Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

it was almost white, chopped in a short style that highlighted her porcelain skin, blue eyes and small, delicate features. She had a look of Dad when she laughed like that.

      And me.

      The protective big sister. Taller than Sienna and not quite so fine-featured. My own hair a darker, caramel blonde, shoulder-length. The image of Mum, in photos from the Seventies, with my almond-shaped green eyes, larger nose and fuller lips.

      Both of us laughing, almost hysterical with excitement, high on the feeling that we were balanced on the brink of something really special …

      I grabbed my camera and captured the moment with a selfie.

      It’s a brilliant photo, if I say so myself.

      But it’s packed away in a box now with other photos of my sister.

      Back then, life seemed so full of promise.

      We’d lost our lovely dad six months earlier and it had been tough for us all, especially Mum. I’d long had dreams of setting up on my own as a wedding photographer, and Dad’s death was the catalyst for me handing in my notice at the advertising agency in London and moving back to Willows Edge, the village where I’d grown up. I needed to be there for Mum and Sienna. It felt odd leaving the bustle of the capital for the rather sleepy village of my childhood but it was only an hour’s drive from London, so I could easily stay in touch with all my friends there.

      Planning my new venture had given us all something to occupy our minds. It even brought the occasional sparkle back into Mum’s eyes, especially when Sienna took up my offer to join me in the business.

      And so Sister Act Photography was born.

      It felt like a healthy new start.

      We were beginning a new adventure together. Two sisters, as close as siblings could possibly be.

      Blissfully unaware that our happy optimism wasn’t going to last.

      And that a catastrophic blow, which I could never have foreseen happening in a million years, would soon tear our relationship apart …

Two years later …

       ONE

      ‘Ooh, this is cosy!’ says Andrea, simultaneously adjusting her bra for better effect and getting her stiletto stuck in the lawn.

      Her enhanced cleavage has Ron’s eyes out on stalks.

      I have to admit, I’m grateful for the reprieve.

      I’ve been dodging Ron’s slightly moist clutches from the moment I walked into their house and followed them out into the back garden.

      Ron is the original Space Invader.

      Not that he goes around blasting aliens to smithereens in a very 1970s computer game sort of way. He just crowds you, so you spend the entire time (subtly) backing away until you eventually find yourself in the next room.

      Ron and Andrea live in my cul-de-sac. Despite being well past the first flush of youth, they’re known around here as a couple who like to have fun. And their snowdrops are definitely looking perky today.

      I glance around the garden, looking for the best place to get down to it.

      ‘Can we do it against the fence?’ I instruct, aiming as always for ‘friendly but firm’.

      As they obligingly reposition themselves, I compliment Andrea on her dress and laughingly suggest that Ron might be boxing a little above his weight there. (I’m only half-joking about this. And I know Ron won’t take offence. He has an ego the size of a small Baltic state.)

      The point is, couples can be quite shy about throwing off their inhibitions, so a joke can really break the ice.

      I’m trying to relax and just go with it, but it’s not easy when my mind keeps drifting to the backlog of work I need to tackle when I get home.

      ‘It’s like that dress Lucy Mecklenburgh wore at the Baftas,’ says Andrea, breaking away from Ron to do a little twirl. It’s a strapless mini, heavily embellished with large silver and bronze sequins. A little over the top for a bleak, parky February afternoon, but Andrea does have the figure for it.

      I nod, pretending I know what she’s talking about.

      But Andrea is not fooled. (I probably should have looked more impressed.)

      ‘Lucy Mecklenburgh?’ She frowns. ‘You know, the Towie girls? Jess Wright? Ferne McCann? Danielle Armstrong?’

      I look at her, confused, feeling like I’m in an exam I haven’t revised for.

      I shake my head apologetically. ‘Sorry, no. Is Towie an area of London?’

      Even Ron laughs at that. It’s clear I need to get out more.

      The thing is, if it’s not on the nine o’clock news, I tend not to know about it. I force myself to watch the news, just so I know what’s happening outside the narrow confines of my world. But work consumes practically every other waking minute in my life these days – mainly because I really need the money.

      I think of Dominic’s recent, late-night phone calls and a dark cloud descends. His tone is friendly on the surface but the sense of threat is all too evident. I’ve started letting the phone go to answer machine in the evenings, even though I know from experience that he’s not going to give up that easily.

      Suddenly aware Andrea and Ron are staring at me, awaiting instructions, I force a jolly smile. ‘Right, can you put your hand on Ron’s chest? That’s right. Lovely!’

      There’s a peculiar intimacy to these open-air encounters with my clients, Ron and Andrea being a case in point. Peculiar in that generally, we’re not much more than friendly acquaintances.

      I place my hand on Ron’s leg. ‘Could you move slightly sideways so Andrea can … that’s it. Lovely!’

      He gives me a full-on, teeth-whitened smile that’s obviously designed to render me helpless with lust but actually makes me want to giggle. ‘Would you like my hand on her chest?’ he growls suggestively, leaning closer.

      ‘Ha-ha! That won’t be necessary, Ron.’ I leap nimbly away.

      I’ve never been keen on threesomes in the back garden. Not since the time a wasp landed on the bloke’s ear, just as the woman was moving in to nuzzle his neck. The insect did its worst, which resulted in the man being carted off to hospital, suffering mild anaphylactic shock.

      The shock to my bank balance was much worse.

      No engagement photo. No payment.

      I cross the lawn and ask them to stand under the willow tree, which I think will provide a perfect frame. Having snapped a dozen or so, I study them in the camera’s viewfinder.

      Great. Job’s a good ’un. I can now dash home to finish the photo editing I was working on until the early hours. Plus, I need to take delivery of a completed album, which the print company promised would arrive in today’s post, so that I can send it off to the bride as a matter of urgency. Rose, the bride, is lovely, but during the wedding preparations, she had a tendency to get very stressed if everything didn’t go exactly according to plan. She’s apparently organised a party so that everyone can see the photos for the first time – and I really don’t want a hysterical bride shouting down the phone that her family gathering is ruined because she didn’t get the album in time.

      Andrea offers me a coffee and normally, I’d stay to chat out of politeness, but I have too much to do. Also, because it’s a freebie session, I don’t feel quite so bad having to rush off.

      When they asked me to take their wedding photographs, I invited them round and showed them some of my sample albums.

      ‘Ooh,