Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson

looked at me blankly. ‘No. Kim and Kanye,’ she said, enunciating the words very slowly for the benefit of the idiot in the room.

      Light dawned. ‘Oh, Kim Kardashian and – erm—’ I frowned, clicking my fingers. ‘Kanye Thingy!’

      ‘Kayne West, yes.’ She beamed. ‘Everyone’s coming dressed as a celebrity.’

      ‘Gosh. Right.’

      ‘My dress is to die for. Just like Kim’s.’ She clasped her hands over her chest. ‘And Ron’s going to look ever so sexy.’

      She twinkled at Ron, who merely grunted. (I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing or just expressing weary resignation.)

      I nodded as my mind went into boggle overdrive.

      Rapper Ron? Now there was an image to conjure up.

      A disturbing vision flashed into my mind. Ron. In dropped-crotch trackies and dark glasses. Alarming grannies and flexing his ‘swag’ to the max.

      Should make for an interesting album.

      I’d gone out of the room to turn up the heating, at which point Ron oozed into the kitchen after me and started telling me about his new camera and how he’d love me to give him a few pointers. Then he’d ‘charmed’ me into agreeing to take some engagement photos as a little extra freebie.

      Actually, it wasn’t his ‘charm’ that swung it.

      He’d been wafting garlic over me as he waxed lyrical about his camera and I’d flattened myself against the fridge freezer. I’d watched in queasy close-up as a bead of perspiration wobbled at his hairline then broke loose. I’d only said yes so I could slide away before it skidded down his face and landed on me …

      Now, engagement shoot done, Andrea says she’ll fetch me the list of wedding photos they’d like, so I stand awkwardly in their living room as Ron busies himself putting Frank Sinatra on the music system. ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ fills the room. Ron gives me a wolfish grin and, to my alarm, starts swaying in time to the music.

      I plaster on a smile, wondering if he’s expecting me to join in.

      I can’t help being fascinated by his relationship with Andrea. It’s a second marriage for both of them and, on balance, I think Ron’s getting the better end of the deal. Andrea is fun, slim and glossy-haired; a great advert for being fifty-something. But I’m struggling to pinpoint what she sees in Ron. Looking beyond the paunch, ‘disguised’ by a loose shirt, and the dyed brown hair brushed forward to hide the bald patch, you can tell he was probably good-looking in his younger days.

      But Ron’s problem is he still firmly believes he’s the Milk Tray man. His sexual confidence is astounding. (If it could be bottled I’d order a weekly supply immediately.)

      Luckily, Andrea shimmies back in at that moment, her fourteen-year-old daughter in tow.

      ‘Hi, Ron. How’s it hanging?’ Chloe asks, with a sly grin at me. She takes out her chewing gum, frowns at it and pops it back in again. ‘Still determined to marry Mum instead of just living in sin?’

      Andrea gives her a warning look.

      ‘You’re damn right I am,’ declares Ron in a cringy American accent, grabbing Andrea in a showy embrace. ‘Hello, soon-to-be-Mrs-Watson.’ He winks at me. ‘Am I not the luckiest man in the world?’

      Andrea pushes him away but I can tell she’s chuffed.

      Behind them, Chloe crosses her eyes and does a vomiting mime, and I try not to smile.

      ‘Not quite the luckiest, Ron,’ Chloe remarks. She gulps down some juice from the fridge then scrabbles in her patchwork bag and throws a magazine onto the table. It falls open at a double-page spread, featuring a newly engaged celebrity couple. He is chisel-jaw handsome, and the woman’s crimped blonde hair and scarlet, figure-enhancing dress are pure Hollywood glamour.

      ‘Oh, is that Blaze Jorgensen and her man?’ says Andrea, clipping over in her fluffy mules to have a look. She turns to me and says proudly, ‘They’re getting married the same day as us, you know.’ She does an excited little clap.

      I try to look enthused. ‘Lovely! I didn’t even know Blaze Jorgensen was engaged.’

       In fact, who the hell’s Blaze Jorgensen?

      Chloe darts me a puzzled look, as if I’ve suddenly grown thick facial hair and a pair of antlers. ‘But they’re Hollywood royalty,’ she says.

      ‘Are they?’ I shrug cheerfully.

      ‘Er, ye-es! Crikey, what planet exactly do you live on?’

      Andrea laughs. ‘Don’t be so rude, Chloe.’ She purses her lips at her daughter, although I can tell she’s thinking exactly the same.

      Chloe shrugs. ‘But everyone knows she’s marrying Dieter Hanson.’

      ‘I wouldn’t worry too much, Katy,’ soothes Andrea. ‘Dieter Hanson’s a very minor celebrity.’

      The conversation moves to Blaze Jorgensen’s acrimonious divorce from her previous husband, also a very minor celebrity apparently. She seems to specialise in them, possibly to make her own star shine more brightly? Actually, I haven’t got a clue. I’m not into all this celebrity gossip.

      Ron is staring out of the window, letting the girl talk wash over him, and for a second, I feel a pang of sympathy for him. He was chairman of a big software company until he retired last year, used to rubbing shoulders and intellects with a veritable ‘who’s who’ in the industry. The only who’s who in his world now is likely to be who’s marrying who in Hello! magazine.

      ‘Chloe’s going to be an actress,’ says Andrea, stroking her daughter’s hair proudly. ‘Aren’t you, darling?’

      Chloe squirms away. ‘Yeah.’ She glances at me. ‘I’m playing the lead in the school play just now. And Mum and I are going to start a drama group in the community centre. We’ll be putting on our first show at Christmas time.’

      ‘Really? That sounds great fun,’ I say, gathering up my things, hoping she’s not going to ask me to become a member. I’d rather eat my own toenails than stand up on stage in the spotlight being stared at.

      ‘You can join if you like,’ says Chloe.

      I grin at her. ‘Thanks but I think I’d be a bit wooden to be honest. I’m far more comfortable this side of the camera.’

      Andrea gives me the list of wedding photos they’d like. As I leave, she and Chloe are discussing the merits of Cinderella over Snow White and the Seven Dwarves for their Christmas show.

      ‘But where would we get all those little people?’ frets Andrea, clearly going down the heigh-ho, heigh-ho route.

      ‘I hope you’re not being politically incorrect there, Mother,’ comments Chloe.

      ‘What on earth do you mean? You know I’m not into politics. I didn’t even vote at the last election …’

      Back home, the next hour is spent at my computer screen, editing photos and waiting for Rose’s album to arrive. She’s been on the phone three times this week to double-check she’ll have it by tomorrow.

      The pressure is huge. I feel like a sumo wrestler is taking a nap on my head. A little knot of anxiety has been sitting in my stomach since yesterday afternoon.

      Apart from the thought of having to deal with a horrendously upset client if I don’t deliver – and getting paid late, which frankly would be disastrous – I really don’t want Rose to be disappointed. I always feel honoured when a bride trusts me with her special day, and I’ll do anything necessary to make sure I don’t let her down.

      When the doorbell rings, I rush to answer it. It’s