Читать книгу Four Weddings and a Fiasco - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 9

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 …