Be Careful What You Wish For (41 page)

‘No, of course not, darling,’ says Lionel. ‘It’s just that Ed mentioned your finances . . .’

I shoot my brother a warning look, but he pretends to be interested in a patch of grass.

‘. . . and I know Rosemary was really looking forward to seeing your photographs of all those famous people . . .’

Rosemary flushes guiltily.

With all eyes on me I take Ed’s mobile. I feel unexpectedly nervous. Despite what Brian said, I still feel terrible about letting him down at such short notice, and I want to make it up to him. But can I really face being the wedding photographer’s assistant at Daniel’s wedding? Taking close-ups of a man who broke my heart into a million pieces saying ‘I do’?

Yes, you can, Heather, I tell myself firmly.

And all of a sudden I make a decision. So what if I’m dreading seeing Daniel? So what if I’m the one crying in the church this time? I punch in the number. Brian and the business are more important and I’m going to put them first.

‘Hello, Together Forever.’ It’s Brian. He sounds stressed.

I grope around in my head, trying to think of an easy way in to this conversation, then give up and blurt, ‘I don’t suppose you still need an assistant for tomorrow, do you?’

His surprise is audible.

‘Yep, it’s me.’

At the other end of the line I listen nervously to him dragging on his cigarette. Then he laughs quietly.

‘You’re going to need a fancy hat.’

 

A
s it turns out I need a lot more than a hat.

‘Lights?’

‘Check.’

‘Tripods.’

‘Check.’

‘Two Hasselblads, a Nikon, the reflector, sixty rolls of film and three lenses.’

‘Check, check, check, check . . . um . . . check.’

It’s the morning of Lady Charlotte’s wedding, and we’re at Shillingham Abbey in Oxfordshire. The abbey is part of the ancestral home of the Duke and Duchess, and it’s nestled in the type of picturesque village you’d expect on a postcard – there’s a duck pond, cottages with rambling roses growing round the door, and more Hunter wellies and Barbour jackets than the whole of the Royal Family owns.

‘Is that everything?’ Brian is asking, looking up from the array of camera equipment laid out on the gravel driveway.

Pausing from unloading cases out of the back of the Together Forever van, I think hard. Then remember. ‘Oh, hang on a minute, we can’t forget these . . .’ I reach into the depths, rummage around and produce a large tub of Vaseline. ‘For the lens,’ I remind him.

‘Oh, of course.’ He rolls his eyes skyward as he pops it into his pocket.

‘And then there’s this.’

‘An electric fan?’ he scoffs. ‘What the blazes do we need that for?’

We exchange a look that says ‘Lady Charlotte’.

‘Originally she wanted a wind machine,’ I explain, rolling up its cord, ‘but I told her we could achieve the same effect with a portable fan.’

‘This isn’t a music video, you know.’ He tuts irritably.

‘Tell that to her,’ I say, and dump it in his arms. Something tells me this is going to be a big day. For all of us.

Since my initial phone call a few days ago, Brian and I have spoken quite a lot and he knows all about Lionel’s heart-attack, Gabe’s uncle being Victor Maxfield, and my decision not to take the job at the
Sunday Herald.
True to character, he’s been a rock, listening supportively, telling me loyally what a great photographer I am, and immediately offering me my old job back. ‘Which, of course, goes without saying, but there’s no rush, take your time,’ he’s saying now, as he paces round the exterior of the abbey, taking readings from his light meter.

‘Thanks, Brian, I really appreciate it.’ Perched on a case, I smile gratefully. With everything that’s been happening, I haven’t yet made any firm decisions on what I’m going to do about my career. With my dream of working for the
Sunday Herald
over I’m effectively unemployed, and although I love working with Brian, we both know that after six years it’s time for me to move on.

But to where I have no idea.

‘Oh, it’s no problem, no problem.’ He takes out a tissue and dabs the perspiration from his face. ‘To be quite frank, Heather, after this dratted wedding we’re both going to need a rest.’ He fiddles with his cravat, trying to loosen his collar, which is so heavily starched that it’s like a neck brace. Forced to swap his trusted grey flannel suit for the full top hat and tails, he’s been uncomfortable all morning. ‘Pity that poor groom, that’s all I can say,’ he mutters to himself, as he strides over to the van and checks his reflection in the wing mirror.

‘Well, that’s another thing,’ I say hesitantly. There’s a pause. Having tried not to think about it, Daniel suddenly rears his ugly head. ‘The groom’s my ex.’

Brian stares at me, not understanding.

‘Remember Daniel?’ I say quietly, and feel a familiar knot in my stomach. Oh, God, this is what I’ve been afraid of.

Brian’s jaw would have dropped, had his collar not been nearly strangling him. ‘Gordon Bennett, how could I forget? He broke your heart . . .’ Wide-eyed, he continues to stare at me, and then, ‘You’ve known all along and you still offered to be my assistant today . . .’ His voice breaks off as he gazes at me, his eyes filling up. ‘Heather, that’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ He hurries over to give me a hug.

‘Stop it, or you’ll have me crying,’ I protest, my voice muffled by his shoulder. ‘And you know I don’t cry at weddings.’

He laughs, sniffing away his tears. ‘Thank you, Heather.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ I smile, and then, gesturing at the equipment scattered around our feet, say briskly. ‘Come on, we’ve got a wedding to photograph.’ And hoisting a tripod under each arm I set off towards the abbey.

We spend the next ten minutes setting up: lights over by the altar, reflector near the pulpit, a tripod at both ends of the aisle. In fact, it’s only when Brian pops out to get more extension leads from the van – which means he’s gone for a quick smoke – that I take a moment to look at my surroundings.

The abbey is breathtaking. Its sheer size inspires a kind of stunned awe, and I walk round, head tilted back, gazing up at the shafts of sunlight shining through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the smooth stone floors.

And then there are the flowers: hundreds of thousands in huge elaborate arrangements, cascading from columns, at the end of each pew, strung up high in big garlands. The place is a blaze of pink and white. Though to be honest, I think they’ve overdone it a bit. Isn’t it supposed to be about quality, not quantity? In fact, the more I think about it, the more it looks a bit tacky. I mean, it’s so over the top, it’s like the Chelsea Flower show in here.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s not over the top, it’s absolutely bloody beautiful. I’m just trying to make myself feel better.

I inhale the heavily perfumed air. There’s no point in pretending, I have to face up to it, whether I like it or not. This is where Daniel, the man with whom I shared three years of my life, will get married today.

Only not to me.

I feel a deep ache and the stirring of a wishful thought. I banish it quickly. Oh no you don’t . . .

Interrupted by the creak of the door I turn round expecting to see Brian with the extension cords. The figure of a man is silhouetted in the doorway but as he starts up the aisle I realise it’s not Brian.

He’s thinner than I remember and a little older round the eyes, but he still makes my stomach flip. And now he’s only a few feet from me and we’re both staring at each other and my heart’s thumping so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. Bumping into your bastard ex-boyfriend who broke your heart is one thing. But the church on his wedding day? Well, you can imagine.

‘Hello, Daniel,’ I say evenly, summoning up every scrap of composure in my body.

He takes off his top hat and smiles crookedly, ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he retorts, but beneath his confident veneer he seems uncharacteristically self-conscious. I smile back and then, not knowing what to say next, fiddle with my hair, waiting for him to speak.

‘You look great,’ he blurts out.

I feel a ridiculous jolt of pleasure. ‘Thanks,’ I say nonchalantly.

‘And different. Did you do something to your hair?’

‘No.’ I shrug, but inside I feel like yelling, ‘Of course I did something to my hair! I did something to
every single part of my body.
I got up at six a.m. this morning and spent three whole hours getting ready. I even bought a new cream trouser suit for the occasion, borrowed a Philip Treacy hat from Rosemary, and am wearing my gorgeous pink satin stilettos even though my ankle’s really painful.’

But of course he doesn’t know any of that, and he’s not going to.

‘So, was this your idea?’ Cutting through the pleasantries, I ask him the question that’s been bugging for me for weeks. ‘Brian and I photographing your wedding.’

‘You’re the best wedding photographer I know,’ he answers jokingly.

‘Daniel, I’m the only wedding photographer you know,’ I point out drily.

Immediately his face falls and, like a small boy who’s been reprimanded, he bows his head and stares contritely at his feet. ‘I dunno what I was thinking,’ he says quietly. ‘I thought it would be great for business. I just mentioned it to Charlotte . . .’ His voice trails off as he looks up at me from underneath his brows, his eyes searching for mine, and for a moment I’m sure I see more than just a flicker of regret.

‘It’s good to see you, Heather.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I’ve missed you.’

I stare at him in stunned silence. For months after we first broke up I fantasised about this happening. About him telling me how wonderful I looked, how much he missed me. But now, listening to him actually saying the words, I realise I had confused nostalgia with reality. And the reality is I don’t care any more. I don’t care if Daniel has missed me, and I don’t care that he’s marrying someone else.

The only person I care about is Gabe.

Finally I admit it and, as I do, all the thoughts and feelings I’ve kept hidden burst through my consciousness to the surface. The gratitude I felt when Gabe defended me to Rosemary at the dinner table, the terror when I thought something had happened to him surfing, the wretchedness after we rowed and he moved out. And all the hundreds of fleeting glances, smiles, pauses and moments when I thought something was going to happen, felt something going on between us, but dismissed it. All those tiny fragments are piecing together now and suddenly I feel as if I’m looking at a loved-up jigsaw. Oh, God.

‘I’m really sorry about everything that happened. I was a total idiot . . .’

I zone back in to realise Daniel’s still talking to me.

‘Are you still angry with me?’ he asks.

I stare at him calmly. In the beginning anger was the only thing that kept me going but now, looking inside myself, I can’t find any left. It’s trickled away without me noticing. ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not angry.’

‘I got your text.’

‘Oh, that!’ I blush with embarrassment. ‘I was drunk.’

‘You were?’ I’m surprised to see he seems disappointed. ‘I can’t remember what I put. Was it anything bad?’

He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘No, nothing embarrassing.’

There’s a pause.

‘I should go. I’ve got to finish getting everything ready,’ I say.

‘Actually, there’s been a change . . .’

I look at him sharply.

‘What kind of change?’

‘Charlotte’s had second thoughts about the ceremony.’ He’s rubbing his jaw agitatedly.

This is the first time I’ve ever seen Daniel nervous.

‘She doesn’t want anything conventional,’ he’s saying, ‘so we’ve decided on handfasting in the woods across the river.’

I look at him blankly.

‘It’s a pagan ceremony,’ he adds in explanation.

‘A pagan ceremony?’
I repeat, staring at him as if he’s just grown two heads.
‘You?’

He stiffens.

‘So?’ he says defensively. ‘Why shouldn’t I have a pagan ceremony?’

‘Daniel, you hate anything alternative. You won’t even drink camomile tea,’ I say.

‘It tastes like crap.’

‘That’s not the point.’

He stares at me for a moment as if prepared to argue, before letting his shoulders slump wearily in surrender. ‘You’re right. I hate it.’

And with those words it’s as if something lifts and I see him in a new light. This is a man I used to be in awe of. A man who seemed so self-assured, and in control, to the point of arrogance. And yet he seems so pathetic so, dare I say it,
henpecked.

‘Charlotte’s got very strong opinions,’ he continues.

‘I’ve noticed,’ I mutter.

He flashes me a look. ‘She’s very particular about what she wants.’

‘And what Charlotte wants, Charlotte must have,’ I answer brightly, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. And failing.

Heaving a huge sigh, he looks at me like a drowning man. ‘Something like that.’

I open my mouth to say something, but before anything can come out—

Like the siren of a police car, a voice echoes through the abbey. Startled, we turn to see a flurry of white silk taffeta hurtling down the aisle.
Lady Charlotte.

‘Shit,’ groans Daniel. ‘What’s wrong, Bunnykins?’ he coos, forcing a smile as she arrives at the altar.

Bunnykins?
From a man who didn’t believe in PDA and refused to hold my hand? Even when I sprained my ankle.

The muscle in his jaw jumps.

‘Elton John’s got laryngitis and won’t be able to sing at the reception, the delivery of Cristal hasn’t arrived, and I don’t think I like my new titties any more.’ Lady Charlotte appears not to have noticed I’m here. She thrusts out her chest and pouts sulkily. ‘They make me look fat.’