Читать книгу Four Weddings and a Fiasco - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 12

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.’