by Jane Linfoot
From his superior expression he could be thinking he’s back in his lawyer’s office. ‘In fact, Paris would be the last place I’d offer to go to with you anyway. For the record, dating and commitment aren’t actually in my remit. I should have said before.’ Up himself doesn’t begin to cover it.
My voice rises to a screech because I’m gobsmacked. ‘Your what? You grumble about my pyjamas and then come out with crap like that?’
‘What I’m saying is, we’re being thrown together a lot lately, but I can’t be around afterwards. So long as you’re clear on that.’ Now he’s found his calming tone, he’s backpedalling for England. ‘I’m sorry, mentioning meeting me in Paris was a mistake. It was only a hypothetical way of pointing out you’ll have to be more daring if you want to get your happy face back.’
And when exactly did he step in as my bloody well-being coach? He’ll be lecturing me on hygge next. As for the teensiest twinge of disappointment that he’s turned this round from real to pretend faster than you can say fairy godmother, that definitely wasn’t any twinge of mine.
I drag in a breath. ‘So now we know neither of us wants to go to Paris, can we please finish breakfast and get on with the day?’ I might have been stalling over my buttered bagel before. But if chewing mushrooms is the best excuse I can find not to talk, right now I’m keen to do it. As for a day that’s shaping up to be the nightmare from hell, Rory Sanderson in my kitchen is awful enough to make me rush on to even that.
‘Fine by me. It’s what I’m here for.’ If he were Gracie, she’d be pouting.
I wait until I get most of the way through my food, then I wave my phone at him, while he’s still eating. ‘So a few rules for the road. We had your tunes on Friday, so today we’ll be having mine.’ Poppy’s loaded me a special No need to call the lifeboat, you’re going to smash this wedding! selection onto my phone. My fave eighties tracks, interspersed with her personal ‘power up the courage’ tracks. With Don’t Stop Me Now! a few extra times for good measure. I’m already secretly whooping at the thought of what Rory’s about to sit through.
There’s not much else he can do other than agree. ‘Whatever.’
‘And have you brought your camera?’
He shakes his head like I’m the idiot. ‘What do you think?’
I mutter. ‘Exactly as I thought.’
He looks at his phone. ‘Are you going to get ready? Or is your photographer’s attention- seeking gimmick going to be Hey, look at me, I forgot to get dressed?’ However long he laughs for, the joke really isn’t that funny. Eventually he stops and begins to wipe up the last of his bean juice with his toast. ‘Time’s getting on. Maybe we’d better leave the washing up?’
I didn’t need to be a clairvoyant to know that was coming.
As we set off down the four flights of stairs twenty minutes later, despite a nutritionally balanced breakfast with enough calories to sustain a lumberjack, after the best part of an hour with Rory, I’m already exhausted. And I’ve still got a wedding to face.
Chapter 17
Sunday 10th December
Scott and Nancy’s wedding at the Old Lifeboat Station, Port Giles: Sponsors and driftwood
‘Breakfast still on board, Holly B?’
This is Rory, his breathless shout pursuing me as we rush towards the Old Lifeboat Station. If he’s checked the state of my jitters once, he’s checked it at least as many times in the last hour as we’ve heard Don’t Stop Me Now! And as soon as he’d got his ‘I’m not available’ speech out of the way, he went straight back to hostilities as normal. As we drew level with the coast, he said if he had to sit through Bat Out Of Hell one more time he’d leave the car. So as we drove along the last few miles gasping at the views across the beach to the glittering sea, he put Titanium on repeat, at the same volume Jules played his Going to War Collection. Just to be clear, we’re talking serious loudness here. Decibel levels that made my cheeks shudder and the door panels vibrate. Then, as we arrived at the car park and he manoeuvred the beer-mobile into his preferred, inappropriately conspicuous beach-edge space, I was still yelling ‘I’m bulletproof, no time to lose’ at the top of my voice all the way to the end of the song. So by the time we begin our hike to the venue, I’m feeling pretty damned unstoppable. Put it this way, if I were about to cycle a hundred mile stage in the Tour de France with Chris Froome, I’d put money on me getting a podium place. Add in the sunshine, and the fact Rory let me sing along to Let It Go three times too, I’m crossing the gravel with the exuberance of a manic lemming haring towards a proverbial cliff edge. In fact, I’m zooming so fast, Rory is having to do a leap every third step to keep up.
‘I’m all good … so far,’ I try to say, but as fast as I open my mouth to form the words, from somewhere deep inside me a breath comes and whooshes the words out to sea. So instead I’m nodding, wildly. As Rory sweeps in front of me to open the diesel-blue door of the Old Lifeboat Station, my knees give a sudden, unexpected creak. When I try to move forward, it’s as if every bit of ‘unstoppable me’ has pooled in the soles of my feet and turned to glue. That’s the trouble with a spontaneous, totally unplanned stop. Rory has no idea it’s happened, so he carries on and bowls right on in, straight into the path of – according to what it says on her sweatshirt – the mother of the bride. He glances over his shoulder, clocks me, rooted to the spot in the doorway, doing my best guppie impersonation. Then makes a typically Rory Sanderson kind of executive decision and bashes on regardless.
He shoots out his hand and grabs the woman by the wrist. ‘Hello there, we’re Rory and Holly, the photographers standing in for Jules. And it’s great to meet you.’ His voice takes on this irresistible low resonance. In the split second it takes for him to grasp her hand and grin, it’s obvious he’s already got her.
She softens, then gives a giggle. ‘What a total hero you are, Rory. We’re so grateful to you for coming to our rescue.’ Despite being almost old enough to be his mother, from the way she’s leaning in, she’s definitely flirting. As for her totally overlooking that I’m here, given I’ve signed the ‘no publicity’ clause, I can hardly complain. In fact, it couldn’t be better.
He’s wiggling his eyebrows at her. ‘We’re sponsored by Roaring Waves Brewery, by the way. The car’s right outside and there’s a complementary crate of Bad Ass Santa coming your way later.’
Even if I’m rooted in the doorway, my own eyebrows are mobile enough to go skywards in horror.
He’s calling to me, walking backwards into the venue. ‘Come on, Holly, time to find the bride.’
Somehow, as I shuffle after him, I force out an incredulous croak. ‘Sponsorship?’
His shrug is inscrutable. ‘Obviously I’m not rude enough to crash their big day without compensation. Once they see the paint job, most grooms want pictures with it anyway. It’s win-win for everyone.’
If he hadn’t made such an effort to look smart, I’d tackle him on that. As it is, under his windcheater, his white shirt is expensive and ironed. Any other chin and I’d admit it looked fabulous against the stubble. So fabulous there are flutters where there shouldn’t be any. It’s obviously because it’s a year since I had sex and crisp white shirts remind me so much of Luc. Let’s face it, I’m a beggar not a chooser here. So to calm myself down, I focus on the decorations that have appeared since Friday.
‘Wow, this place is looking fab.’ As we hurry across the wide-open space I’m dazzled by the stunning driftwood Christmas trees and enough white fairy lights to illuminate most of Lapland.
As we arrive at the dressing room, Rory taps on the door, waits for the word from inside, then eases it open. ‘Rory and Holly, photographers coming to the rescue.’ If he’s rushing around, acting like he’s the responsible adult here, for once I’m happy to let that go.
The room we’re walking into is a lot smaller and more simple than Poppy’s. Three girls in pale-grey fleecy robes are clustered by a long mirror next to a kettle. The one with the Bride embroidered on her ch
est steps forward.
‘Hey, I’m Nancy…’
I dive into my camera bag. ‘Great, bride in hair rollers, with a cup of tea. That’s a brilliant first picture. And it’s lovely to meet you too, Nancy.’ There’s no time to lose. The sooner I start, the more chance there is of me salvaging anything for any of us.
It seems a bit abrupt, not to say bizarre, air-kissing literally three seconds before I start taking pictures of the most important day in Nancy’s life.
‘Brilliant. And another of the champagne bucket, then the make-up bags.’ I’m mentally ticking the shots off the prompt list Jules emailed me yesterday, along with the list of groups he’d agreed with the bride and groom. We’ve got those on paper, and Rory, being a guy who has an iPad permanently in his jacket pocket, put them on there too.
Rory gives me a nudge. ‘So, if you’re all settled in, Hols, I’ll just grab a camera and head off to meet the guys at the pub.’ He glances into my open bag for a second, then grabs one of my spares and slings the strap over his shoulder. ‘Catch you later then.’
What can I say? Rory’s never one to stay away when there’s beer to be sampled. And that camera of his must be as non-existent as I thought all along. I’m left shaking my head, and looking around the room, because compared to Zoe’s day, it feels like there’s something missing. Then it suddenly strikes me. ‘So where’s your hair and make-over team?’
Nancy laughs. ‘Emily’s fabulous with plaiting and we’re doing our own make-up.’ She nods at the bridesmaid without rollers. ‘This is more of a low-input kind of wedding than a biggie. We want everything to be understated and natural.’
I nod. ‘I noticed the driftwood decorations. They look amazing.’
Nancy smiles and wanders across the room. ‘The bridesmaids are in short scarlet dresses, for a splash of winter colour.’ She nods at them hanging on the wall. And this is my wedding dress. Bought on eBay.’ She slides off the cover and the mass of tulle and muslin layers she shakes out seem lighter than air.’
I can’t help gasping. ‘Wow, so simple, yet so beautiful. It’s what I’d imagine a mermaid might wear.’
Her eyes light up. ‘That’s exactly what I thought. I love that it’s almost ragged, as if the wind’s torn it. It seems so right when we’re getting married by the beach.’
‘I’ll take some pictures.’ Although I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it justice. ‘Is it okay if I borrow your hair strand?’ Pearls trailing across make the fabric seem softer than ever. If the day carries on like this, I might just pull it off.
‘I’ve got a chunky grey hand-knitted wrap for when we’re outside.’ She gives a rueful grin. ‘The dress really goes with the lovely venue. I can’t believe we only stumbled on this place by accident. We were struggling, because there weren’t many places that accepted dogs.’
‘There’s a dog?’ I’m almost swallowing my tongue.
She nods. ‘Two, actually. They’re like our babies. We couldn’t get married without them.’
‘B-b-but …’ My mind’s racing. Humans that do as they’re told are bad enough. I’m totally unprepared for the randomness of dogs. I’m trying hard to sound less thrown than I am, so I yank my voice down back to where it should be. ‘There weren’t any dogs on the group lists … were there?’
Nancy looks mildly ashamed. ‘Hetty and Hannah? I know we might be overdoing it. They’re in pretty much every picture.’
I hesitate for a minute, to get this right, because I’ve seen the names. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought Hetty and Hannah were bridesmaids.’
Nancy giggles. ‘They’d like to think that. And they have got red satin collars to match the bridesmaids and the flowers.’
Talking of crimson, as I catch a glimpse of my hot cheeks in the mirror, it’s bloody obvious today’s concealer foundation isn’t totally up to the job without the added talc crust. It could be worse. Some people have pet tigers or alligators. Hopefully these dog babies will be the kind people keep in their handbags. The sort that only emerge for the odd cuddle and pee stop. One time when I was in Paris when Luc was on business, I saw a woman with three in one Gucci carrier. I make my voice bright, scour the room for doggy holdalls and force myself to ask. ‘So are they here now?’
Nancy rolls her eyes. ‘Oh my, if you knew how out of control they are in new situations, you would not be asking that. We’re bringing them in just before the ceremony, otherwise they might demolish the Christmas trees. And they’re horrors with food. If they were here, they’d definitely steal our cupcakes.’
Worse and worse. ‘What kind are they?’ I once saw a Scottie dog skittle a toddler, so I’m throwing out the handbag idea and adjusting my expectations upwards.
Nancy’s clasping her hands. ‘You mustn’t panic. Truly, they don’t eat photographers. Jules met them and they all got on fabulously.’
‘Okay … tell me …’ My hands are waving, and I try to imagine the biggest dogs I can. As I get to Labradors I’ve a feeling I might be hyperventilating.
‘They’re Great Danes.’
Shit. ‘But aren’t they like … really huge?’ Compared to the sausages and individual trifles I’m used to taking pictures of, they might as well be racehorses.
‘Don’t worry, once they stop jumping around, they’re complete sweeties.’ One of the bridesmaids passes her a mug and she pushes it into my hand. ‘Sit down, have some tea. Then we thought you could do us a few ”mad girls in dressing gown” poses. We can nip out onto the balcony before the guys and the dogs get here?’
The bride talking me down from my ledge again. How does this keep happening? Two gulps of tea later the fun begins and we spend the next hour chasing around the venue. We start with the girls jumping on the extra-long sofas waving their arms in the air and end with them flopped on the tub chairs back in the dressing room. In between we visit most points, including the beach where I snap them leaping in front of the sea and jumping out of the way of the waves. Then we head back for another round of pictures as they take out their rollers and move onto make-up.
Nancy’s smoothing cream onto her cheeks. ‘That was such a laugh, Holly. You could hire yourself out for hen parties too. I wish you’d been at mine.’
And I’m wishing I was. When they were messing around with balloons, we were having so much fun, I almost forgot this was a wedding. Now we’re back, I crash back to earth with a bump. Here’s me laughing with the bridesmaids, when there’s a thousand other images to capture. I should be out, making the most of the empty venue, to get views of the decorations and the table flowers, and the ceremony room, with its rows of chairs, and twig and rosemary posies. A couple of hundred shots later, I’m hurtling back to the dressing room again to make the most of the lovely moment when Nancy’s mum helps her into her dress.
Once Nancy loses her bulky fleece, there’s very little of her left underneath. If the dress looked amazing on the hanger, on Nancy’s slender frame, it looks out of this world, even before it’s done up. She slips her shoes on, and stands, hands on her waist, as her mum does up her zip. Then as she gently tweaks the big bow, the enormity of what’s about to happen to Nancy finally hits her mum. As her chin starts to wobble, I’m feeling like a guilty intruder in their private moment. But as I catch the actual first tear rolling down her cheek, I’m mentally punching the air because I’ve got at least one decent shot of the day. Then cringing because I’ve been so crass.
Then her mum’s gone and her dad comes in, and it’s tears all over again. I’m so busy catching every minute, I barely have time to breathe, let alone worry. When Rory rushes in, even though it’s been hours, I’m surprised he’s back so soon.
He gives me a hard stare. ‘Still holding up, Berry?’
I suddenly remember there’s something way more important than my stomach somersaulting. Which is obviously down to the adrenalin rush. ‘Have you seen the dogs?’
He laughs. ‘We met at the pub. They’re totally adorable, just like those big stone dog statues people have ou
tside their stately homes. Only bigger.’ As he gives my arm a squeeze, he seems to be missing the point that statues don’t move. ‘Okay, come on, we need to get to the ceremony room. I’ve got your bells here for later, but don’t worry, I’ve got the list ready. I’ll get everyone to their places. You’re going to nail this, okay? You can count on me. I’ll be a hundred per cent here for you. All the way.’
Seeing who’s talking, that’s a lot more worrying than reassuring. If my heart wasn’t lurching before, it is now. Although as I tiptoe into the ceremony room and make my way to the front, and the registrars smile at me, it’s more the feeling of a gaping hole in my chest, as if my heart has left my body entirely.
‘Here they come.’ Rory’s next to me, breathing in my ear, reminding me I meant to ask what his aftershave is. On anyone other than him, it would smell pretty damned impressive.
‘Who’s coming?’ There’s another huge lurch, as though I’ve been thumped in the chest. He can’t mean Nancy and her dad, yet.
Rory’s laugh is low. ‘Hetty and Hannah, of course.’ No surprise that he’s on first name terms already. ‘Dark grey, very photogenic. Aren’t they perfect with the suits?’
There’s a scrabbling of paws and panting, and two dogs dash up to the front, each hauling a groomsman behind them. Then they launch themselves at Scott, who jackknifes onto a chair.
Rory hisses at me, ‘Quick, over there, get the groom being trampled by his hounds.’
If I shudder, it’s because there’s so much slobber involved. I hiss back, hardly daring to lower my camera. ‘All done.’ As I pan around and zoom in on the people taking their seats, and the registrars, I can’t help noticing Rory’s got my spare camera up, looking through the viewfinder, pretending to take pictures. So if I’m a fake photographer, pretending to be a real one, jeez knows what that makes him.
