Thirteen Weddings (24 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Got any good ones?’

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

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

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

Actually, I’m Australian.

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

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

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

‘Do you need a card?’ I ask her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The cars are waiting,’ he says.

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

‘Right away, ears?’

‘Ears?’ Maria asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What is it?’

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

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

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

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

She nods, tearfully. ‘Ten weeks.’

I pause for a moment, thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not in.’

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

He shrugs. ‘Personal problems.’

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

‘Hey!’ I say warmly. ‘Are you okay?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next two days fly past. I’ve been trying to source pictures of Joe and his fiancée and we’re running the baby bump photos again. The management company
has released an exclusive shot of the happy couple and their baby son to us at a hefty price – all of the money is going to charity. I’m on a high as I work. I enjoy my job so much more
when Nicky isn’t around, and even Helen is impressing me with her new fired-up attitude. I’m thriving on the extra responsibility, organising shoots and going along to art-direct a
couple of important ones with high-profile celebrities. The only problem is Alex, who seems like a wreck. As Nicky’s stand-in, I’m supposed to work more closely with him, so when shoot
photos come in, I print them out on contact sheets and we edit them together. I also need to regularly check pictures on his screen to make sure they look sharp enough on the layouts – the
resolution on digital photos from readers is often not good enough to print. Each time I’m more or less alone with him, I ask him if he’s okay, and each time he barely meets my eyes as
he tells me he’s fine.

On Friday he leaves as soon as he can. I watch him go with a heavy heart. I wish I knew what was wrong.