Thirteen Weddings (10 page)

‘Thanks.’

I’m bursting with pride as I come out of the room. Russ and Lisa jump up from their desks.

‘Did you secure them?’ Lisa asks quickly, worry etched across her forehead.

I nod. ‘Yeah.’

‘Woo-hoo!’ Russ calls, clapping.

‘Fantastic!’ Lisa enthuses. ‘We’d better see if we can buy the tourist’s shot, too, pip the tabloids to the post.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Nicky swiftly appears at my side. ‘Lisa, can you get me his details? I’ll call him from home tonight. I don’t want to miss another day with
the time difference.’

Russ furtively rolls his eyes at me, but I don’t really mind Nicky cutting in. Whatever floats her boat.

By Thursday, Nicky has moved on from being defiant and defensive and has settled on looking deflated. She hasn’t managed to get hold of the man – his phone keeps
going to voicemail – and Simon suspects one of the tabloids will be running the shots on Sunday. He doesn’t seem too fazed.
Hebe
comes out on a Tuesday and he’s confident
we’ll be able to ride the crest of the publicity wave. Our pictures will undoubtedly be stronger, because Lily is a professional photographer, and we’ll have more of a story because she
also relayed everything Joseph said to her. We can effectively sell the piece as an exclusive interview. Simon is expecting a huge uplift in sales.

Nicky’s mood is not helped when Simon calls to me on Thursday afternoon. He’s standing over Alex’s computer with Clare at his side. ‘Do you want to see the cover?’
he asks me with an easy smile.

Alex leans back in his chair while I make my way over there, feeling Nicky’s eyes boring into my back. I feel a little daunted by Clare. She’s super-confident, straight-talking and
has the respect of everyone in the company. She and Simon get on like a house on fire.

Alex has an image of the cover open on his computer screen. The shot of Joseph Strike tenderly touching Alice’s baby bump takes pride of place. The bright pink magazine colours are
striking, and the cover-line shouts out:

‘What do you think?’ Simon asks me.

‘It looks great,’ I reply.

‘Well done, Bronte,’ Clare says. ‘I heard you’re responsible for this.’

I try to fight off the blush, but it’s no use. ‘Thanks.’ My voice comes out sounding croaky, and I notice the corners of Alex’s lips turn up.

‘Have you seen the article?’ he asks me, diverting attention away from my embarrassment. He clicks on his mouse to bring up five more pages of a news article with the rest of the
photographs.

‘Fantastic,’ I say, speaking of the piece in general. I’m not about to read the content with Clare and Simon standing behind me.

Simon smiles warmly. ‘Well done again,’ he says.

‘No worries.’ I back away and return to my desk, keeping my head down. I can feel Nicky’s discontent oozing from her like poison.

Simon lets us leave early the following day.

‘Coming to the pub, Bronte?’ Russ calls across to me. It’s Friday, so it’s pretty much a given, even if I don’t want a big one.

‘Sure.’

‘Have you got the skinny celebs feature sorted?’ Nicky interrupts.

I waver. ‘I’ve got most of them.’

‘How many is
most
of them?’ Her tone is as cold as ice.

‘I’ve got five so far. The deadline isn’t until Tuesday, right?’ I double-check. What’s the rush?

‘Who knows what will come up on Monday,’ she points out.

She’s just being difficult. I’m confident I’ll have all of the pictures ready by Tuesday, even if I have to work late on Monday night. And it’s only for a feature, which
has longer lead-times.

‘I’ll have them ready on time,’ I say calmly, gathering my things. I’m not going to let her bully me into working late on a Friday when it’s completely
unnecessary.

‘You’d better,’ I hear her mutter as I walk over to the others waiting by the door.

‘You coming?’ Russ asks Alex.

‘Yeah, just finishing up.’ He smiles brightly at us as he grabs his coat.

‘Bridget coming out tonight?’ he asks me on our way across the road.

‘I’m seeing her later. She worked from home this week,’ I explain.

‘You two going out for a big one?’ he asks as he holds open the pub door and lets me pass through into the warmth.

‘Nah. We’re going to my friend Polly’s place for dinner.’

‘Drunken bride-to-be Polly?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply, casting him an inquisitive look.

He nods, letting the conversation drop as we reach the bar. We place our orders and then Lisa turns to me.

‘Did I seriously hear Nicky asking you about those skinny celebrity pictures?’ she asks me.

‘Yep,’ I say resignedly.

‘What a stupid cow!’ Russ exclaims. ‘I don’t know how you work with her.’

I make no comment. I’m beginning to wonder that myself.

‘What’s this?’ Alex chips in, overhearing. ‘Has she been giving you a hard time?’

‘She’s fine.’ I shake my head. ‘I can handle it.’

He lets it lie when the barman comes over to take our order.

‘What’s everyone up to this weekend?’ Lisa asks.

‘Nothing much,’ I reply.

‘No weddings?’

I laugh, half-heartedly. ‘No. The other assistant is back on the job, now.’

That thought makes me feel strangely subdued.

I leave after an hour, taking the Underground to Polly and Grant’s apartment in Borough Market, near London Bridge. Polly’s waiting in her doorway when the lift
opens, a glass of sparkling wine in her hand.

‘Hey, you.’ She grins, hugging me before handing over the glass.

‘What a great place,’ I enthuse, taking in the whitewashed floorboards and the large warehouse-style windows with a view of the river. The flat is fitted out with minimal furniture,
but there’s barely enough room to swing a cat, let alone house a toddler, so I gather they’re not planning on having a baby any time soon.

‘Bridget’s just texted to say she’s on her way from London Bridge,’ she says, directing me to the sofa.

‘Oh, I must’ve just missed her. She’ll be busting to get out after being cooped up at home all week.’

‘How are things going with her?’ Polly asks as she sits down beside me.

‘Really well.’ I grin. ‘She’s a blast.’

She smiles and nods, but her eyes look strangely dull. ‘How are you?’ I ask, a little thrown by her expression.

‘I’m fine,’ she says breezily, crossing her legs.

I was a bit taken aback when I saw her again a few weeks ago. She’s put on all of the weight she’d lost for the wedding and is even larger than she was when we lived in
Australia.

‘How’s Grant?’ I ask.

‘He’s good. He’s been really busy at work lately.’ Her lips turn down.

‘Oh no.’ Are things not all rosy at home? ‘Will that calm down soon?’

‘I hope so.’

I spy a familiar-looking black book on her coffee table. ‘Are these your wedding pics?’ I ask excitedly.

She beams. ‘Yeah.’

‘Can I take a look?’

‘Sure.’

I reach down and pick up the book, flicking through the pages.

‘These are beautiful,’ I say to Polly, who stares at the photos over my shoulder.

‘I look so thin,’ she says listlessly and I glance at her.

‘You looked gorgeous then and you look gorgeous now.’

She seems flat. ‘Grant says he hardly recognises me in those pictures.’

My face falls. I don’t really know what to say. ‘Had you lost weight when he proposed to you?’ I ask carefully.

‘No. I was as fat as I am now,’ she replies bluntly.

‘So you know that he loves you for the way you are. He proposed to
you,
Polly.’ I point at her. ‘Not the Polly in these pictures.’

Her eyes cloud over. ‘I kind of wish he married me, too.’ She indicates herself. ‘Rather than
her.’
She nods at the book.

I smile sympathetically and make a mental note to pass on this advice to any future brides I come across. Don’t lose weight just so you look good in your wedding photos – you might
not recognise yourself later.

‘I hope Polly’s alright,’ I say to Bridget on the way back to the station.

‘She seemed a bit down,’ Bridget agrees.

Grant arrived as we were finishing up our dessert, looking a little worse for wear. He called Polly soon after Bridget arrived to let her know that he was working late so not to wait for him,
then he texted an hour later to say that he was going for a quick drink. A quick drink which turned into several, from the way he was slurring. Polly was not impressed, so we decided to leave them
to it.

My phone rings just as we’re walking into the station. I dig it out of my bag and frown when I see that it’s Rachel.

‘Hello?’

‘Bronte! Thank flip you answered!’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ She sounds breathless and panicked and my heart jumps.

‘Nothing!’ I say hastily. ‘Why?’

‘Sally isn’t well and I’ve got a wedding to do in Buckinghamshire. Can you help out?’

My heart swells. ‘I’d love to!’

All hell is breaking loose. The murderous cries of a child who has been woken up from her nap pierce me to my very core. And I’m not the only one: Veronica, the poor
bride, looks close to tears as her not-quite-two-year-old daughter Cassie clings to her and lets rip.

‘Let me take her so you can finish getting ready,’ Veronica’s mum Mary says gently, but as she reaches down to the screaming ball of fury masquerading as a child,
Cassie’s screams reach new levels of hysteria and she clings onto whatever she can. A second later, Veronica’s cries join the mix – Cassie has her fingers tangled in
Veronica’s hair.

‘Mum, leave her!’

Mary lets go and Cassie buries her face in her mother’s chest.

Rachel told me that Cassie was a happy, bright little thing the last time she was here, but today she woke up with a raging temperature and has been physically attached to Veronica all morning.
Maria had to work around her, starting with Veronica’s hair before moving on to her make-up. Eventually, Veronica put Cassie down for a nap, but judging by the screaming now, that might have
been a mistake.

I look out of the window to see that a taxi has arrived. ‘That’s probably for me,’ I say to Rachel. ‘I’ll see you there.’

She nods, worriedly.

The wedding is taking place in a village in Buckinghamshire, near the River Thames. It’s a wet and windy day and I arrive at the church just in time to see the arch of flowers fixed over
the gate collapse.

Someone shouts as I run to pick it up, wincing at the cold wind and rain slashing my face. I hear the thudding of footsteps and a flash of black morning suit as one of the ushers reaches me.

‘Shit!’ he gasps as I struggle to hold up the arch with Sally’s heavy kit bag strapped over my shoulder. ‘Kev! Give us a hand!’ he shouts towards the church.
Another usher hurries towards us, shielding his dark hair from the rain. A couple of guests arrive handily equipped with large umbrellas, but we’re wet through by the time we’ve
reattached the flowers and entered the church. It’s then that I realise the first usher was actually the groom.

‘Let me get you a towel,’ I tell him, fighting off the heady sense of foreboding as I force myself to walk through another vast, cold and damp church to look for the vicar. I find
him in the vestry, just off the chancel. I take a deep breath and try to steady my swirling nerves before knocking on his open door with a clammy fist.

‘Excuse me,’ I say shakily.

He looks up with annoyance. He has a shaved head and gauges in his ears and is wearing white ceremonial robes. He doesn’t look like any vicar I’ve ever seen. It helps.

‘I’m—’ I have to clear my throat. ‘I wonder if you have a towel? The groom has got himself a bit wet,’ I explain apologetically, my voice wavering.

‘Do I look like a towel dispenser?’

His tone takes me aback. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my hackles going up. ‘It’s just that the flower arch fell down and—’

‘Who are you?’ he interrupts haughtily, spying my kit bag.

‘I’m the assistant photographer,’ I reply.

‘You’d better not be,’ he humphs, getting to his feet. He’s quite short, only a little taller than me, but I’m five foot seven. ‘I don’t allow
photographers in my church.’

His comment throws me and for a moment I think he must be joking, but I soon realise from his expression that he’s not.

‘But I—’

‘This service is about God. I won’t have your lot detracting from what we’re all here for.’

Panic sweeps through me. ‘We won’t get in your way, I promise.’ Do Veronica and Rachel know about this?

‘You’re right,’ he says, eyeing me coldly. ‘You won’t.’

‘But—’

‘You’ll find some paper towels in the bathroom just outside the emergency exit on the west wing of the church,’ he says, cutting me off.

I turn and leave, figuring I’d better sort out the groom before I attempt to tackle the vicar.

The vicar will not be moved. I explain that there are two of us so we won’t disrupt the ceremony. I tell him that we never use flash inside the church. I ask if we can
photograph the bride’s entrance and the bride and groom’s exit. I’ve never wanted to be inside a church so much in my life, but he says no to everything.

Finally I ask him if I can photograph the inside of the church and the bride’s arrival. He sniffily agrees.

I take the groom, Matthew, aside and tell him. I managed to catch some fun shots earlier of him and his usher, drying themselves off. He was laughing then, but now he shakes his head miserably.
‘Veronica will be devastated.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘Let me talk to him,’ he says determinedly.

He stalks off and I watch him sadly, doubting that he’ll have any luck. I get to work photographing the church, the vicar’s attitude helping to distract me. The chill from the air
seeps straight through my skin and into my bones and I’m shivering by the time I finish.

A disheartened Matthew joins me in the porch. I manage to cheer him up a bit and take some good photos of him and the windswept guests arriving, laughing from underneath their umbrellas. A black
and silver two-tone Bentley turns into the road while I’m there. Good timing: it’s the bridal car. Anxiety sweeps through me as I run around to Rachel’s door.