancies himself as another David Bailey.

      Well, just as long as he doesn’t get in my way …

      I spot Mallory crossing the lawn to join me.

      ‘Who’s that?’ I nod at the man.

      ‘Whoever do you mean? Sexy Hugh Jackman over there?’

      I laugh. ‘He doesn’t look in the least like Hugh Jackman.’

      ‘How not?’ asks Mallory, lingering on the view. ‘Dark hair, broad shoulders, great smile, very nice.’

      I shrug. ‘He’s far too tall.’

      ‘Well, Hugh Jackman’s tall. At least six foot, I’d say, wouldn’t you?’

      ‘Yes, but I bet he’d never go to a wedding looking like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. He’s not even wearing fancy dress.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Mallory takes her time considering. ‘You do have a point. Sexy, though, that dressed-down jeans look. Exceptional bottom—’

      The penny suddenly drops. And I swear it’s absolutely nothing to do with the exceptional bottom.

      ‘Oh God, I don’t believe it,’ I mutter. ‘It’s him.’

       SEVEN

      ‘Who?’ demands Mallory. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘It’s that man,’ I say faintly. ‘The one I maimed, leaping over the fence.’

      ‘Really?’ Mallory stares intently. Then she scrabbles in her bag and brings out her glasses.

      ‘What are you doing?’ I demand.

      ‘Having a closer look, darling. What do you think?’

      ‘Mallory!’

      Terrified he’ll spot her ogling him, I hurry off to the wedding annexe, pausing once to beckon for her to follow me. And doesn’t she choose that very moment to call helpfully, ‘He doesn’t seem to be limping now.’

      My face flushes the colour of a ripe tomato.

      I don’t dare look back to see if he heard.

      Mallory gives me a funny look as if I’m making a mountain out of a molehill but I just ignore her. Sometimes I wish she wasn’t quite so tuned into my emotions.

      The room where the wedding ceremony is taking place has a peaceful, soothing effect. I force myself to take in the sumptuous details – the rich fabric of the wine-coloured chairs, set out theatre-style, the log fire burning in the grate, casting its reflection in two of the most spectacular crystal chandeliers I’ve ever seen. At either end of the aisle, a glowing church candle sits atop an ornate holder entwined with foliage and white roses.

      The place is filled with a delicate floral scent, and I stand at the back of the room, taking a few deep breaths to help me focus on the task in hand. It’s proving to be quite a challenging day, what with Mum’s news about Sienna and now Runner Man turning up out of the blue to shake my composure by reminding me of the fence incident (so embarrassing). But I have a job to do and I will not allow anything to distract me.

      ‘Are you all right, darling?’ asks Mallory, appearing at my elbow. ‘You look a little distracted.’

      ‘I’m fine.’ I plaster on a smile to prove it. ‘Actually, I was just wondering what’s behind those curtains,’ I say, quickly improvising, and walking away from her curious looks.

      Every time I’ve photographed a wedding here, the curtains have been closed, I suppose to enhance the warm, candlelit ambience of the room.

      I peer behind the heavy red and gold drapes at the window nearest the altar. Patio doors lead out onto a terrace and instantly I’m thinking about the natural light that would flood in and how, from a position on the terrace, I could get some lovely shots of the bride and groom signing the register at the table in the corner.

      But