Thirteen Weddings

by Paige Toon

  ‘Thank you for coming with me,’ I say, staring out of the window in a slight daze.

  ‘Anytime,’ he murmurs, brushing a few loose strands of hair back from my face. His touch is soothing, but it belatedly strikes me that I shouldn’t be encouraging him. Reluctantly, I pull away.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night.’ I find myself saying.

  He doesn’t comment so I turn to look up at him.

  ‘Forget about it,’ he says seriously, staring down at me. ‘No harm done, right?’

  I look back out the window. ‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘No harm done.’

  Chapter 19

  Maybe something is going around, or maybe the events of the weekend have caught up with me, but on Monday morning, I just can’t get out of bed. Whatever I’m feeling, it goes way beyond exhaustion. I feel weary to my bones.

  I call in sick and spend the morning in bed, trying not to over-think everything that happened at the wedding. I miss Australia and the simplicity of my life in Sydney – back when I was a deputy picture editor and not much else. Calling my mum would cure my homesickness. Bridget told me she rang again on Saturday. I know I’ll probably be quite content to stay on the other side of the world if I speak to her, so with a sigh, I pick up the phone and dial her number.

  It’s weird returning to the hustle and bustle of work the next day after three weeks in a different office. Yesterday, Simon presented our redesign ideas to the rest of the team, and from what I hear, they went down well. We’ll start implementing the new look magazine immediately with the longer lead time Features and Style pages this week, and then next week will be our first live News week. We’re using the Nelly Lott shoot as our first Celebrity Houses feature, and I’m already working on setting up the next. I’m back to earth with a bump because Nicky literally throws work at me, so I have no choice but to hit the ground running. It’s probably a good thing. After meeting Zara, I now find myself naturally steering clear of Alex. I catch him giving me odd looks a couple of times, and he even comes over to my desk on Thursday to ask if I want a cup of tea. I lie and tell him I’m detoxing, flashing him a quick smile before getting on with my work. The week is a struggle, and on Friday night I make my excuses and head straight home. I have a wedding the next day, and it’s a big one. From the way Rachel talks about it, the groom’s family own half the county.

  Rachel calls me early the next morning. I’ve never heard her sound so panicked. ‘I can’t. I just can’t. I’ve been throwing up all night. I can’t risk it. Imagine if I passed this on to them? I could throw up all over the bride! Oh, Bronte, you’re going to have to do this on your own!’

  ‘But...’ Oh shit! ‘What about Sally?’ I ask helplessly.

  ‘She’s on holiday.’

  ‘Lina and Tom?’

  ‘No, they passed this wedding on to me because they couldn’t do it. You’ll be fine!’ she insists. ‘Maria will be there for moral support. She’s insured on my car so she’ll drive you both there. Maybe she can get the groom shots. We’ll have to give them a discount, but I don’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. It’s going to be fine,’ I say with a voice that I hope doesn’t give away my underlying hysteria.

  ‘Where’s Rachel?’ Binky, the bride, asks in an incredibly posh accent, when the man – butler? – announces our arrival.

  ‘Didn’t she call?’ I ask nervously, going into the opulent sitting room where the white-silk-robe-clad bride is sitting at a small wooden table by the window and sipping tea from a china teacup.

  ‘The phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning. Mummy probably pulled the plug out of the socket.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Well, I’m afraid Rachel is not very well.’ I try to sound sympathetic. ‘But it’s okay. I can handle the photographs, and Maria will assist me once she’s finished with your hair and make-up.’

  A second door to the room opens and a woman whooshes in. She’s middle-aged and handsome, and carries herself with an air of entitlement. ‘Who are you?’ she asks haughtily.

  ‘I’m Bronte,’ I say warmly, extending my hand. ‘I’m Rachel’s... colleague,’ I decide to say at the last moment. I’m not sure meagre ‘assistant’ will go down too well in this situation.

  ‘Where’s Rachel?’ the woman asks, giving me an unpleasant look as she waggles my fingertips. I guess my whole hand is not worth bothering with.

  ‘I’m afraid she has a sick bug.’ I come right out and say it.

  ‘Urgh.’ The woman snatches her hand away as though I might be a carrier.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, what are we going to do?’ Binky erupts melodramatically, clattering her teacup onto her saucer and standing up.

  ‘Mummy’ rushes to her side. ‘It will be fine, darling. We’ll get through it.’

  ‘Bronte really is an excellent photographer,’ Maria chips in helpfully. ‘Rachel sings her praises to me on a daily basis.’

  I smile at her.

  ‘How many weddings have you done?’ Binky asks me, anxiously pressing her fingers to her face.

  ‘Oh...’ I screw up my nose.

  ‘Too many to count,’ Maria answers for me.

  I think this might be my seventh, although I have been to eight weddings so far this year, including Pete and Sylvie’s. Still, even eight really doesn’t sound like a lot.

  ‘Shall we make a start?’ Maria asks pleasantly.

  ‘Ears, I suppose so,’ Binky’s mother says.

  Ears? Oh, she means ‘yes’. Honestly, this lot would fit right in at Buckingham Palace.

  Binky and Charles, her husband-to-be, are getting married in Ely Cathedral. Stretch limousines take us from Binky’s country manor in Cambridgeshire for a three o’clock start.

  The bride is looking timelessly classic in a long, fishtail gown of white lace. Tiny diamantés and pearls have been sewn into her straps and around her waist and she’s wearing sheer white gloves. Her dark hair has been styled in an intricate, tightly curled topknot and she’s wearing pearl-drop earrings, dark red lipstick and thick black sweeping eyeliner. She looks like a Forties starlet and could have stepped straight off the set of a film.

  It would be almost impossible for me to mess this up. She’s going to look amazing no matter what I do.

  Ely Cathedral, known locally as ‘the ship of the Fens’ because of its prominent shape that towers above the surrounding flat and watery landscape, is a magnificent Norman cathedral which is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The driver tells me a little bit about it on our way to the venue – Binky’s mother shoved me at the front to sit with him. I welcome the brief respite – this morning has been hard work. Maria is in another car, travelling with the five bridesmaids, but as soon as we arrive, she’ll be assisting me. She had to be convinced to step into my shoes. To say she wasn’t keen is a complete and utter understatement. Eventually Rachel’s bribery convinced her. I believe she’s agreed to do the washing up for the next six months and I know she is paying Maria a substantial amount, too. If we can just get through today, everything will be okay.

  I’m using Rachel’s kit bag and Maria has mine. Half of my equipment is Sally’s, anyway, but I plan on investing in a couple of new lenses soon.

  When the cars pull up, I usher Maria inside to capture a few shots of the groom. She has played around with Rachel’s cameras in the past, but I tell her that, if she is in doubt, to use centre point focus and a higher F stop. I’m sure Rachel would rather see well-taken photos than have Maria experiment and end up with no sharp shots. But I’m sure she will be fine.

  I snap away at the bridal party on the neat, manicured lawn with the cream stone cathedral as a backdrop, before hurrying inside. I take a sharp intake of breath. It’s a very long way to the altar.

  Ely Cathedral is vast, cold and beautiful, just like any other church I’ve been in but on a much larger scale. Considering its size, it’s odd that it doesn’t freak me out like the other smaller churches have. I glance up at the painted nave ceiling as I hurry along the a
isle. I plan to capture the details after the service, but I’m unable to resist taking a few shots as I go. The cathedral is open to tourists, but the section up at the front has been roped off. A sea of green and white flowers cascade from the end of every pew.

  I set up my monopod behind the lectern and take a few shots of the groom with the vast expanse of the cathedral behind him. He’s wearing a black morning coat with a light grey vest and a burnt-orange-coloured tie. I keep Rachel’s 24-70 mm on so I can flick between the nearby groom and his bride coming up the aisle. I’m too nervous to risk a lens swap at this late stage. The sound of the organ crashes through the vast space, the bass reverberating through my entire body.

  I shake my head violently and force myself to focus. Here comes the bride.

  It’s a long walk for Binky, her five bridesmaids and two flower girls, but they seem to enjoy every second. I’ve never seen a more coherent-looking wedding party: each of the bridesmaids is wearing a long fishtail gown of burnt orange and they’re all slim and attractive and of roughly the same height. The two flower girls look as sweet as sugar in white lace dresses with matching orange sashes. I wonder if Binky has any ugly friends. Somehow, I doubt it. And if she does, it’s clear the poor girls were never going to make the bridal party. This group appear to have been chosen on the grounds of their own perfection.

  I was looking forward to being up at the front in Rachel’s usual vantage point, but it’s a little disappointing. The cathedral feels too big and I’m not sure the bride and groom or guests feel that connected to the service. There are no tissues being dabbed to eyes, very little emotion on any of the faces. At one point I find myself paying more attention to a group of Japanese tourists photographing the Octagon.

  As soon as the service is over, I run as fast as I can down the side of the pews to catch the bride and groom coming up the aisle towards me. It’s all for show, though – we’re in no rush to leave this beautiful cathedral, so once they reach the end of the roped-off area, they turn and go back to greet their guests.

  I’m almost out of space on the compact flash card I’m currently using so I kneel on the floor and get a tiny black case out of my kit bag, swapping the cards over.

  ‘Got any good ones?’

  I stifle a sigh as I look up at the middle-aged, oversized American tourist staring down at me.

  I can’t resist. ‘Nah, to be honest, I’m having a bit of an off day.’

  ‘What?’ Her face falls and then breaks into a grin. She laughs at me. ‘You Brits are so funny,’ she says, waddling off.

  Actually, I’m Australian.

  I pick up my kit bag and go and find Maria. We shoot dozens of candid camera shots inside the cathedral before taking the guests out onto the lawn for the group shots.

  The group shots are like nothing I’ve ever known. The politics at this wedding surely rival anything ever seen in the Houses of Parliament. Binky’s father is estranged from her mother. Grandmama Beatrice can’t bear to be within a one-mile radius of Cousin Ernest. Aunt Rose and Uncle Bertie haven’t spoken to each other in three years. We’ve been given strict instructions to not even dare try to put any of these guests in the same groups, and we have a list as long as my arm of all the shots that Binky and Charles require.

  I have a pounding headache by the end of the group shots, which I’m sure only alcohol will cure. Thank goodness for Maria helping me. I’d be lost without her.

  ‘Do you need a card?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’m getting a little low, yes,’ she says.

  ‘May as well refill before we go to the reception.’

  I take my kit bag off my shoulder and open it up, looking for the little black case that carries all of the cards. It’s not there. I unzip my kit bag fully and scramble through the contents. It is definitely missing.

  Flu symptoms wash over me in the space of mere seconds: I go hot, I go cold, I feel feverish, sweaty and clammy, and then I feel like I have the onset of Rachel’s sick bug. I’ve done it. My worst nightmare has come true. I’ve lost the compact flash cards. That’s a whole wedding: gone.

  ‘What is it?’ Maria asks as I feel like I’m going to pass out.

  ‘I can’t find the compact flash cards!’ I whisper urgently.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ I look up to see Charles peering down at me.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ I say breezily.

  ‘The cars are waiting,’ he says.

  ‘We’ll be there in a minute,’ Maria tells him as I hurriedly zip up my kit bag.

  ‘Right away, ears?’

  ‘Ears?’ Maria asks.

  ‘Yes, he means yes,’ I hiss at Maria. Where are they? Where the hell are they?

  I dash back into the cathedral and try to retrace my steps. When did I last see them? A sudden brainwave comes to me. ‘Got any good ones?’ Ears! I mean, YES! It was when that woman distracted me! I run back to the top of the roped-off section and look wildly around. No sign of a little black case. I fall to my knees, fearing I might stay there forever if I don’t find these damn cards, but then I see it, the case, underneath a chair. I swear, I almost look up at that beautiful painted nave ceiling and say thank you to God Himself, I am so relieved. I quickly check to make sure the cards are inside and then run out of the cathedral. I give Maria the thumbs-up, beaming at her as though I’ve won the lottery, and climb into the limo, ignoring the scowling faces of all the people I’ve kept waiting. That was close.

  Never has a break been more welcome. I’m a little bit giddy with all of the adrenalin as we eat our cheese and pickle sandwiches. No fillet steak for us paupers.

  ‘Of all the weddings to have to do solo,’ Maria mutters. ‘I’m not even sure Rachel has had one as full-on as this before.’

  ‘What about the family politics?’ I exclaim. ‘What a nightmare that was with the group shots.’

  ‘It’s such a shame people can’t heal things for the sake of their children,’ she says.

  ‘Mmm.’ I tuck into my sandwich with gusto. ‘How are you?’ I ask between mouthfuls. ‘I haven’t seen you much recently.’

  ‘No.’ The corners of her mouth turn down. ‘I’ve just been keeping to myself, chilling out at home with Russ.’

  ‘How are things going with you two?’ I ask.

  She nods, looking down at her plate. ‘Great,’ she says, but her voice cracks. I watch with alarm as her face crumbles and she bursts into tears.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask with horror, clambering to my feet so I can get around to the other side of the table to comfort her.

  ‘Oh God, I wasn’t going to say anything,’ she cries.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone. Rachel and Russ are the only ones who know.’

  ‘I swear, I won’t say a thing.’ I shake my head vehemently.

  She looks at me, tears spilling out of her warm brown eyes. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she says.

  I stare at her in shock. ‘Are you sure?’

  She nods, tearfully. ‘Ten weeks.’

  I pause for a moment, thinking.

  ‘Lake District,’ she mumbles, her face turning bright red.

  I don’t know what to say. We heard them making a baby? ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. Oh, Bronte, my parents will disown me!’ she wails.

  ‘Of course they won’t,’ I snap, slightly impatiently. Who does that, these days?

  ‘You don’t know my parents. They’ve been trying to marry me off for years. They think I’m still a virgin.’

  ‘Well, they’re going to get a little shock, then, that’s all. People have had babies out of wedlock before.’

  She shakes her head, and for the first time I realise how pale she is. ‘You really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.’

  Chapter 20

  The wedding is so awful that I actually can’t wait to tell Alex about it on Monday morning, but to my disappointment, he’s not there.

  ‘Where�
�s Alex?’ I ask Tim, his colleague on the art desk.

  ‘Not in.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was hoping he’d be coming with me to the Celebrity Houses shoot today. We’re photographing the pantomime villainesque star of a reality TV show at his home in Wimbledon. ‘Is he sick?’

  He shrugs. ‘Personal problems.’

  He doesn’t come in the next day, and by Wednesday, I’m quite worried about him. I jump when I return from the kitchen to see him sitting at his desk, staring at his computer.

  ‘Hey!’ I say warmly. ‘Are you okay?’

  He meets my eyes, but his face is washed out. He looks exhausted. ‘Yeah,’ he says quietly, without a hint of a smile. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Have you been sick?’ I can’t help asking, even though I’m not sure he wants to talk about it.

  ‘Er,’ he looks down, moving some proofs across his desk. ‘Yeah. Not that great.’

  He definitely doesn’t want to talk about it. I respect his wishes and go and get on with my work. Nicky is on holiday this week so I’m standing in for her. Helen is much nicer when she’s in the deputy role and we have a freelance assistant doing holiday cover.

  ‘It’s a boy!’ Simon calls out to anyone in the vicinity before I sit down. ‘Joe Strike’s had a baby boy.’ A moment later, people are crowded around his desk, ooh-ing and aah-ing, me included.

  Joseph Strike’s management company has put out a press release together with a single publicity shot of Joseph and his fiancée cradling a beautiful little baby.

  ‘Alex?’ Simon looks over his shoulder, but Alex isn’t with the colleagues crowded around his desk; he’s still sitting behind his computer, staring at his screen in a daze. ‘Alex!’ Simon calls, making him jolt upright. Simon jerks his head, motioning for him to come over, as Hebe’s other workers disperse.

  ‘Bronte, stay here,’ Simon commands as Alex joins us, looking pale-faced and unwell.

  ‘Joe Strike’s had his baby,’ Simon says. ‘I want them on the cover of the new redesign issue,’ he adds determinedly. ‘Lisa?’ he calls to our friendly news editor, who is acting news director in Pete’s honeymooning absence. ‘Let’s have a chat.’ He pushes out his chair and leads the three of us into the meeting room. I grab a notepad on my way past my desk. Simon maps out his plans for the issue while Lisa and I nod and make suggestions. Alex stays oddly quiet.