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Four Weddings and a Fiasco
Catherine Ferguson
The ebook bestseller is back with her next riotously funny read! Get your hands on the ONLY book you need this summer.Katy Peacock lives a life as colourful as her name.As a wedding photographer, she spends her days making other people smile as she captures all sorts of fun and capers at celebrations that range from the wacky to the wild.But her own life isn’t looking quite so rosy. Her mum is acting out of character, her menacing ex is back on the scene, and she is torn between two gorgeous men. And that’s before we even get started on the trouble her sister is causing . . .As Katy weathers the ups and downs of the season, she revisits problems from the past, discovers new friendships and finds that four weddings and a fiasco have the power to change her world beyond measure.A funny, feel-good read, perfect for fans of Lucy Diamond and Jenny Colgan.



CATHERINE FERGUSON





Copyright (#u8e9ed7bc-89ce-59da-b6c9-7cad0abacc9b)
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2016
Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008163617
Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780008142230
Version: 2017-11-14

Dedication (#u8e9ed7bc-89ce-59da-b6c9-7cad0abacc9b)
For my lovely Dad, who would have been so proud
Table of Contents
Cover (#u275a0093-5929-5632-9594-a548611d1c4f)
Title Page (#u367b4ed7-f897-586a-a216-611cabc5c0ea)
Copyright (#u71fab599-dd8a-5524-b769-18d8a0f02c15)
Dedication (#u03083628-0261-5862-a73a-9761a31afe76)
Prologue (#u63ca4cbf-d8b0-5b7d-bb7a-d3c32e3ddfd4)
A Spring Wedding (#u8c2f32b1-b88a-5ded-96af-af8eb57b8964)
Chapter One (#uc38acc81-b0ab-518c-b2e8-6b6e14fb1741)
Chapter Two (#u34ae06ff-1a86-5e1b-9470-333916380956)
Chapter Three (#u7fa1d9a4-786d-565c-8458-724317580259)

Chapter Four (#u50600d2f-41fc-5e75-97c3-02a1412d7ab4)

Chapter Five (#u45dfa6d1-ae75-58c3-84d7-d679b5873293)

Chapter Six (#ub6257e36-2627-508a-b05a-aad74d8d01d7)

Chapter Seven (#uff0ad3ed-3029-5b3d-a8f8-3e4926c00c0a)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

A Summer Wedding (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

An Autumn Wedding (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

A Winter Wedding (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Q&a With the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Advert (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#u8e9ed7bc-89ce-59da-b6c9-7cad0abacc9b)
Some moments in life stay with you.
A vivid memory, full of colour and texture, which, years later, still has the power to make the breath catch in your throat thinking of it.
Of course, they’re not always the moments you’d expect to live on in your mind.
I can’t remember a thing about my first kiss, for example. Nor can I recall what I ate for breakfast the morning I turned twenty-one. And as for my first day in the job as a shy, newly qualified photographer at the advertising agency all those years ago? Well, stomach-churning nerves probably crowded out the details of that particular milestone.
But that moment with my sister, laughing and clinging onto each other, jumping up and down like five-year-olds who’ve over-dosed on gummy bears?
That was one of those moments …
I’d called in at our local printer’s in Willows Edge on the way home to collect the glossy leaflets we’d designed for our brand new business. The brown package lay on the passenger seat, one of the leaflets taped to the front, and every time I glanced over and saw the words, Sister Act Photography, printed in that elegant, curly script we’d chosen, a little bubble of excitement rose up in me.
When I arrived home, Sienna’s car was parked outside. My sister – at twenty-one, almost a decade younger than me – was still living at home with Mum. But we’d decided to use my house as our business headquarters, so she had a key.
I let myself in, yelling, ‘I’m back!’ and I was about to run upstairs when Sienna appeared in the hallway.
‘Got a surprise for you,’ she said, her eyes sparkling.
Curious, I followed her through to the living room.
‘To celebrate you starting up the business.’ Stepping to one side, she gestured with a flourish. ‘Ta-dah!’
I could hardly believe my eyes.
There was a piano in my living room.
‘What do you think?’ asked Sienna eagerly, beaming at my amazed delight. ‘You always said you wanted to learn how to play. Well, now you can!’
‘Wow. Thank you.’ I shook my head and laughed. ‘But how could you afford it?’
Sienna was fresh out of college where, like me, she had studied photography. Hardly Miss Moneybags. A lump rose in my throat.
She shrugged. ‘A friend wanted rid of it so I persuaded him to sell it to me for a ridiculously low price. Do you like it?’
‘Like it? I love it!’ I said, attempting ‘Chopsticks’ through slightly blurry eyes and hitting the wrong notes entirely.
‘Bloody hell!’ she groaned. ‘You definitely need lessons.’
I shrugged. ‘Even Chopin had to start somewhere.’
‘Are they the leaflets?’ She pointed at the package under my arm.
Nodding, I opened it up and passed one to her. She stared at it with glee. ‘You know, you really are a chip off the old block.’
We smiled at each other, remembering Dad and his various business ventures, some a great success and a few frankly disastrous.
‘You, too,’ I said, but Sienna shook her head.
‘I’d never have the balls to go it alone. Not without you taking the lead, Big Sis!’
I leaned over her shoulder and we read the leaflet together, poring over it as though we didn’t already know the words off by heart.
‘Oh, my God, Katy. It’s official.’ She turned to me, her eyes shining. ‘We are Sister Act Photography!’
‘Yeah, watch out world, here we come,’ I grinned.
We looked at each other, mad-eyed, and squealed in unison.
I grabbed her arms and yelled, ‘We’re going into business!’ At which point we started jumping up and down, singing raucously, ‘We’re going into business! We’re going into business!’
I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror above the fireplace.
Two sisters.
Two blonde heads.
Sienna’s hair so pale 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 (#u8e9ed7bc-89ce-59da-b6c9-7cad0abacc9b)
‘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, lovely,’ enthused Andrea. Then she said something that sounded like, ‘We’re having a Cayman Cannier wedding.’
‘Oh?’ Cayman Cannier? It sounded swish. And expensive. ‘Is he your wedding planner? This – er – Cayman person?’
Andrea 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 the postman with an album-sized parcel and I can’t decide whether to throw my arms around his neck or weep with relief.
I check through the album, holding my breath anxiously, hoping nothing has gone wrong. But, thankfully, it looks fantastic, so I parcel it up to send off to Rose.
The phone goes just as I’m about to dash out of the door. I hesitate for a moment, then pick it up. It’s a business call – an enquiry from a girl called Bethany, whose friend’s wedding I photographed last year. She’s phoning to ask about my prices and whether I’d be available to shoot her wedding. Being newly engaged, she’s brimming over with excitement about her forthcoming nuptials, even though it’s still almost a year off.
Hopeful of securing a new client, I don’t want to cut her off in mid-stream, so I chat for a while.
Her happiness is infectious. That’s one of the nicest things about my job.
Okay, the brides can sometimes get very stressed as their Big Day looms. And the grooms can be a bit stern about shelling out the cash. But mostly, I’m dealing with people who are at an incredibly joyful stage in their lives. And in spite of my own marked lack of bliss on that front, I still love to talk weddings.
Bethany and her groom are flying to Italy for the ceremony but they’re having a church blessing on their return, and they would like me to take the photographs. We have an excited discussion about the venue in Italy and how marvellously romantic it will be to sip cocktails with her wedding guests on the rooftop terrace as the sun goes down over the Bay of Naples. I can’t help sighing inwardly at the thought of such a glorious setting. I haven’t been abroad on holiday in years. But maybe one day …
I get a shock when I look at my watch.
Bugger! I’ve got precisely eighteen minutes to get to the post office in the village – a five-minute walk away – before it shuts. I’d take the car except it packed up again yesterday and it’s at the garage being fixed. (I’m bracing myself for the damage – of the financial kind.)
I used to have a lovely new Toyota Corolla but having failed – despite my best efforts – to keep up the payments after Sienna left, I was forced to give it back to the lease company. I bought this old Fiesta at a car auction for a few hundred pounds. But sadly, it’s far from reliable.
I apologise to Bethany, grab the album and flee from the house, slamming the door behind me so that the whole house shakes.
And then, just as I’m thinking I’m finally home free, a big white van draws up and a guy shouts through the window, ‘We’re here to collect the piano?’
My heart sinks. For a number of reasons that I don’t particularly want to examine.
‘I thought you said after five?’
He shrugs and climbs out with his mate. ‘Sorry, love, we need to take it now.’
Oh God, all I need now is for the gate to stick …
‘Can you get the gate open?’ I call.
They walk through without a problem and look at me like I’m mad.
Thanking God for small mercies, I dive back in the house, moving bits of furniture I think might impede their progress with my ancient upright piano. Having shown them where it is, I find myself retreating to the kitchen so I don’t have to watch it go. I’m annoyed at myself for feeling so emotional about it. I haven’t even touched the damn thing for well over a year.
I lean back against the sink, arms tightly folded, listening to their huffing and puffing as they heft the piano about, and wincing as it bashes against the doorway on the way through to the hall.
I remember the day it arrived and how my sister was pink-cheeked with excitement, anticipating my reaction. A wave of nausea washes over me. Resolutely, I push the image away.
And then finally, finally, it’s gone and the men are carting it off to the van.
And then, of course, I can’t get out myself with the parcel because the gate is wedged shut. I try to wrench it open but it’s obviously determined to sabotage my day.
Aaargh! Bloody thing! Must get it fixed.
Honestly, the whole bloody house is falling down around my ears.
I’ve got seven minutes before the post office shuts.
I yank the gate one more time, feeling the panic rise.
Oh, to hell with it.
It’s a fairly high fence and as I clamber over, it catches me in an awkward place.
I yelp in outrage.
Then I howl again as, safely over, my right shoulder whacks into someone racing past the house. The impact jolts the album parcel out of my arms and I watch in dismay as it skids along the grimy pavement and lands in the gutter in an oily puddle.
Breathlessly, I turn, wondering what just happened – and find myself staring up into a pair of icy blue eyes beneath drawn- together beetle brows.
The man they belong to is tall and dressed in running gear.
He must have been pounding the pavement at a fair old rate because his chest is still heaving beneath the white Aertex top and his dark hair is slick with perspiration. (But not in a Ron way. This man’s sweat is the impressive, vigorous exercise sort.)
‘Gosh, sorry,’ I blurt out, trying not to look at his lean, muscled legs in the black running shorts.
‘You all right?’ he demands, still breathing strongly, hands on hips, as – somewhat unsettlingly – he stares at my nether regions.
I glance down.
I’m still grasping onto my crotch, casualty of the mean picket fence.
I laugh, a bit hysterically if I’m honest, and fold my arms. ‘Fine, thanks. Just – er – scaling the fence. Always good to keep active.’ I nod at his running shorts, hoping to indicate a common interest.
‘Active?’ His grin is incredulous and I feel myself blush. ‘I think you might need a bit more practice.’ He indicates the fence. ‘Unless you want to go around actively maiming pedestrians.’
He rotates his right foot, a little gingerly, then tries putting his weight on it.
Oh, shit! He’s obviously injured.
‘Did I do that?’ I wince. ‘Sorry.’
He dismisses this with a little shake of his head. Then he bends to retrieve my parcel and I swear I hardly notice his bum and his long, beautifully flexed thighs.
He hands me the brown bundle, which is now a water-logged, soggy mess. ‘Hope it’s nothing too important?’ His expression softens into a smile.
I smile back as a surprising feeling trickles through me, making my eyes widen in a ‘hey, I remember that sensation’ sort of a way. (It’s been a couple of years, at least.)
I’m vaguely aware I should be upset about the album, but what comes out of my mouth is, ‘God, no. It’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I swallow hard, imagining how horrified Rose would be if she could see her album now.
‘Nice piano.’ He nods as the men slam the back doors of the van and climb in, preparing to move off. ‘Are you selling it?’
‘Yes. Do you want to buy it?’
He frowns at me. ‘No.’
I give myself a swift kick in the shins. Metaphorically speaking. Do you want to buy it? Chrissakes, where did that come from? No wonder he’s looking at me like I’m one leg short of a baby grand. Apart from anything else, I’ve already sold the bloody thing. It’s currently bouncing on its merry way to a Mrs Turner in Easthaven.
‘Right,’ I mumble, feeling escape is my best bet. ‘Got to pet to the ghost office.’
‘Sorry?’ His brows knit in further confusion.
‘Post office!’ I yelp. ‘Got to get to the post office.’
Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me?
Cheeks well alight by this time, I raise my hand and march off with the soggy parcel under my arm, painfully aware I’ve left him bemused. Probably wondering what sort of a halfwit climbs over the fence instead of using the gate like most normal people.
It’s only when I’ve turned the corner at the bottom of the street that it occurs to me I can’t possibly send the album off in this wrecked brown paper packaging.
But I can’t just do a U-turn. What if Runner Man is still watching? What if I have to cheerfully explain that I actually hadn’t noticed the shagging dirty marks and the wodge of something revolting that’s completely obscuring the address?
I sidle back to the corner and, feeling like a total fruit loop who’s been allowed out for the day, peer furtively along the street, clutching my damp parcel.
Phew! The coast is clear.
He must have run the other way.
‘I’d use the gate next time,’ says a voice behind me, making me jump.
Runner Man speeds past me with a cool, backwards wave, and slows to cross the road.
He half-turns his head and grins. ‘A fence can get caught in all sorts of tricky places.’

TWO (#u8e9ed7bc-89ce-59da-b6c9-7cad0abacc9b)
It’s almost March.
Every day this week, the residents of Willows Edge have awoken to blue skies and a silvery frost on the trees at the edge of the village green and on the roof of the cricket pavilion.
But as I walk the familiar route to the little row of shops that borders the green, I can see signs that spring is on its way. Little clumps of crocuses, in brilliant shades of violet and egg yolk yellow, are bravely defying the cold snap, and the daffodils are beginning to push through.
As a child growing up in the idyllically pretty village of Willows Edge, I took my surroundings completely for granted.
I wasn’t especially interested in the way the houses in the village centre were ranged so picturesquely around the village green and how the row of stylish and colourfully painted shops lured customers in with their tempting window displays. People came in from neighbouring villages to shop for their weekend croissants and Danish pastries at the family-owned bakery; to sip hot chocolate in the welcoming warmth of Rosa’s coffee shop; eat their ploughman’s at The Bunch of Grapes, just off the main street; and to wander into the pretty church with its ancient bell tower and low porch, set back from the green and shaded by willow trees.
The greengrocer’s on the main street was forced to close when people started shopping at the new express supermarket, but apart from that, the village has managed to retain all its charm.
It wasn’t until I moved away, first to college then to London for work, that I started looking at Willows Edge in a new light and realising how special it actually was.
This afternoon, my destination is the florist’s.
The shop owner, appropriately named Daisy, greets me with a cheerful smile.
Daisy is about my age with long dark hair in a ponytail and her one-year-old, Luke, almost permanently welded to her hip. Like the bakery, the florist’s is a family-owned business and Daisy recently took over the reins.
‘Hi Katy. How’s things? Are you doing Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’
‘I am indeed.’ I smile at her. ‘Three weeks on Saturday. You?’
Daisy has a crack of dawn start on wedding days, driving up to the London flower markets to buy her blooms dewy-fresh.
She nods and hoists Luke higher on her hip. ‘It’s going to be a wedding with a difference by all accounts.’
Luke gurgles and holds out a pudgy fist towards me.
‘It certainly is, Lukie,’ I say in a sing-song voice, bending towards him and tickling his cheek.
He biffs me smartly on the nose. It takes me by surprise and makes my eyes water.
‘Celebrity-style, I hear,’ says Daisy, after gently reprimanding Luke. ‘Are you going in fancy dress?’
I grin. ‘No, thank goodness. I’ll be blending into the background, as usual.’
‘Well, what can I do you for today?’ She places Luke in his bouncy chair and clips him in.
I glance around at the floral displays, breathing in the heady mix of scents and wondering how much a small bunch of freesias will cost. I hate having to skimp when it comes to my best friend’s birthday, but I know Mallory understands. In fact, she’d tell me off if I spent too much on her.
Mallory is similarly strapped for cash and her motto, as regards gifts, is always brisk and practical. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’ (Her thoughts usually originate in charity shops, but that’s fine by me because she’s great at hunting down amazing birthday presents that you’d never, ever guess were second-hand.)
Not only is Mallory a great friend, she also assists me at weddings, gathering folk together so all I have to think about is taking the photos. For a while, after Sienna left, I struggled on alone, trying to manage without an assistant. But then Mallory stepped into the breach, offering to help out when she could. (She runs her own on-line vintage clothing business, so she can generally be fairly flexible.)
Mallory lives at Newington Hall, a huge and draughty cavern of a place belonging to her parents, Roddy and Eleanor Swann. They’re practically never there, so she rattles around it on her own. The house was quite clearly magnificent in its heyday but now the roof leaks into buckets dotted around the place and many of the window frames are sadly rotting.
Taking my freesias, I get in the car and set off to see the birthday girl.
Even though my temperamental little Fiesta has been fixed, I find I’m still tensing up as I drive along, waiting for the dreaded knocking sound that led me to the garage in the first place. But so far, so good …
Newington Hall is situated five miles outside the village of Willows Edge, and as I turn in and bump along the potholed driveway, I can’t help wondering how on earth Gareth, the gardener, manages to keep the fairly substantial grounds from running completely wild. A much younger man would struggle, never mind someone in his fifties, however fit and strong he might be.
I park up and get out of the car, walking round to the back entrance, which everyone uses, and bracing myself for the challenge of gaining entry. The doorbell there doesn’t actually work, which means that unless Mallory is in the kitchen, or at least in one of the ground-floor rooms, you haven’t much chance of being heard. Unless you graze your knuckles knocking and yell ‘hello-o-o!’ through the letter box. Which is what I do.
Today, the door opens almost immediately and Mallory appears.
‘No need to shout, darling,’ she laughs, tossing back her long, strawberry blonde hair and wiping her hands down the front of her flower-sprigged dress.
I grin and open my mouth to say, ‘Well, actually, I do.’ But my words are drowned out by a vast sucking sound coming from somewhere in the chilly depths of the house. The noise is getting louder and angrier by the second.
‘Blast! The coffee.’ Mallory rushes off to rescue the ancient stove-top beast, and I follow her down the flagstoned corridor into the huge kitchen.
Despite the enormously high ceiling, it’s cosy in here after the biting March wind outside. Actually, it’s the only warm room in the house. The rest of it is like a massive, twelve-bedroom fridge that instantly freezes your breath and gives you ice-encrusted eyebrows. Okay, I exaggerate slightly – I think there might be eight bedrooms –- but not much, believe me.
‘Crikey. Happy birthday to you.’ I gaze at the banks of lilies arranged in family heirloom vases on various ancient dressers and work surfaces. And the extravagant display of exotic blooms in the centre of the weather-beaten wooden table that’s had one shortened leg propped up on a pile of books for as long as I’ve been coming here.
Mallory gives a bark of laughter. ‘I know, darling. You’d quite think someone had died.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘All from Rupert?’
She smiles. Her floaty, floral-sprigged dress and burnished hair make her look like a heroine from a Barbara Cartland romance. ‘What are brand new fiancés for if not to spoil a person?’
She got engaged to Rupert just after New Year and I’ll be photographing their wedding in December.
I’m really happy for her, although I can’t help thinking that it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. But she seems certain Rupert is the one for her, and I’m the last person who should be judging people’s compatibility in the romance stakes. My own track record hasn’t exactly been brilliant.
I hand over my birthday card and gift.
‘God, I’m thirty-four,’ Mallory groans.
Then she smiles and sniffs the freesias. ‘Thank you. They’re perfect!’
‘You’re welcome, Granny.’ I grin.
‘Oh, ha flipping ha! You’ll be just as ancient as me in six months’ time, darling.’
Mallory is pretty much the same age as me but she turns older first. Not that I’d ever point it out, of course. Well, not often. (Rub it in? Me? Never!)
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘Go on, then. But I can’t stay long.’
‘Meeting with Miss Polar Ice Cap?’
I giggle. ‘No, that’s tomorrow’s delight.’
She frowns in sympathy and reaches for the ancient stove-top coffee pot.
‘Cressida is a perfectly nice client,’ I say, grinning. ‘Not terribly warm or friendly, I grant you. But she can’t help being a complete control freak who will actually kill herself if the raisins in the wedding cake aren’t all exactly the same shade of chocolate brown.’
Mallory pours coffee into mismatched floral china cups. ‘You do realise you took your life in your hands when you agreed to do her photos?’
I sink down gloomily at the table. ‘True. If they’re not perfect, she’ll probably sue me for ruining her day.’
‘So why are we doing it?’
‘Silly question. I can’t afford not to.’
‘I know the feeling. Thank God I met Rupert, that’s all I can say.’
I flash her a dubious look and she grins. ‘Joke, darling.’
I laugh, thinking she’s probably only half joking. Mallory has a decidedly practical attitude to relationships that I actually rather admire. She thinks romance is highly overrated.
She puts a cup and saucer in front of me then sits down, lifting her dainty feet in ballet pumps onto a chair and flicking back her hair.
‘Come December, money is the very last thing you’ll have to worry about,’ I murmur.
She frowns. ‘His family aren’t that rich, you know. I mean, obviously they’re a lot more affluent than my folks, but then Daddy probably qualifies as the poorest baronet in the history of the aristocracy.’
Two hundred years ago, the Swanns were wealthy landowners, but a succession of heirs with a liking for booze, gambling and women chipped away at the money – and now, Mallory’s parents are probably even poorer than the mice in their basement.
Newington Hall swallows cash as eagerly as kids breaking out their chocolate eggs on Easter Sunday.
They’re always having to auction off paintings to cover the cost of repairs to the house.
I don’t know why they don’t just sell it.
But Mallory says it’s all to do with pride. Her father couldn’t forgive himself if he failed to hold on to the family seat for future generations.
I glance sideways at Mallory. ‘Speaking of your dad … have you heard from them?’
She barks out a laugh. ‘What do you think, darling? I’m lucky if they remember to phone me every alternate Christmas. I’ve given up expecting a birthday miracle.’ She takes a sip of coffee, her eyes clouding over, and we’re silent for a moment.
I really feel for her. I can’t imagine my lovely mum ever forgetting to include me in her Christmas plans. It would be unthinkable.
Mallory flicks a glance at me. ‘On the subject of wealth …’ She hesitates. ‘Did you manage to sell the piano?’
My heart lurches. ‘Yes. Some men came and carted it off.’ I glance down at the table. ‘Should have got rid of it a long time ago.’
There’s a pregnant silence as I continue to stare at the table, seeing its scratched surface through a blur.
Like Mum, Mallory knows that certain subjects are out of bounds and that this is one of them. I’m grateful for her silence.
And in the same vein, I know not to probe too much about her parents.
Roddy and Eleanor Swann are obsessed with travelling the world. It was what drew them together in the first place and the passion has never faded. Mallory, their only child, comes a pretty poor second to their treks in the foothills of the Himalayas and their voyages into the jungles of Borneo.
Her father, a botanist, is currently writing a book on the lesser-spotted haggis or something, and has decamped with Mallory’s mother to their converted bothy in the Highlands of Scotland. They’re tough, I’ll say that for them. It must be pretty chilly up there at this time of year.
Mallory once told me that her middle name, Beatrice, means ‘traveller’. She flicked her eyes to the ceiling and snorted. ‘Isn’t it marvellous? They name me “traveller”, then they bugger off on exotic trips and leave me behind. You can’t fault their brilliant sense of irony, though, can you?’
How these hardy adventurers made Mallory is a bit of a mystery. She’s very much a townie. Wouldn’t know what a ridge tent was if it climbed into bed with her and made her a sausage sandwich. The most pioneering she ever gets, at her own admission, is trekking along Willows Edge main street, searching out bargains in the two upmarket charity shops.
She trained in fashion and design after leaving school, and it was always her dream to have a shop selling vintage shoes and clothing. But the reality turned out to be a Saturday job in a vintage boutique, which eventually became a full-time career in retail.
Then, three years ago, Mallory finally took the plunge and – having saved a little money – set up her vintage clothing shop. On-line.
She works really hard, sourcing items from all over, and makes a modest income. But her dream is that one day, ‘Vintage Va-Va-Voom’ will hit the big time and become a household name.
The fact that she works for herself now, means she’s usually free to help me out at weddings, which is great. I can’t afford to pay her much but she enjoys the work and, as she keeps telling me, every little helps.
Which reminds me …
‘Are you still okay to help me at Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’ She laughs. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Good old Kim and Kanye. What a hoot! Are you sure we can’t dress up as the 118 boys? We’d just need curly black wigs and shorts.’
‘No! We’re there to do a job. Don’t you dare!’
She snorts. ‘Spoilsport.’
‘We have to look professional.’
She grins. ‘I know. But I do think it’s time you stopped working quite so hard. You never have any juicy tales for me these days.’
‘Aha!’ I smile triumphantly. ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. As far as the gossip goes, anyway.’
She shuffles her chair closer. ‘Ooh! I’m all ears, darling.’
So I tell her about my close and rather bruising encounter with Runner Man. She listens with avid interest. Any mention of a man – even those who are ancient or infirm or living several continents away – and Mallory is alert to the cheering possibility that I might start having sex soon. (She has a very practical, down-to-earth view of sex, believing that for a balanced mind, it’s almost a medical necessity. I don’t think she quite understands that I don’t even think about stuff like that unless there’s someone fanciable right there in front of me.)
‘And I’ve just remembered,’ I say forlornly, as my humiliating tale draws to an end. ‘I made him limp. I actually made him limp.’
I’ve been trying hard not to think about my encounter with Runner Man – without much success, it has to be said. It was all so embarrassing. Clambering over the fence, getting my private parts wedged, talking a load of drivel then heading off to post a pile of shite. I mean, it doesn’t get any worse in the humiliation stakes.
I failed to make the post office before it closed. Obviously. And in order not to disappoint my bride, I had to shell out a small fortune – and go even deeper in debt – to have the album couriered all the way to Essex.
My stupidity is gnawing away at me.
‘Oh, never mind, darling. It could have been worse,’ muses Mallory.
I stare at her questioningly and she gives a light shrug. ‘You might have damaged a lot more than his foot, if you know what I mean. I’d be thankful for small mercies if I were you.’
I bark out a laugh. ‘Well, that might possibly be relevant if I actually had designs on the man. But obviously, I don’t.’ My cheeks catch fire as I’m saying this. Probably because of Mallory’s piercing look.
‘Really? Why on earth not?’ she asks. ‘He sounds simply scrummy to me. And it’s been an awfully long time since you – ahem – hoisted the flagpole, darling, correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Well, that’s as may be, but I’m not like you, remember? I can’t just shag a man for practical purposes then forget all about him.’
‘I resent that,’ says Mallory indignantly. But the laughter in her pale grey eyes tells a different story.
A voice calls from upstairs. ‘Where’s my darling birthday girl?’
‘In the kitchen, Rupie.’
A minute later, the door bursts open and ‘Rupie’ makes his entrance.
It’s a fairly impressive sight.
Rupert has the look of an Italian stallion – all sleek black hair, Greek-god body and permatan – although he hails from a small village in Sussex.
He stops in the doorway, smiling broadly and holding out his arms. ‘Katy! Baby! Great to see you.’
I get up for a hug. He smells of ozone, like a day at the seaside.
Rupert’s always like this – rather theatrical, fond of extravagant gestures, right at home as the life and soul of every party. But none of it is forced, for effect. It’s just the way he is, and everyone warms to him. His pleasure at seeing me is, I know, absolutely genuine.
‘The shirt looks good,’ says Mallory, giving him a thumbs up.
I nod, enthusiastically, and he looks pleased. The shirt’s pretty colourful, patterned all over with exotic birds. It suits him perfectly.
He comes into the room and spins round so we can admire the full effect. Then he gyrates his way over to the coffee pot, singing, ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts.’ His tight butt in the pale, paint-spattered jeans moves perfectly in sync.
Rupert is an artist. He paints watercolours of hills that all look the same to me, although I’m probably doing him a grave injustice. My art appreciation skills are dubious, to say the least. For instance, I’ve always thought the Mona Lisa was a little bit boring. She’s famous for looking mysterious and ‘enigmatic’. But frankly, the only mystery to me is why on earth she didn’t get some body into that lank hair before she sat for the great Leonardo. (I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?)
Anyway, enough said. I wouldn’t know a masterpiece if it fell from outer space and landed on my head. For all I know, Rupert’s paintings could be truly magnificent.
His artistic nature has certainly come to the fore with the wedding plans. He’s created this beautiful ‘mood board’ of colours and fabrics. I’ve never known a groom be so interested in the finer details and Mallory couldn’t be happier – practically all that’s left for her to do is choose the dress.
I can’t believe I’ll be photographing their wedding in December. It’s all happened so fast.
It was his mum, Serafina, who first introduced Mallory to Rupert.
Mallory and Serafina met several years ago, just after Mallory had set up Vintage Va-Va-Voom. There had been a mix-up with an order and as the customer lived locally, Mallory had offered to jump in her car and deliver the dress in person. Apart from anything else, she was curious to meet the person who’d fallen in love with the lilac jacquard silk fitted evening gown, elegant enough to grace the red carpet at an Oscars ceremony.
It turned out to be Serafina Lorenzo, whose striking dark looks and willowy frame complemented the dress perfectly. By the time she’d offered Mallory a martini and tried on the gown – declaring it perfect for her charity midsummer ball – the two had bonded over the wonders of Chanel and YSL, and were on their way to being firm friends. Their families moved in the same circles, so they even had acquaintances in common. (Although while the Lorenzos holidayed on their private island in the Caribbean, the financially stretched Swanns could barely afford a week in Bournemouth.)
It was almost a year later – last summer, in fact – that Mallory finally met Rupert. She’d known of Rupert, of course, through Serafina. His mother always spoke so proudly of her artist son, who she’d given birth to at the relatively young age of nineteen, after conceiving on honeymoon. She and Rupert’s father enjoyed a strong marriage and always planned to have a large family. But after their daughter, Arabella, was born, there were no more children. So Rupert was their only son. (And spoilt rotten, according to Mallory.)
Rupert, who’s seven years younger than Mallory, was entranced by her style and her laid-back attitude to life, and they quickly became a couple, much to the delighted approval of his mum and sister.
In a relatively short space of time, Mallory has almost become one of the family. She meets Serafina and Arabella for coffee, and they’ve treated her to a few totally indulgent spa weekends, from which Mallory always returns happy and glowing. I’m really pleased for her. I can’t help thinking the lustre to her complexion is less to do with creams and potions, and far more a result of feeling she belongs.
After a lifetime of playing second fiddle to her own parents’ wanderlust, I can totally understand this. I just sometimes wonder if maybe the lure of being part of a ‘proper family’ isn’t colouring her judgement slightly. But she’s clearly very happy with her new fiancé, so I should probably stop worrying …
Rupert gives Mallory a lingering kiss, while I try not to look, and he teasingly refuses to tell her where he’s taking her for her birthday dinner.
They’re so sweet together, I’d probably throw up if she wasn’t my best friend.
‘Right. Toodle-oo, ladies!’ Rupert blows kisses at both of us and disappears off to check out some art studio in a local crafts complex he’s thinking of renting. And Mallory and I kick off our shoes and settle in for a gossip.
It’s getting dark by the time I leave.
On the drive home, I reflect on how amazing it is that Mallory and I met only a little over eighteen months ago. I honestly feel like I’ve known her for years.
We met when I was shooting a wedding at the Greshingham, a five-star country house hotel just a few miles from Willows Edge.
It was a bad time for me.
Sienna had buggered off to Paris a few months earlier, leaving me completely in the lurch. I was doing my best to keep the business going on my own while trying to cope with the aftermath of our traumatic fallout.
I knew I would have to employ someone to help me at the weddings, but my head was all over the place. I was finding it hard enough to get through the days, never mind trying to focus on finding an assistant I knew I could trust.
The wedding that day at the Greshingham was proving a challenge, to say the least. The wedding party were in fine spirits – quite literally. (The groom’s Uncle Bob was breathing a particularly fine whisky spirit all over me from pretty much the word go, joking around in a harmless but distracting way.)
Trying to corral a group of ‘well-refreshed’ guests onto the lawn for the photos, I began to feel a new appreciation for sheepdogs. I’d get ninety per cent of them there, then a small group would break away and start wandering back to the bar. My voice was hoarse from cajoling.
At one point, I thought grimly: Come back, Sienna, all is forgiven!
Except it wasn’t, of course.
And it never would be.
I was close to tears by the time the outdoor photos were done and I’d scuttled into a dark corner of the bar to take stock.
I sat there, trying to check down my list, terrified I might have missed something vital.
But there was a woman with a loud, plummy voice on the next table who kept barging into my thoughts, messing everything up. She was all, ‘Oh, totally, darling!’ and ‘I say, how absolutely awful for you!’
It seemed I couldn’t get peace anywhere.
Then, the crowning glory, Uncle Bob found my hiding place and plonked himself and his whisky breath down right beside me.
I had an urge to run off screaming.
But I took a deep breath and did my best to be polite and smile, turning down his repeated offers of a drink on the grounds that I was working.
At some point, I made accidental eye contact with Plummy Voice over Uncle Bob’s shoulder. She pointed at my half-cut companion and made a revolted expression.
Bob tried to swing round to see who I was grinning at and nearly fell off his chair.
I bashed my forehead to mime how fed up I was and she burst out laughing then turned to murmur something to the woman beside her.
Bob, meanwhile, had shuffled his chair so close, he was practically sitting on my knee.
‘Show me how it works,’ he slurred, making a stab at picking up my camera and knocking over his whisky glass instead.
As he apologised earnestly and attempted to mop my list with his sleeve, someone said, ‘I say, darling, you didn’t tell me you were the official photographer at this shindig!’
I glanced up in surprise. Plummy Voice was smiling down at me.
‘Could I have a word?’ she asked cheerfully.
I blinked. ‘Er … yes, of course.’
Giving Uncle Bob the benefit of her smile, she leaned down and pressed his shoulder, murmuring sweetly, ‘So sorry to drag her away from you but it’s really very important. I’m fresh out of tampons, you see.’
Even Uncle Bob, in his alcohol-soaked haze, knew when it was time to make a sharpish exit.
Plummy Voice sat down and we watched him stagger off, narrowly missing cannoning into a large-breasted woman in an even larger wedding hat.
My rescuer’s name was Mallory and I felt bad about my earlier grumpiness. I thanked her for frightening Bob away and giggled when she said the tampon emergency was just a ruse. We hit it off immediately, swapping stories about men who wouldn’t take no for an answer and she told me about the ‘frightful chap’ she’d been unable to escape in a bar one time, until she mentioned she had to get back to her five children who were at home, being baby-sat by her lesbian lover.
‘Worked like a charm. He was orf like a shot,’ she grinned, flicking back her amazing, strawberry blonde hair.
Mallory was proof to me that you should never judge someone by their voice. Because while she might sound posher than the Queen, she was actually far more Sarah Millican by nature, with her earthy humour and slightly irreverent take on life.
I warmed to her no-nonsense approach to life and her ability to make a joke out of everything, even the bad stuff. We swapped business cards and I dashed off for the next round of photos, feeling so much more cheerful and energised than before.
I wasn’t expecting her to phone, but she did, a few days later.
She said if I needed an assistant, she was available. ‘No pressure, darling. Obviously. But you’d be a first class chump to turn me down.’
I had a feeling she was probably right. So we arranged to meet at Rosa’s coffee shop to discuss it, and we haven’t stopped talking since.
Mallory likes to try and sort out my life.
Sometimes I listen, sometimes I just laugh. She doesn’t seem to mind either way.
And she’s a great wedding assistant …

THREE (#u8e9ed7bc-89ce-59da-b6c9-7cad0abacc9b)
When I arrive home and slide my key into the lock, I hear the muffled sound of the phone ringing.
My heart lurches. Few people call me on the landline these days.
Dominic does, though.
It must be him.
For a second, I’m caught in limbo, heart slamming against my ribs.
I could just let it ring. Hurry back to the car and drive round to the safety of Mallory’s house …
But if I run away, I’ll just be playing into the hands of a bully.
Taking a breath, I push the door open.
The jolly ringtone is deafeningly loud now, slicing through the darkness.
I close the door softly behind me and stand in the shadows of the hallway, holding my breath, wating for it to stop.
Perhaps this time he will hang up without leaving one of his messages.
‘Katy, love? Are you there?’
For a stunned second, I can’t take it in.
Then I run through to the living room and dive on the phone.
‘Mum? Is that you?’
She laughs. ‘Of course it’s me. Sorry, were you busy, love?’
‘No. No.’ Blissful relief courses through me, and a laugh bursts out. ‘It’s just so great to hear your voice.’
There’s a brief silence.
‘But I only saw you last week,’ she murmurs. ‘Are you all right, Katy?’
I flop down on the sofa. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Honestly. Everything’s great.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her sharpness takes me by surprise. I thought I’d been doing a pretty good job of shielding her from the mess that is currently my life.
‘It’s just you looked so exhausted when you were over last Tuesday,’ she says. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m worried about you. Did you know you nearly nodded off when I was telling you about Venus’s demonic entity fright.’
I lean my head back, aware of my heart rate gradually subsiding. ‘Venus? Demonic entity fright?’ It does ring a vague bell from last time. I think I just switched off, it was so preposterous.
‘Yes, Venus. You know. That nice but slightly batty woman who’s started coming to yoga?’
I nod, still feeling weirdly spacey.
Ah yes, the yoga class.
It’s been a bit of a turning point for Mum.
In the time since Dad died – coming up for three years now – she’s really been through the mill. For a long time, she refused to even consider selling the family home, even though it was clear she couldn’t go on paying the huge mortgage herself. Then about a year ago, I took her for a drive to Clandon House, an old country estate that had been modernised into apartments. And incredibly, she loved it.
Since she rented her two-bed flat there and moved in last March, she’s actually started to get back some of her joy in life, which is a huge relief for me.
Two of her new neighbours, Grace and Annabeth, have become good friends, which seems to have really perked her up. And they’ve introduced her to yoga, which she loves.
Last Tuesday, when I was at Mum’s for afternoon tea, they were all talking about someone called Venus. They kept referring to her as ‘the new girl in class’, which made me smile, bearing in mind their average age must be about sixty.
‘Katy? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Sorry, Mum. Go on.’
‘Forgotten what I was saying now.’
‘Venus. And her – um – demonic entity experience?’
‘Ah yes. Nice woman but decidedly odd. Claimed she was just minding her own business, shopping for kitchen roll and kippers, when this huge force entered her and she felt she was being possessed by Satan. I mean, really. Have you ever!’
‘It does sound a bit unlikely, Mum.’
‘You’re not wrong there, love. But anyway, when I was telling you about it on Tuesday there, you were actually drifting off. You know, you really are working much too hard these days.’
‘Mum, when it’s your own business, you have to work all the hours.’
Not that she needs reminding of this. She was, after all, married for thirty-six years to a serial entrepreneur. Dad, bless him, was forever pursuing one business idea or another, with varying degrees of success.
Mum sighs. ‘I know, love. But it must be so difficult having to do absolutely everything yourself. Now that your sister …’
My grip on the phone tightens.
Mum trails off, knowing she’s straying into forbidden territory.
‘You’re very precious to me, Katy.’ There’s a break in her voice. And her unspoken subtext hangs in the air: Especially now that your sister is living so far away.
Tears prick my eyes and, for once, I don’t dash them away.
It’s so hard for her, I know. She must miss Sienna terribly, and the last thing I want is her worrying about me, too.
Mum thinks I work silly hours because it’s my business and I love the work, which is partly true. But she knows nothing about the stomach-churning fear that dominates my life; the debts that hang over me and routinely keep me from sleeping properly at night; and why working seven days a week is something I just have to do, because then at least I’m in with a chance of keeping my head above water. A chance to avoid the thing I most dread – losing the business and having my little house repossessed.
I open my mouth to try and reassure her again that I’m perfectly all right, but nothing comes out.
There are times in life when nothing but a hug from your mum will do.
And for a second, I find myself wishing desperately that Mum were here. Sitting on the sofa next to me, absently playing with the lump of rose quartz on the chain round her neck and delving in her homemade raffia bag for the little bottle of foul-smelling anti-stress tincture that Annabeth gave her to ‘balance her system’. I don’t know if she uses it, but it goes everywhere with her. (It smells like something died in her handbag, which makes her slightly embarrassing to go shopping with.)
I stand up, as Mum talks on, and walk through to the small conservatory, which is bathed in an eerie semi-light from the full moon.
I know it’s a mark of how concerned she is that she bravely brought up a forbidden subject and risked me hanging up on her. I just wish she could understand that the days of Sienna and I being as close as sisters could be have gone forever.
I do not need Sienna’s help. We may have worked together for the first six months, but I’ve managed to keep the business afloat all by myself since Sienna left, almost two years ago.
And as far as I’m concerned, the day she left for Paris, leaving me with an avalanche of debts, was the day she relinquished all rights to being my cherished baby sister. Let alone my business partner.
I will do this alone.
Without help from anyone.
I know that Mum has weekly phone conversations with my sister and, at times, I can tell she’s itching for me to ask her how Sienna’s getting on. But I don’t because I’m really not interested.
After Mum says her goodbyes, I stand there in the conservatory, staring out into the inky blackness, clutching the handset to my chest. I feel silly now for having reacted so violently to the ring of the phone.
Angry tears prick my eyes.
I will not live in fear of Dominic!
An owl hoots and my heart leaps into my mouth.
Suddenly the shape of the hawthorn tree, in my little patch of back garden, looks ghostly and sinister – a black, looming figure with clutching hands reaching out towards me …
I close the door on the darkness beyond the windows. Then I go round the rest of the house, swishing curtains shut and turning on lights until the place could seriously outshine Blackpool Illuminations.
But only once I’ve unplugged the phone and checked that the doors are locked can I finally breathe easily.
Barricading myself in makes me feel safer.
But as I kick off my shoes and start chopping salad for supper, the spectre of Dominic and his threats still hangs over me.
Turning a key in a lock is not going to banish him from my life. If only it were that simple …
Next morning, I’ve got my meeting with Miss Polar Ice Cap, aka Cressida and her groom-to-be, Tom.
They’re getting married in June.
So far, I’ve only spoken to Cressida on the phone. But today I’m meeting them in person to get to know them and chat about the wedding arrangements.
Cressida made it clear that strict schedules – and people being on time – were a top priority of hers. Which means spotting the white meter van out in the street just as I’m about to leave for our meeting fills me with double panic.
I can’t possibly leave now and risk having my meters read, so that means I’ll be late for Cressida.
Feeling sick, I scamper up the stairs before meter man has a chance to spy me through the glass in the front door. Then I rush into the bathroom and peer cautiously out through the frosted glass.
Evading meter readings is a vital part of my life. It’s not that I don’t pay my gas and electricity bills. Of course I do. But the thing is, my direct debit amount has been way too low ever since I moved here.
Before I arrived, there was an oldish lady living here who obviously didn’t use much power because the estimated monthly bill was very small. And some glitch in the system meant I carried on paying this tiny amount each month, while thanking my lucky stars for old Mrs Jennings and her frugal nature.
I always knew they’d catch up with me eventually but I sort of kept brushing the thought away. (I was having to cope with other, more pressing demands for money.)
And then they did. Catch up with me. A couple of months ago, a stern official letter arrived.
I read it in the car before I set off for an appointment with one of my brides. I was running late, as usual, but seeing those stark words requesting up-to-date meter readings as a matter of urgency sent a bolt of cold fear through me. I thought I was going to be sick. I had to put my head back and do the breathing exercise Mum’s friend, Annabeth, taught me until I felt well enough to drive. I’ve been on high alert ever since, dreading a second letter demanding the readings.
Now, I take another peek out of the bathroom window. The white van’s gone. Phew! I dive downstairs, grimace at my reflection in the hall mirror to check for lipstick on teeth, grab my briefcase, coat and keys and hare out to the car.
Of course, all that furtive hiding malarkey has made me late.
I turn on the engine and roar off, managing – by some miracle and obliging traffic lights – to screech to a halt outside Cressida and Tom’s only two minutes late.
She answers the door before I ring the bell, and I get the distinct impression she’s been pacing and checking out of the window since first thing.
‘Ah, you found us!’ she exclaims with a tight smile and a pointed glance at her watch.
Cressida is tall and very thin. She’s wearing a dark grey tracksuit and her brown hair is cut in an angular bob that makes her rather broad face seem even more so.
She ushers me through to the living room.
‘Do sit down, Miss Peacock. Coffee?’
‘Er, yes please.’
She nods and disappears, and I hear her calling sternly up the stairs. ‘Tom? The wedding photographer is here.’
I glance around the room. Everything is immaculate. Just like its owner. I open my briefcase and get out my sample wedding albums and my notebook and pen.
Minutes later, I hear a tray clanking in the hall. ‘Tom? Could you come down?’ An icy pause. ‘Now please?’
I wince slightly, feeling vaguely sorry for the groom-to-be. It’s fairly clear who wears the trousers here. Already, I’m picturing how she’ll be on her wedding morning.
Normally a nice chilled glass of champagne is enough to calm everyone down. For Cressida, I’m thinking horse tranquilliser.
Tom, who was apparently upstairs working, proves to be an amiable Geordie with a wicked sense of humour, the complete opposite of his fiancée.
We drink our coffee as Cressida perches on the edge of her seat and goes on and on about the absolute ‘deal-breaker’ of having people with their eyes closed in photos. ‘So I’m thinking at least fifteen takes of every group shot, just to be on the safe side,’ she concludes.
I nod reassuringly at them both. Lots of brides are anxious that I might not take enough shots, and I get that. I’d probably feel exactly the same if it was my wedding. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have plenty of choice. I always take multiple shots of everything, from different angles and distances, so that we end up with as near perfect a photo as we can possibly get.’
She eyes me sternly. ‘Yes, but near perfect isn’t quite good enough, is it?’
Tom, who’s been lying back in his seat, taking it all in with a look of mild amusement, obviously catches my panic. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much, pet. I get that every night.’
Cressida glares at him like a teacher warning a naughty pupil.
Totally unfazed, her husband-to-be leans forward, takes her hand and gently kisses it with a smile that’s full of affection. ‘I’m joking, like.’
Cressida bats him away but I can tell she’s pleased.
Not that she’s ready to let it go. ‘But I’m right, aren’t I, Tom?’ she snaps. ‘We expect the best. The very best.’
‘Eeh, calm yer tits, pet!’ He smiles and rolls his eyes at me. ‘It’ll be all right on the night. I’m sure our Miss Peacock here will do a marvellous job.’
I leave an hour later, feeling as if I’ve sat a theory exam and only just scraped a pass mark.
And I’ve still got the practical to go …

FOUR (#ulink_27603830-8f30-5090-9e6b-f1d37d0c867c)
A flurry of weddings over the next few weeks keeps me even busier than usual – so much so that I start to feel I’m neglecting Mum.
But at last, a few days before Ron and Andrea’s wedding extravaganza, I finally grab an hour or two to pay her a visit.
Driving south out of Willows Edge, after a few miles the road climbs steeply and that’s where you get the best view of Clandon House. It was a familiar landmark in my childhood. When Dad was driving us back from days out, I always looked out for it as we crested the hill because that meant we were nearly home.
It seems slightly surreal – but somehow perfectly natural – that Mum should now be living there.
It’s a lovely country house, built in the nineteenth century and developed ten years ago into eight apartments. The adjacent stable block has also been renovated into flats and Mum rents a bijou, two-bed place. I had grave reservations when she first decided she wanted to move there. The rent would take a large chunk out of her modest income and now that Dad was no longer here, I wanted her to have the cash to be able to socialise. Make new friends. Not be stuck in admittedly lovely surroundings but without the finance to enjoy her life.
I agreed to take her for a tour, hoping she’d change her mind.
But in the end, the big smile on her face – as she happily planned where her furniture would go and we took an amble around the leafy grounds – actually changed my mind.
I hadn’t seen my mum smile like that in two years – not since Dad died.
Now, a year later, I’m heartily thankful for Clandon House.
I didn’t even need to worry about a social life for Mum. The country estate is popular with retired people – and in the year she’s been here, Mum’s been made to feel right at home, especially by Grace and Annabeth who both have apartments in the same block.
Driving through the main gateway, I catch sight of Gareth and wave. He’s removing an overhanging branch from a tree near the entrance and I wind down my window, noticing he’s had his dark blonde hair cropped shorter than usual. It suits his tanned complexion.
Gareth and his small team take care of the gardens here at Clandon House, as well as at Mallory’s Newington Hall.
‘Is the lady of the manor at home today?’ I ask, smiling at him through the car window.
He wipes his forehead with the back of a huge, well-used gardening glove and grins at me. ‘She is, as a matter of fact. But I’d try over there first.’ He indicates the woodland area to the right of the main hall.
‘Was she in her tracksuit?’
He nods. ‘She disappeared into the trees with a couple of the other ladies about twenty minutes ago.’
‘Thanks, Gareth. How’s the shoulder?’
He was single-handedly moving a dresser for Annabeth last week and he ended up tearing a ligament. It must have been agonising, but to hear him talk, you’d think he just had a nasty bruise.
‘Ah, nothing wrong with it.’ He brushes off my concern. ‘But don’t tell the doc I’m still at work,’ he adds with a mischievous wink.
Laughing, I tell him I won’t.
I carry on up the winding driveway and park outside The Stables.
Gareth is another reason I’m so glad Mum lives here. He’s the sort of bloke who’ll go out of his way to help. He’s already fixed a leaky tap for Mum and climbed in through a window when she locked herself out once. His easy manner and strong physique have many of the Clandon House ladies coming over all unnecessary, as Mum would put it. But he’s too modest to ever pick up on the signals.
A widower in his early fifties, he retired from the police force when his wife died five years ago and turned his lifelong hobby into a job. I doubt he needs the money. I suspect he set up his gardening company to keep himself busy, and because physical work in the open air really suits him. Actually, it was me who got him the job at Clandon House.
I first met him at Newington Hall, where he gardens for Mallory’s folks, and when Mum said the gardener here was retiring, I had no hesitation in recommending Gareth and his small team.
I joke that his real job is to keep an eye on Mum when I’m not here. And he jokes that really he’s only here to stop himself falling off his perch now he’s retired. Although from the healthy tan and the twinkle in his eyes, I’d say he’s a long way off that. It’s lovely to know he’s on hand if Mum ever needs him.
I shrug into my parka against the chill of the March day and walk across the gravel at the front of The Stables then along a path that takes me into the little wooded area.
The first person I spot is Annabeth. A tall, auburn-haired woman in her late fifties, she’s looking trim in navy track pants and a pink T-shirt and as I watch, she bends to the grass and performs a carefully controlled headstand against the trunk of a horse chestnut tree. My eyebrows rise in admiration. The last time that I did a headstand was in the school playground. I’d probably need a crane lift to get my legs up there now.
Then I spot Mum, several trees away, psyching herself up to do the same. I have to hand it to Annabeth. Under her influence, Mum seems game for anything these days. She’s exercising much more, and even her fashion sense has undergone a make-over. Today she’s wearing the peculiarly youthful, bang-on-trend grey and white patterned tracksuit she picked up a few weeks ago on eBay. Since being forced to tighten her belt financially, Mum’s turned bargain-hunting into something of a hobby. I grin to myself. Today’s edgy outfit is rather more ‘Snoop Dogg at the O2 Arena’ than ‘lady of a certain age’. I love that, at sixty, she doesn’t care a jot.
For her first attempt at a headstand, her legs get no higher than a foot off the ground, and the second is not much better.
Mum scrambles up to remove her glasses and passes them to silver-haired Grace, who’s standing nearby, hands on hips, watching their antics with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. To be fair, despite being slightly older – she turned sixty-three last year – Grace is just as fit, and would probably be joining in if she hadn’t recently had keyhole surgery on a painful knee joint.
On Mum’s third attempt, just as her legs are about to come back down to earth, Grace springs forward, grabs her ankles and hoists them up so that her feet actually make contact with the tree trunk. Their precarious balance is short-lived, however. I’m not sure if it’s the shock of suddenly seeing the world upside down, but Mum starts to list to one side, and she and Grace end up on the grass, shrieking with laughter.
Mum spots me and waves.
‘I haven’t done a headstand since I was about ten,’ I laugh, joining them. ‘What on earth are you up to?’
Grace snorts and murmurs, ‘Ask Annabeth. This is her crazy idea.’
‘Shh!’ whispers Mum, with a quick glance over at Annabeth, who’s still upside down, her eyes closed, I suppose in a sort of meditation.
‘We’re rebalancing our energies by communing with nature,’ Mum says loudly, so Annabeth can hear, but winking at me.
‘It’s the rush of blood to the head I worry about,’ says Grace. ‘Look at that one.’ She nods at Annabeth. ‘She’ll be there for ages, and it’s all in aid of a better sex life.’
‘No, it’s not,’ calls Annabeth calmly. ‘It’s to relieve stress.’
‘Why would you need stress relief?’ calls Grace. ‘You lead a charmed life.’
‘I live next door to you, don’t I?’ replies Annabeth.
Mum laughs and gets to her feet, then helps Grace up. ‘You probably think we’re bonkers,’ she says to me.
I grin. ‘Must be something in the water here.’
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. ‘Oh, do I embarrass you, darling?’
‘Of course. But isn’t that your job?’ I joke. ‘As a parent?’
To be honest, she could prance around on the lawn doing the dance of the seven veils stark naked and I’d cheer her on. It’s such a relief to see her so happy and upbeat these days.
‘Come on. Hurry up,’ says Annabeth, passing us at speed. ‘That programme’s on in a minute.’
‘What programme?’ I ask, as we follow her back to The Stables.
‘It’s about Princess Anne,’ says Mum.
‘You mean The Princess Royal,’ calls Annabeth sternly.
‘She thinks we’re related to royalty,’ mutters Grace, rolling her eyes. ‘It’s a story that’s been passed down the generations and, for some reason, Beth’s bought into it.’
I stare at her. ‘Hang on. Are you two related?’
‘They’re sisters. Didn’t I mention that?’ says Mum.
I shake my head in bemusement and Grace laughs. ‘I know. You’d hardly believe it, would you? We’re like chalk and cheese in everything.’ She pauses. ‘Well, maybe not everything.’
Something in her tone makes me glance over. Her sunny expression has vanished.
But before I have time to wonder, she smiles at me. ‘Did your mum tell you she’s coming for a spa weekend with us?’
‘Oh, lovely. Can I come?’
I’m only jesting but Mum looks at me in delight. ‘Of course you can, love. That would be wonderful.’
Feeling bad for getting her hopes up, I put my arm round her and give her a little squeeze as we crunch our way across the gravel to The Stables’ main entrance. ‘I’d love to, Mum. But I can’t. I’m just—’
‘Too busy. I know.’ She smiles at Grace. ‘This daughter of mine …’
The pride in her voice makes me feel emotional. But also guilty. Yes, I am too busy to take a weekend off. But it’s more than that. I simply don’t have the spare cash. But Mum knows nothing about my dire financial state. And while I tell myself I’m only keeping it from her so she doesn’t worry about me, deep down I know it’s also because I’m too ashamed to tell her.
‘You could come to the séance instead,’ says Grace matter-of-factly. ‘You must be able to take an evening off?’
‘Séance?’ I look from Grace to Mum in bewilderment. ‘What séance?’
The two of them glance at each other and grin.
‘It’s Annabeth’s idea,’ murmurs Mum as we climb the stairs to Annabeth’s first-floor flat. ‘Venus at the yoga class in the village fancies herself a bit of a psychic and she offered to conduct a séance here for free.’
Grace chuckles. ‘She’s hoping Venus might be able to conjure up the spirit of our dear departed Great-Aunt Edna.’
‘But why?’ I ask, mystified as to why anyone would want to try and summon dead people.
‘Oh, Great-Aunt Edna was a practising psychic herself. And Annabeth’s convinced she might be able to confirm whether or not we have royal blood.’
Grace grins. ‘It should be a laugh. Venus is nutty as a fruitcake with extra pecans.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of it,’ whispers Mum to me and I make a face in agreement.
‘In here,’ calls Annabeth, and when we walk into the living room, she’s perched on the edge of her chair, eyes riveted to the TV screen.
‘Shall I put the coffee on?’ asks Grace.
Annabeth waves her hand impatiently at Grace. ‘Just look at that chin.’ She points at the screen where the Princess Royal is making a speech at some charity gala. ‘Doesn’t that just prove it?’
‘Prove what, Beth?’ asks Grace.
‘Well, I’ve only just realised her chin is exactly like mine. Look.’ She sticks out her chin, angling her head helpfully.
As one, we all transfer our baffled gaze from the Princess Royal’s chin to Annabeth’s.
‘Well, what do you think?’ The action of thrusting out her chin makes her sound like she’s just had heavy dental work.
Mum tips her head thoughtfully to one side. ‘They’re very, um, similar chins, Annabeth.’
I nod. ‘Very similar. As chins go …’
Annabeth nods at Grace in a told-you-so sort of way.
Grace snorts. ‘If we’re related to royalty, I’m a bloody corgi’s auntie.’
After sitting through the chin programme, trying to keep a straight face, and drinking coffee made by Grace, Mum and I take our leave and go back to her flat.
‘Did I tell you I’m doing Ron and Andrea’s wedding on Saturday?’ I ask, knowing she’ll be interested.
She frowns. ‘Really? Well, you take care. When that man has a drink in him, he’s more slippery than a wet fish. And he does like his drink.’
I laugh. ‘It’s his wedding day, Mum. I’m sure even Ron can be trusted to stay sober and keep his hands to himself on the day he marries Andrea.’
I’d like to think so, anyway.
Mum shudders. ‘Do you know he once propositioned me in the supermarket?’
I nod, smiling. I’ve heard this story a thousand times before. ‘I was a toddler in the trolley and he asked you how to judge a melon’s ripeness.’
Mum nods, looking affronted but enjoying it all the same. ‘When I showed him how to press the end, he waggled his eyebrows at me and suggested we continue the lesson back at his house!’
I grin. ‘If you’d said yes to the melon-pressing, I bet Ron would have run a mile.’
She purses her lips. ‘That’s not the point.’
‘What’s this?’ I ask, noticing a hardback book with a black cover on the side table. Thinking it’s a thriller, I pick it up and my eyebrows rise at the title: Talking to the Dead: Seven Ways to Successful Communication with the Other Side.
I hold it up and Mum waves her hand. ‘Oh, nothing. Just something Venus left behind. She thought I might be interested, what with the séance and all.’
‘She’s been here?’ I ask, surprised Mum hadn’t mentioned it.
‘Oh yes. Annabeth and Grace were coming for tea anyway, and Venus sort of invited herself along.’
I run my hand over the glossy cover. ‘Have you read it?’ I ask curiously. Mum’s always dismissed such things as utter tosh.
‘No,’ she scoffs. ‘As if. I just took it to be polite. I’ll get it back to her at the next yoga class. I think she’s a bit New Age nuts to be honest.’
I laugh. ‘And doing headstands on the grass is normal behaviour?’
‘Touché.’ She smiles ruefully. ‘But that’s just a bit of fun to please Annabeth.’
I get up reluctantly. ‘Right, I’d better go. Tons to do.’
‘Well, don’t work yourself into the ground.’ She cups my face in her hands and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘And listen?’
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ I chant with a grin.
This is Mum’s motto. She even said it to the postman once – to which he remarked that since her gas bill was due, there was a distinct possibility he’d be back as large as life the next day.
She opens the door and gives me a playful push.
I catch something red and sparkly out of the corner of my eye.
It’s a key fob, dangling in the door.
I stare at it. It’s a cheap thing with a big sparkly letter ‘S’ on it. ‘Where—?’
Mum’s eyes slide away. ‘I was clearing out the spare room and I found it in a box.’ She shrugs and adds, a touch defiantly, ‘I like it. And I needed a key ring.’
I turn to go but Mum grabs my arm.
‘Katy,’ she murmurs. Her tone is tinged with pity, which only makes things worse. ‘When it was you two girls running the business, you seemed to have such fun. It almost didn’t seem like work at all.’ A pause. ‘Don’t you think things would be so much better if Sienna were still here?’
A little bolt of shock zips through me at the mention of my sister’s name.
There’s a pleading tone to Mum’s question, and I can understand her bewilderment. Often, I wonder if she blames me for not trying to get Sienna to come home.
She’s aware we had a major falling out which was why Sienna left, but she has no idea what we rowed about. I’ve certainly never told her and I’d bet my house and all its contents that Sienna will have remained silent on the subject.
On the way home, I think about Mum and her constant hope that Sienna and I will eventually be reconciled. I wish she’d stop it and realise, once and for all, that as far as I’m concerned, that’s never going to happen.
I suppose if Mum knew how precariously I’m living – always looking over my shoulder, in fear of yet another demand for money I can’t pay – she might understand why I still can’t think of my sister, two years later, without feeling sick and shaky.
Sienna is the reason I now struggle daily to keep the wolf from the door.
At first when Sienna left, Mum – grieving over Dad’s death a year earlier – was devastated and tried her best to smooth things over between us. I know she had long talks with Sienna on the phone, although I can only imagine what was said. And she tried to convince me that family was everything. We’d lost Dad. Did I really want to lose my baby sister as well?
But sunk in my own grief and despair over Dad’s death and all that had happened with Sienna, I was in no mood to forgive. My life was in ruins. She’d left me high and dry, committed to paying off the loan I’d taken out to buy equipment all by myself. The loan payments were pretty hefty. Shared with Sienna, they were manageable. But paying it on my own – on the last day of every month – kept me constantly on edge, worrying whether this was the month I’d be forced to admit I couldn’t cope and throw in the towel.
But while the business ended up being a millstone around my neck in many respects, ironically, I think it also saved my sanity.
By the time Sienna left, we already had ten or so weddings in the diary, so I absolutely couldn’t back out, even if I’d wanted to. I could never have let my clients down. So I just dived right in, doing the best job I could, learning as I went along all the particular skills needed to be a good wedding photographer.
I pour everything into giving couples a great service and a beautiful album at the end of it all. I’m busy from early in the morning to late into the evening and I collapse into bed at the end of each day, glad of the oblivion. And working hard does have some advantages. It occupies my mind and keeps the nightmare thoughts at bay.
I know Mum thinks I should put the past behind me. That I should care enough about the baby sister I once loved so much to hold out an olive branch.
On occasion, when I’ve felt especially low, I’ve been tempted to pour out the whole sorry mess to Mum. Tell her exactly what happened to wreck our sisterly bond forever.
But something always stops me.
I think it’s that I know Mum would immediately set out to try to make things better between us.
But as far as I’m concerned, her efforts would be useless …

FIVE (#ulink_37b6d77e-1429-5bd9-bd62-c109f4ee0f0c)
Walking through the front door at home, I hear the buzz of my mobile signalling a new message.
It’s Bethany, the bride I spoke to recently, confirming she’d like me to take the photos at her wedding.
Angrily dashing the tears from my eyes, I push all thoughts of my sister out of my mind and immediately return Bethany’s phone call so that we can sort out dates for future meetings.
Afterwards, I stand at the kitchen window, staring out at my small patch of garden without really seeing it, thinking about Bethany and how she’s embarking on a whole new happy chapter in her life.
I’d thought that’s what Sienna and I were going to do.
We’d always had a special bond, even though I was nine when she was born. And once she was grown up, we weren’t just sisters, we were the best of friends, too.
When she left school, she decided she’d like to go and work abroad for a while, so she took a course with TEFL and ended up being qualified to teach English as a foreign language. I supported her in this, even though I knew we’d all miss her. But then, to my delight, she changed her mind and decided she wanted to follow in my footsteps. And it seemed entirely natural that she should join me in the wedding photography business.
I was just in the early stages of setting the business up, so the timing was perfect. And for a while, everything was brilliant. We were starting this exciting new venture together but it wasn’t as scary as it could have been because we had each other to talk things over with, make plans and iron out any teething problems.
But then everything went pear-shaped. And Sienna reverted to her original plan and moved to Paris.
Everything changed after she left.
There was a time, in the early days of the business, when landing a new booking filled me with excitement. The creative cogs in my brain would immediately start to whir into action. I’d picture the venue, recalling the layout of the hotel and the gardens, dreaming up perfect settings and imagining bringing together the results of the bride and groom’s big day in a glorious keepsake album.
Now, though, there’s only ever one thing on my mind.
Money.
As soon as the booking is in the bag, my head goes into mathematical somersault mode as I feverishly figure out how much profit I’ll be able to set against my credit card debt once I’ve covered the mortgage and the bank loan repayments. Sometimes, if it’s a lean month for work, there isn’t even enough to cover the basic household bills. So then I have to stall paying the bank loan so that I can keep up with the mortgage.
After a lot of agonising, I decided that I’d have to sell my house. But in the six months that it’s been on the market, there’s been no firm interest. Viewers probably take one look at the old-fashioned kitchen and slightly sad bathroom and decide their pockets aren’t deep enough to give it the care and attention it badly needs.
The threat of losing my house to the building society hangs over me constantly. However hard I try to get myself out of the mess, I don’t seem to make any real progress. It always seems to be two steps forward, three steps back.
This house – compact though it is – means everything to me and it devastates me to think I will have to hand over the key to a stranger.
It’s in the same street as the larger family home I grew up in. An ancient milestone protrudes from its tiny patch of front garden, ‘Willows Edge ½ mile’ carved into the stone. It used to fascinate me when I was a kid, traipsing past it every day to school and back. Dad said the stone was probably a century old and I used to wonder about the man who carved the letters all those years ago. It seemed odd and a little creepy to think that he’d be dead now.
I often wonder if some weird, sixth sense was telling me that one day, I’d live there. What I didn’t realise was that in the end, I’d face losing it.
Of course, I never stop praying for a miracle. Hoping that a flood of new business might transform the situation.
But I’ve got no money to advertise in the big, glossy wedding magazines. So I’m relying on word of mouth and recommendations, while still only clocking up around fifteen weddings per year. Although, to be honest, without a full-time assistant, I’m not sure I’d be able to take on more work and retain the level of quality I will absolutely not compromise on.
Something happened just before Christmas, though, that gave me a little spark of hope.
I was shooting another wedding at the Greshingham Hotel, and as I waited to take photos of the first dance, Corinne, the hotel’s new weddings co-ordinator, came over to chat.
‘Katy Peacock, isn’t it?’ She smiled. ‘I remembered because it’s such a lovely name. You were the one who hijacked the cherry- picker truck.’
‘Yes, that was me.’ I laughed, remembering that wedding.
The groom had unexpectedly requested I take a shot of him and his new wife out on the bridal suite’s first-floor balcony. I’d wanted to get the angle right. I’d have even climbed a tree if there had been one nearby; it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d resorted to such measures. While I was pondering what to do, someone suggested they’d seen a cherrypicker truck at the bottom of the drive and maybe that was the answer. And as it happened, it turned out to be the perfect solution.
Corinne smiled. ‘How you managed to persuade that guy to hoist you up in his truck, I can’t imagine. Brilliant!’
‘It was a bit risky,’ I confessed. ‘When I realised you’d seen what I was doing, I was convinced I’d be banned from taking any more photos here.’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all. The bride and groom were absolutely delighted with your efforts. Above and beyond the call of duty was how the groom put it. So well done.’
‘I was glad to help.’
‘You’ve shot quite a few weddings here, haven’t you?’
I nodded, wondering where all this was leading.
‘The thing is, I’ve been putting together a file of information for bridal couples to take away with them. Hints and tips on how to organise their big day, that sort of thing, with a few recommendations for sourcing wedding cars and flowers.’ She smiled. ‘And photographers.’
‘Oh?’ My heart started beating very fast.
‘It’s nothing definite,’ she murmured, ‘but if I wanted to give our couples the name of a good wedding photographer, would you mind me mentioning you?’
I felt my cheeks start to flush. ‘Mind? No, of course not. I’d be absolutely thrilled!’
Oh my God! This was just the break I needed!
Then I cleared my throat and said in a much more professional manner, ‘Thank you for thinking of me. I really appreciate it. Do let me know what you decide.’
When she left, my legs were actually wobbling on the way to the car. I couldn’t believe it. This was the sort of magical opportunity I’d longed for, and if I hadn’t been in professional mode, I’d have done a little dance right there on the lawn.
That was over two months ago now, and although Corinne has my number, I’ve heard nothing at all. With each week that passes, my hope fades a little bit more. But next week, I’ll be back at the Greshingham Hotel for Ron and Andrea’s wedding.
And maybe – just maybe – Corinne might have good news for me.
It’s the night before Andrea and Ron’s big day and I’m in full panic mode.
Not about the wedding.
But about something far more critical.
‘Chill, darling,’ advises Mallory, from her flaked-out pose on my sofa. She’s watching me with mild amusement as I tear around, ransacking the house. ‘Stop looking and it’ll turn up.’
‘I can’t stop looking!’ I yelp. ‘If I don’t find it, the whole day will go pear-shaped!’
Mallory examines her nails. ‘It’s a piece of jewellery,’ she murmurs. ‘Not some magical talisman.’
‘But it’s not just any old brooch. It’s my lucky charm,’ I call, running upstairs to check my bedroom drawers for the twenty- seventh time.
‘Which jacket were you wearing at your last wedding?’ calls Mallory.
Her question stops me in my tracks.
‘Brilliant!’ I yell, diving for the wardrobe. Sure enough, there it is, pinned to the lapel, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Dad bought me the beautiful ceramic brooch years ago. It’s a single, perfectly formed daffodil and the yolk yellow petals are so vibrant against the pale green stem, they cheer me up just to look at them. Dad said the brooch reminded him of the first ever photograph I had framed for him and Mum. It was a black and white shot of a daffodil in a slim vase and it hung on the living room wall ever afterwards and – much to my complete mortification – was pointed out fondly every time we had guests.
Usually, Mum did the gift-buying in our house, so the brooch from Dad was really special. I’ve had it for ages but it’s in perfect nick, except for a tiny stress fracture running down the centre, which is barely noticeable.
I wore it when, filled with butterflies and nervous excitement, I shot my very first wedding. The day turned out to be perfect, so now I have to wear the brooch to make sure things go smoothly. (When things do get hairy occasionally, Mallory will remark wryly, ‘So much for the lucky charm.’ But I counter that by pointing out how much worse things could have been without it.)
Apart from anything superstitious, the brooch makes me feel I’ve got my dad close by.
Dad worked as an accountant when he left college, but he always dreamed of being his own boss. And when he was forty, he took the plunge, left his job and started up the sandwich business he’d long been planning and scheming in his head. Of course we had to downsize because selling sandwiches didn’t bring in nearly as much as Dad’s steady nine-to-five job. So there were no more holidays to Spain or nice meals out. But even though he had to work crazy hours, I think that was the happiest I ever saw him. He’d have been so proud of what I’ve managed to achieve, all by myself, slowly building up a solid reputation in the industry.
When things are tough and I’ve got a headache trying to juggle money, robbing Peter to pay Paul, I think of Dad’s favourite saying: ‘Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.’
That always spurs me on.
When I wake next morning, I feel hung-over. Which is a bit unfair since I didn’t have anything to drink.
I’d stayed awake until the early hours, practically propping my eyelids open with matchsticks, getting my accounts up to date. (Numbers aren’t my thing so balancing the books regularly taxes my brain to its limits.) As a result I was in the deepest sleep ever when the alarm went off and it felt like only ten minutes since I’d crashed into bed.
I pour strong coffee down my throat while making last-minute checks of my equipment. I once ran out of batteries in the middle of shooting a wedding for an extremely uptight bride. Not an experience I ever want to repeat. If it hadn’t been for a junior guest, who apparently kept a supply of triple AAAs in his pocket at all times in case of a gaming controller emergency (no, I didn’t understand it either), I’m pretty sure the bride would have spontaneously combusted.
Needless to say, I now have spare batteries on me at all times.
I’m meeting Mallory at the venue.
In theory, I like to arrive twenty minutes before we’re expected so that we can park up and take our time checking out the lay of the land for the photos later.
The reality tends to be a little different.
Like this morning.
Just as I’m opening the front door, the house phone rings.
I pause, thinking I’ll let it go to answer machine. But then there’s always the thought that it could be Mum in trouble, so I close the door and go to check.
It is Mum.
We chat for a few minutes then I say I have to go but I’ll call her later.
‘If you could, love. Because I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Tell me now.’
She hesitates. ‘No. It can wait till later.’
‘Mum?’ A feeling of foreboding prickles my scalp.
I straighten up. ‘What is it?’
I hear her sigh at the other end.
Then she says, in a low voice, ‘Sienna’s coming back.’

SIX (#ulink_dd0d62f5-f3b0-5efa-8c71-76f31415f3e7)
Sienna’s coming back.
Mum’s words swim around in my consciousness.
I’d always wondered how I’d react if Sienna returned. Actually, I feel quite numb.
Gently, I place the phone in its stand. And when it rings a few seconds later, I’m already closing the front door behind me.
I drive to the venue in a daze, almost missing the turn-off. I have to brake suddenly and the driver behind me slams the horn three times and races furiously past me. Trembling, I pull into the side of the road and turn the engine off, then I sit there, staring ahead, grasping the steering wheel as if it’s a lifeline.
A cold feeling settles in my heart.
Then an ambulance hares past, its siren blaring, bringing me to my senses.
For a few seconds, my mind is blank. Where was I going? What was I doing?
I glance at the clock.
The wedding!
I set off, driving almost as fast as the ambulance, determined not to be late for Andrea.
The sight of Mallory, jokingly flagging me down in the car park and pointing accusingly at her watch, brings me back to the present. Mallory is actually really laid back about this sort of thing. She’s only doing the watch thing because she knows I’ll be anxious to get going.
‘Chill, darling,’ she says when I emerge from the car. ‘They’re probably not even ready for you yet. You know what these fussy brides are like.’
‘Hey, don’t be so hard on brides. It’ll be your turn in December.’
In stark contrast to my plain navy suit, crisp white shirt and navy heels, Mallory’s wearing a floaty, mauve dress, cream fake fur and little pixie boots. All charity shop, of course. Anyone else would look appalling in this ensemble but Mallory has the personality to pull it off.
‘Great tree,’ she points out.
I look across at the old, gnarly oak whose magnificent branches look like they’ve been arranged precisely with us in mind. ‘Perfect backdrop for the bride and groom shots,’ I agree.
I glance up at the hotel. Behind one of those gorgeous Georgian windows, Andrea and her bridal entourage will be in a state of nervous excitement, talking Kim and Kanye. And hair, make-up and veils. And probably quaffing far too much champagne.
It always feels a privilege to be there, among the bride’s family and friends, on this most intimate of occasions.
Some families embrace me like they would a family friend, which is lovely, while others regard me as simply the professional photographer, who’s there to do a job. Either way is fine by me.
Sometimes my role expands to become the chief calmer of nerves, hanky provider or bridal car arrival checker. I can even be called on to help a bride choose between two shades of lipstick – obviously a decision of vital importance, so no pressure there, then. I take it all very seriously because I know how important it is that the bride feels beautiful on her special day.
I usually enjoy every aspect of it.
But today, with my legs still shaky from that phone call, all I want to do is get through the work and go home.
I draw in a breath of bracing March air. ‘Right. Better get in there.’
‘Are you all right, darling?’ Mallory peers at me. ‘You seem a bit queer.’
That almost makes me giggle. Sometimes Mallory seems to have been born into the wrong century. And the sort of day I’m having, ‘almost a giggle’ is quite a result. It reminds me why Mallory is my best friend. One of the reasons, at any rate. She has this knack of being able to perk me up instantly – whether her remarks are intentionally funny or otherwise.
‘I’m feeling better by the minute,’ I tell her honestly.
I leave Mallory scouting round the grounds while I head up to the bride’s bedroom.
Squeals of delight greet me when I enter – mainly from Chloe and Sophie, her cousin. Both are bridesmaids and both are already high as kites with excitement.
Andrea, slim and newly fake-tanned in cream satin bridal underwear, is standing by a free-standing mirror, holding in front of her The Dress.
‘Hi, Katy. What do you think?’ she squeaks. ‘Isn’t it just Kim’s dress to a tee?’
‘Gosh. Yes. It’s amazing.’ I’ve no idea what Kim Kardashian’s wedding gown looked like but there’s no denying it, Andrea’s dress is stunning.
‘It’s a mermaid silhouette gown,’ she says proudly, swishing it in front of her. ‘See the fishtail?’
‘Put it on, Mum,’ orders Chloe. She grins at me. ‘I’m Kourtney and Sophie is Kendall.’
She sees my knitted brow.
‘Kardashian?’
‘Ah. Right. Well, you both look sensational,’ I say honestly. They do. They’re wearing identical white dresses. Long and figure-hugging with posies of white roses.
Andrea’s dress, when she’s eventually in it, is quite simply jaw-dropping.
White with long lace sleeves, it’s quite modest from the front.
But when she turns and looks back at us with a coquettish little smile, we all let out a gasp.
The gown is daringly backless, plunging down almost to Andrea’s waist, with a long train stretching out over the carpet. Neither is the veil a shrinking violet. It’s quite simply the longest I’ve ever seen, swooping right to the floor. With her deep tan, Andrea carries it off perfectly. Ron really won’t know what to do with himself.
‘Ron’s getting a buzz cut,’ says Chloe, raising one eyebrow. ‘So he’ll look the image of Kanye.’ She looks at Sophie and they both burst out laughing.
Andrea seems totally unperturbed. She’s too busy swishing this way and that in front of the mirror. And to be fair, the girls’ merriment is probably far more to do with the excitement of the occasion, than deliberately taking the mickey out of poor Ron.
Andrea turns suddenly. ‘You’ll never believe it, Katy. The wedding’s off.’
‘What?’ I stare at her, confused.
She laughs and waves a hand at my daftness. ‘Not our wedding, silly. Dieter Hanson’s wedding to Blaze Jorgensen.’
‘Oh. Right. I see.’ To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it.
‘It was meant to be today? The same day as ours?’
‘Yes. I remember now.’
She nods at the open tabloid newspaper on the bed. Dutifully, I go over and glance at the headline. Sure enough, there it is. The whole story with a picture of Dieter Hanson emerging from some building with his head down, looking understandably devastated.
I must still be feeling fairly wobbly after hearing about Sienna’s imminent return, because his plight suddenly strikes me as incredibly sad. The breakdown of a relationship once so full of promise. All those dashed hopes and dreams. One person left to pick up the pieces of their life …
My throat is suddenly thick with emotion. I’m no stranger to the trauma of love gone wrong. I know exactly how Dieter Hanson must be feeling today.
‘I felt so sorry for him, I sent him an invitation to our wedding,’ says Andrea.
Her announcement is so unexpected, it instantly catapults me out of my sudden gloom.
We all stare at the bride for an incredulous moment. Then Chloe and Sophie burst into gales of laughter.
Andrea purses her lips. ‘Well, that’s not very nice, I must say. The poor man must be absolutely devastated.’
‘Oh, Mum, we’re not laughing at him being jilted.’ Chloe looks guiltily at me. ‘It’s just do you really think he’s going to want to come to your wedding?’
Andrea shrugs huffily. ‘Probably not. I just thought it might cheer him up to be asked.’
Chloe looks at me as if to say, A film star at my mum’s wedding? I think not!
But when Andrea glances at me for support, I find myself nodding. ‘Absolutely. You need all the support you can get at a horrible time like that, when you feel as if nothing makes sense any more and all the colour has been bleached out of your world.’ I swallow hard. ‘And your guts are being slowly dragged out through your mouth by an alien force …’
All heads whip round to me. I suddenly remember where I am and my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.
‘Right, let’s get some shots of this amazing dress,’ I say hurriedly, moving round to find the perfect angle.
Bloody hell, it’s not like me to overreact like that. Especially in a professional setting. Mum’s bombshell news about Sienna coming home has knocked me completely off-kilter.
Andrea fills a glass with champagne, which she shoves into my hand, clearly thinking I need it after my bout of emotional leakage. A glass of delicious fizz would definitely help. But after taking one sip, I set it firmly down.
I’ve learned from experience.
At one of my first ever weddings, the champagne in the bride’s room was flowing freely and I was so nervous, I drank two glasses on an empty stomach then spent the next three hours trying to enunciate my words and keep the camera from wobbling. I have no memory of taking the photographs, although strangely, it turned out to be one of the best albums I’ve ever produced. What it lacks in formal group shots, it more than makes up for in candid, relaxed photos of all the guests, which suggests I was snapping away happily as if I was on my holidays.
Thankfully, the bride and groom loved that album. Even if I did have to delete an unsually high number of blurry images and photos of nothing but feet.
I’m very aware it could have been a different story altogether.
I steer clear of the champagne now, tempting though it is. One sip is definitely enough.
The girls are admiring themselves in the mirror and chattering away about the cancelled wedding.
‘I feel dead sorry for poor Dieter,’ Sophie says, thrusting her face close to the mirror to apply more lip gloss. ‘It was bad enough when Ryan dumped me last year, but imagine how horrible it would be having it splashed across the front pages like that.’ She nods at the tabloid newspaper on the bed. ‘I’d absolutely want to hide away forever.’
‘I hope it’s not a bad omen,’ says Andrea with a nervous giggle. ‘Ron had better show up.’
Chloe laughs. ‘Don’t be daft, Mum, of course he will.’
Andrea smiles fondly and reaches for her daughter’s hand. ‘Oh, isn’t 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 (#ulink_8433ea91-9933-5c4a-a447-4a3418fb7e37)
‘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 a quick word with the manager, who’s hovering nearby, reveals that those patio doors are never opened during the winter months.
‘Guests would start wandering 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

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