Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

in and out,’ she murmurs confidentially. ‘The carpet would be ruined.’

      ‘I’d only be a moment,’ I say.

      But she shakes her head apologetically. ‘Sorry. Hotel policy.’

      Feeling slightly frustrated at the wasted opportunity, I nonetheless smile and nod. Rules are rules.

      I scan the room. There’s a low hum of conversation and an air of contained excitement as guests file into the room in small groups and settle themselves into seats. A string quartet is playing at the back, and Ron is there at the altar, looking surprisingly dapper in his plain black tuxedo and white shirt. And buzz cut.

      As I take some shots of him, the groom’s best man cracks a joke and Ron gives a strained laugh. He’s clearly very nervous. He keeps running his hand over his head as if his buzzed hair might have somehow grown back.

      I catch Mallory’s eye and we retreat to the back of the room for the entrance of the bride and her father.

      And that’s when I notice Runner Man sitting slumped in his seat at the end of a pew, arms folded, one long leg encroaching on the aisle. He looks oddly out of place wearing jeans among all these ‘celebrities’, especially as he’s sitting next to an elaborately dressed Elton John in his powdered wig party phase. (The wig is so massive, it’s blocking everyone’s view and probably required a wedding invitation all of its own.)

      In the same row I can see Wallace and Gromit, a couple of Oompa Loompas and a Derek Zoolander with a pink bandana round his head.

      They’ve all gone to so much trouble with their costumes – and it just highlights Runner Man’s complete lack of effort in the dressing-up stakes. And lack of effort in the staying awake stakes as well, I reflect a minute later. He looks worn out, as if he might topple off the end of the pew at any minute.

      And then the doors open and in walks Chloe, with Sophie a few steps behind her. They look like fairy-tale princesses. Chloe looks around, spots me with my camera and gives me a wink, which I manage to snap.

      Runner Man turns in his seat at that point to take in the scene and to my horror, his eyes travel around the room and land on me. I look away immediately, praying he hasn’t recognised me as the loon who bashed into him.

      But a second later, he looks over again and I realise he has.

      It’s just a brief glance. But the amused twist to his mouth suggests he’s rumbled me all right.

      Bugger. But I suppose it had to happen eventually. You can’t exactly hide away when you’re the chief photographer.

      Andrea enters a second later in her dramatically backless dress, smiling radiantly on the arm of her dad. Her stunning train glides along the carpet as they make their way up the aisle to the strains of The Wedding March, played by the quartet.

      The whole room seems to swell with the emotion of the occasion.

      I spot Princess Fiona laying her head on Shrek’s shoulder. And a middle-aged Pamela Anderson, in leopard print and blonde wig, snuggling closer to her Baywatch lifeguard. Keith Lemon gives his nose a trumpeting blow.

      The ceremony turns out to be beautifully simple, which quite surprises me. I suppose with her love of all things celebrity, I was expecting Andrea to go slightly overboard with the bling and the extravagant gestures. Perhaps a dove or two flying up the aisle to deliver the matching rings? But there’s none of that. Just Andrea and Ron promising to love each other.

      I slip up the side of the room to the altar, feeling horribly self-conscious knowing that Runner Man could be watching me – and having a good chuckle to himself about me snagging my privates on the fence and bizarrely asking him if he wanted to buy my piano.

      A blush creeps into my cheeks at the memory.

      Mind you, it’s him who should be ashamed of himself, turning up at a wedding dressed in scruffy jeans and T-shirt. If I were the bride, I’d feel quite insulted. At least he’s no longer attempting to muscle in on my patch by posing as the unofficial photographer! I suppose I should be thankful for that, at least …

      I’m suddenly aware of Mallory gesticulating to me on the other side of the altar.

       Oh, shit!

      I dart forward and manage to snap the ‘I do’ kiss just in time. And as Ron and Andrea break apart and share a joke, I keep on snapping, to make up for the fact that I almost missed the main event.

      I’m hot and sweaty all of a sudden. And annoyed with myself. I never lose concentration like that.

      Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus on the task in hand.

      Andrea and Ron move to the little table in the corner, and as the guests chat amongst themselves, I take shots of the happy couple signing the register.

      I’m so busy, at first I don’t notice that the light falling on my subjects has altered slightly. When I turn, I see that the hotel manager has swished back the curtain and is now opening the patio doors. Then she turns with a smile towards … Runner Man!

      I stare in stunned disbelief.

      He’s walking out onto the terrace and nabbing the shot I wanted!

       What the hell’s going on?

      She wouldn’t open the doors for me. So how come he gets preferential treatment?

      I’m tempted to walk away in disgust but that would be shooting myself in the foot, so I make sure I get out there and take even more shots from the terrace than Runner Man does. Ha! That will show him …

      ‘The light’s great from out here,’ he has the nerve to point out.

      I smile stiffly and check out his camera.

      Expensive.

      He’s obviously one of those amateurs who thinks buying the best equipment will make him an expert in no time.

      I take a few more shots of them signing the register, then walk to the back of the room in order to take the all-important shots of Ron and Andrea walking back down the aisle together.

      Mallory sidles up and says, ‘What’s up?’

      My frown deepens. ‘Him.’

      She grins. ‘But all he’s done is take a few photographs. In common with about ninety-nine per cent of the other guests in the room.’

      ‘Yes, but how come he gets the shot I wanted?’ I snap. ‘I hate bloody amateur photographers at weddings!’

      She gives me a puzzled look and I know what she’s thinking. Normally I’m fairly gracious and understanding of happy snappers at weddings. It’s just most of them don’t rub me up the wrong way like Runner Man.

      I move to the centre of the aisle, ready for the perfect shot. And Runner Man finally stops flirting with the manager, making her giggle like a silly schoolgirl, and goes back to his seat.

      Who is he anyway? Probably a friend of Ron’s. This often happens. The bride and groom start to worry the professional photographer might cock it up, so they appoint a friend or relative to take back-up photos. Just in case.

      Andrea and Ron are walking happily back down the aisle towards me.

      And then – oh, here we go! – Runner Man is back on his feet, snapping away, totally blocking my view.

      Probably sensing my daggers look, he turns a brief apologetic glance my way. And I might have forgiven him had it not been for The Hand