Be Careful What You Wish For (2 page)

Instead of making a mess, cheating, and tweaking my left nipple backwards and forwards as if it’s the dial on their car stereo and they’re trying to tune into Capital Radio. Not that I’m referring to Daniel, my ex, or anything.

(See what I mean about them not having to be realistic?)

I glance down at my legs. Think orange stripes. Like a deck-chair.

Whose real name is Rosemary, and who I refer to as proof that wicked stepmothers aren’t just the stuff of fairytales.

Or tried to look cool by skating backwards and falling flat on my backside. Correction: flat on the iPod. Which is now broken.

Embarrassing enough without being ushered into a little room by a sour-faced supervisor who’d called my bank, picked up a pair of scissors and cut my shiny, flexible friend in half ‘on orders from your bank manager’.

Phew-wheeh.
I hear a wolf whistle and zone back in. Only to see a gang of workmen staring at my chest. Which brings me swiftly to the next wish on my list:

Putting my head down I attempt to stride past nonchalantly. OK, just ignore them, Heather. Don’t make eye-contact. Just keep walking and pretend you can’t see them. Just a few more steps and you’ll have got past them . . . Easy-peasy. See, workmen aren’t so bad.

‘Oy, show us your tits.’

Blushing hotly, I hurry past, pretending to look at my watch to avoid their gaze. Which is when I see what time it is. Oh, fuck.

Because it’s already twenty past.
And he’s going to kill me.

On the front steps of Marylebone register office, a slim, attractive, grey-haired man in a charcoal flannel suit, who could pass for his mid-fifties but is a decade older, is rocking backwards and forwards on the heels of his highly polished shoes. He checks his watch, looks up and down the road, then sighs and turns his attention to his button-hole. The pink carnation is wilting in the heat and he fiddles with it agitatedly.

That’s Brian, and although he can’t see me hurrying towards him because of all the pavement traffic, I can see him. He cuts an awkward figure, standing alone and conspicuous in his smartly tailored suit, with someone else’s confetti scattered at his feet. A few passers-by glance at him pityingly. Not that he notices. He’s too busy checking his watch again and digging out his mobile from his breast pocket. He flips open the mouthpiece, taps in a number, forefinger stabbing the buttons awkwardly like someone who can’t type, then presses it to his ear.

A hundred yards away, I hear a familiar tune. Sticking my hand into my bag I wiggle my fingers around until finally I locate my Nokia. Just as it stops ringing. Damn.

I yank it out, along with the hands-free earpiece which is all tangled up as usual, and stare at the screen. One missed call. Hurriedly I dial voicemail. ‘You have one new message.’

As I wait to hear it I wave frantically at Brian but he’s got his back to me and all I can see is the hunch of his shoulders as he lights a cigarette.

‘It’s me, Brian. I’m outside the register office and I’m getting a little nervous. And, well, not to put too fine a point on it, Heather, where the bleedin’ ’ell are you?’

Oh dear.

As his voice hisses at me I realise I’m in big trouble. I hit reply and he picks up immediately. ‘Heather?’

‘Right here,’ I gasp, sneaking up behind him and tapping his shoulder.

It’s an attempt to defuse the situation with humour. Instead it nearly causes a heart-attack. Brian swings round clutching his chest, the lit Benson & Hedges wedged between his fingers. He glares at me accusingly. ‘You’re late,’ he snaps into his mobile. Then, realising what he’s doing, he curses, flips the mouthpiece shut and shoves the phone into his pocket.

‘I know and I’m so sorry,’ I apologise, then try to explain. ‘My alarm didn’t go off and the tube took for ever and I’d bought these stupid new sandals—’

‘Well, at least you’re here now,’ he interrupts, grinding out his cigarette under his shoe and buttoning his jacket. Everything Brian does is rushed and twitchy. He reminds me of a bird, all ruffled feathers and darting eyes. ‘But we’d better hurry up,’ he’s saying, smoothing down his lapels and picking off an invisible thread with the meticulous attention of someone who irons his underpants.

‘Where is everyone?’ I hurry after him up the front steps.

‘Inside. Waiting for us.’ He pulls open the front door and holds it for me. ‘I’ve been here ages. When you didn’t show up I came outside to look for you.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I apologise again and duck my head under his arm. I’m a lot taller than Brian, especially in my new sandals, and I have to stoop as I step into the cool darkness of the lobby, where I pause to check my reflection in the gilt-edged mirror.

I’m your typical redhead, pale skin and freckles, lots of wavy scarlet hair, and painful childhood memories of being called Gingernut, Duracell, and something unrepeatable that involves pubic hair and rhyming slang. Honestly, I’m surprised I’m not in therapy for the rest of my life. Not just at the hairdresser’s having blonde highlights put in every six weeks to turn me into a strawberry blonde. Usually I blow-dry it straight, but today it’s gone all puffy in the heat. I try to smooth it down. Which is when I notice Brian. In the mirror I can see him standing behind me, staring at the floor. ‘What happened to your feet?’ he demands.

Remembering, I look down. ‘Fashion,’ I quip, bending down and trying to hide the toilet paper that’s sticking out from between my toes.

Usually he’d laugh, make some wisecrack, or quiz me about my latest shopping spree. Unlike most men of his age Brian makes sure he keeps abreast of new trends – he’s always nicking my copy of
Vogue
even though he insists it’s only to look at the photography – and is fastidious about fashion. But this time he huffs dismissively.

‘Shall we?’ he monotones, clenching his teeth. The muscles in his jaw twitch and he glares at me with flashing grey eyes. Despite his mood he’s incredibly handsome for an older man.

‘Yeah . . . I mean, yes . . . of course . . .’ I gabble, feeling like a child who’s misbehaved.

Together we cross the marble lobby, our footsteps unnervingly loud. Ahead of us is an impressive set of mahogany doors. Muttering something about how the next wedding party is due to arrive at any minute and if we don’t hurry up the whole thing will turn into a shambles, Brian reaches for the brass door handle.

I place a hand on his arm. ‘Hang on a sec.’ Tugging a packet of tissues out of my bag, I tear open the Cellophane and hold out a tissue. ‘I know how you cry at weddings.’

He frowns, not giving an inch.

I wave the little white triangle like a flag.

It’s too much. He surrenders, his forehead unknots and the tension drains from his face. ‘I’m sorry. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to turn up.’ Accepting my peace offering he tucks it deftly up his sleeve.

‘What? Jilt you at the register office?’ I whisper.

The corners of his mouth twitch. ‘Mmm, something like that.’

We share a smile. He straightens his tie, smooths down his hair to disguise where it’s receding and throws back his shoulders. ‘Ready?’

I pull at the hem of my skirt and tuck a stray curl behind my ear. ‘Ready.’ I nod, feeling a jangle of nerves.

We both stare straight ahead, faces serious. I brace myself.

‘OK. So, this is it.’ Reaching for the door handle, Brian takes a deep breath.
‘Showtime.’

 

A
vista of multi-coloured hats, their ostrich feathers and silk netting fluttering in the wind from the ceiling fans, greets us as we enter. The room is absolutely jammed. The guests are sitting shoulder to padded shoulder, fidgeting uncomfortably in the stifling heat and trading family gossip. A couple of children have grown bored and are playing what looks like tag round the two huge floral decorations that are standing guard, like a couple of Calla lily bouncers, at either side of the doorway. Somewhere a baby is crying.

No one notices as Brian and I enter from the back, except, of course, the registrar who’s waiting for us at the top of the aisle. In a garish shirt and open-toed sandals he flings us a look of relief and hurries towards us. Or should I say ‘trots’. This is definitely a man who prays to the God of Graham Norton.

‘Oh, my word, thank goodness,’ he whispers loudly. ‘I was beginning to think we were going to have a riot on our hands.’ Scratching his goatee, he rolls his eyes round the room theatrically.

‘Don’t worry, the cavalry’s here now.’ Brian tugs a little black object out of his pocket, holds it out in front of him and points it in different directions.

The registrar stares at him quizzically. ‘What’s that?’

‘A light meter,’ I reply, and spot the pile of cases in the corner. Unzipping a black holdall, I pull out a tripod and begin to assemble it. ‘We need to check the readings for the exposure.’

The registrar nods. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘As the official wedding photographer it’s my job to make sure the happy couple get the photos they’ve always dreamed of,’ interjects Brian, reaching for his camera and selecting a lens. ‘Because memories fade . . .’

On hearing my cue I join in: ‘. . . but a photograph lasts a lifetime,’ we chime together.

‘That’s the motto of Together Forever,’ Brian continues, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. He passes me the lens cap and points the camera at the registrar. ‘I thought of it myself.’

‘You did?’ The registrar looks dubious. ‘I thought it was already a well-known saying . . .’

The shutter releases with a loud click, catching him by surprise. ‘Oh, goodness!’ Captured with his mouth wide open like a fish, the registrar stands blinking after the brightness of the flash. Which brings us to the attention of the wedding party, who turn round in their chairs in excited anticipation.

A hush falls as all eyes turn towards us. But I know they’re not looking
at
us – we’re just the wedding photographers – they’re too busy looking
beyond us,
at the doors that are swinging open as someone presses ‘play’ on the tape-recorder. The sound of a sax fills the air and Whitney Houston blasts into ‘I Will Always Love You’. As the registrar scuttles back up the aisle, Brian and I take our positions. Here we go.

I wait expectantly. This is the moment when the bride makes her grand entrance and you get to see the dress. It’s my favourite bit. After all, most of us, at some point in our lives, have dreamed about what we’ll wear to our own wedding. When I was about six years old my favourite game was dressing up in my white nightie and Mum’s old wedding veil and pretending to marry Barney, my teddy. One day I fell over in the mud in the garden and my mum dried my tears and told me I looked beautiful anyway – because every bride is beautiful on her wedding day. It’s only since I took this job that I’ve realised my mum told fibs.

Because, yes, I’ve seen lots of brides look beautiful in their dresses, but I’ve also seen big white meringues that make you want to cover your eyes with your fingers, family heirlooms that should have stayed in the attic, and corsets so tightly laced that the bride is literally spilling over the top like ice-cream in a cornet. Not to mention the dodgy veils, tacky tiaras and twenty-foot-long sequined trains. Believe me, Trinny and Susannah would have a field day. But, then, who I am to talk? I have loo roll stuffed between my toes.

There’s a loud sob from the mother of the bride. Oohing and aahing from the elderly relatives. A stifled giggle from one of the boys who was playing tag, followed by a clip round his ear from his dad.

And a gasp from me.

Only this time it’s not because of my blisters.

Before me, in a bright pink dress that looks like something worn by a Spanish flamenco dancer, is a bride who’s old enough to be my mother. Actually, no, I’m mistaken.
My grandmother.

‘You look gorgeous, sweetheart,’ gushes Brian, rattling off frame after a frame.

What can I say? This man is a pro.

‘The dress is stunning . . . just a little bit to the left . . . truly stunning . . . Now, big smile for the camera . . .’

Passing him a new roll of film I watch him in admiration. Brian’s been doing this for so long he’s caught full-blown wedding fever. It doesn’t matter whether they’re big or small, traditional or themed, he adores every last one of them. He was married once, way back in his early twenties, to some model called Phoebe, but they divorced amicably after a couple of years (I’m not sure if that was before or after he admitted he was gay) and since then he’s had a string of failed affairs.

Not that this has stopped him being a true romantic. If anything, it’s made him even
more
romantic. He gets all misty-eyed at the first sight of a ribbon rippling on the front of a white Rolls. Can’t listen to the Bridal March without dabbing his eyes with his sleeve, and borrowing tissues from the mother of the bride to blow his nose all the way through the vows. Honestly, he’s a complete mess. By ‘till death do us part’ he has to go outside for some fresh air.