out of the door and I’m busy working out what the hell I can do to get out of Tuesday’s wedding.
Tuesday 5th December
In the Bride’s dressing room at Daisy Hill Farm House: Drain pipes and perfect shots
‘So, Holly, the dress and the girls are all yours now.’ Jules flips his scarf so high it bangs on the brides’ dressing room chandelier, and sends it jumping wildly. ‘I’m off to catch Aidan and the boys having breakfast at the Goose and Duck.’ As he flounces towards the door there a brief flash of sapphire as he glances at his watch. ‘I’ll be back at twelve, for Zoe’s “bride gets buttoned up” pics.’ As yet, he’s still avoiding eye contact with me, and he hasn’t cracked even a fake smile in my direction either. This far, his lips are as zipped up as his next shot with Zoe.
Another day, another couple. First Nate and Becky. And now Zoe and Aidan. What started as a favour to some friends has somehow got right out of hand. And this pair couldn’t be more different from Nate and Becky and the huge ‘let it all hang out’ beach bash they’ve ended up with. Today’s couple are trying the knot in Rafe and Poppy’s amazing Georgian farmhouse at Daisy Hill Farm, in front of a mere forty guests. And having their reception and evening party here too. Although technically, given there’s chamber music rather than a disco, that part sounds more like a soiree than a wild party. As weddings go, this one’s teensy according to Poppy. And so far, I’ve managed to get some gorgeous shots of the flowers. So whatever happens, I haven’t scored a complete fail.
To be honest, I’m still picking my jaw off the floor at the idea of complete strangers welcoming me into their getting-ready room at all. We’re in the newly converted bridal suite, downstairs in the Old Farmhouse venue, where Poppy and Rafe have done a brilliant job with their renovations. It’s wall-to-wall luxury, with white carved chairs, whisper-grey velvet cushions and huge mirrors. And enough space to be hit by the explosion of a bride’s party complete with hair and make-up entourage and all the props, and still look elegant. According to Jess, who phoned from the first class lounge yesterday, as she waited to take off for Zurich, Zoe was – and I’m quoting here – ‘completely delighted to have an award-winning London photographer on board to add another dimension to her wedding album’. Jess might be the queen of spin, but when I see the curly hand- painted wooden sign hanging on the door, saying The dressing room, it leaves me feeling someone should hang one around my neck saying Fraud. And that’s the only point Jules and I would ever agree on.
When he whooshed through the shop yesterday afternoon to give me my briefing, it was a flying visit. However hard his mouth was working, his feet didn’t appear to touch the floor.
‘Fuel up in advance … prepare to be crushed by the weight of your cameras … your people skills will be pushed way beyond their limits …’ He was rapping like a machine gun, only pausing to give Jess’s desk a once-over. ‘You will be ready here for an eight thirty pick up?’
‘Yep.’ I was shrinking back against the wall as he nosied at the piles of papers on the table. ‘Absolutely.’ Despite only being an apprentice assistant, I managed to whisk the appointment book away from him just before he opened it to snoop.
Then he started again. ‘The bride and the groom will be jangling with so many nerves they won’t know which way’s up. You are the voice of reason they look to in their day of craziness. The sober one, when the rest of the room are off their faces. It’s high octane, high expectation and a lightweight won’t last two frames.’ He delivered his entire manifesto in the time he took to do a circuit of the White Room. ‘Oh, and no flashes, unless they’re off-camera.’
‘Great.’ No idea how I managed even a grim smile after that lot. This is exactly why I’d take pictures of a biryani rather than a bride every time. It’s a doddle in comparison. ‘Got you.’
Except he wasn’t quite done. He paused by the mannequin for one last sideswipe on his way to the hall. ‘If you think you can mosey in from Oxford Street and swan all over this, prepare yourself for an epic fail, Holly. If the only thing you learn is to stay the hell away from weddings in future, it will not have been a wasted day. For either of us.’
I was completely in agreement with him on that. But I never got the chance to tell him. Next thing, the hallway Christmas tree jingled as he bolted past. And before I got my words out the shop door slammed.
I’d heard that Jules is big on playlists for setting the mood. But more fool me for expecting Now That’s What I Call Love tunes on the way to the farm this morning. Instead it was Music To Go To War To. Rather than being lulled by the Coors and Adele, we left St Aidan to the battle music from Star Wars and hit Rose Hill to The Ride of the Valkyries, with the volume at 16. As far as subliminal messages go, it couldn’t have been more in my face. But whatever my preconceptions, I’m determined to give this opportunity everything I’ve got. After all Jules’s animosity, it’s a massive relief when he closes the door behind him again this morning. Now it’s just me, Zoe, her bridesmaids and the make-up ladies.
I warm up with a few shots of the jars spilling out of the make-up team’s boxes. I even dare to take a few reflections of the girls in the mirror. Then I walk across to where the dress is hanging and turn to Zoe. ‘Is it okay if I move this to where the light’s better?’ I’m feeling so guilty for being here, my apologetic plea couldn’t be further from Jules’s masterful orders.
Zoe peers past the hairdresser pulling rollers the size of drainpipes out of her hair. ‘Of course, help yourself.’
The champagne silk drifts as I move it across the room to a hook on the other side of the room. ‘Is this one of Sera’s designs?’ Even after only being in the shop for a couple of days, I can spot her trademarks. Fabulous flowing satin. The exquisite embroidery winding across the straps, the slight flare of skirt.
Zoe looks delighted that I’d know. ‘That’s right. It’s very light for December, but I fell in love with the way it moves. I’ve got a little fur jacket to go over it.’
‘I’ll try to capture how amazing the beading is.’ I hang on to the one useful thought Jules threw at me this morning. Never rush. Take your time for that perfect shot. A few minutes later, all thanks to Sera’s lovely work, I have some fabulous close ups.
Despite the hairdresser dragging her hair through the tongs, Zoe carries on, with a wistful look in her eyes. ‘We got engaged on Christmas Day last year, so we wanted to get married in winter too.’
I swallow my gulp at the coincidence and force my face into a smile. ‘Lovely.’ It comes out a lot too brightly. Although, truly, it’s good to know that someone’s festive proposal worked out well, even if mine crashed and burned. And if I’m silently groaning, this could have been me, I need to stop.
Zoe frowns at me as I put the dress back. ‘Are you sure you’re okay there?’ She dodges the hairdresser’s comb and nods at the ice bucket and champagne flutes. ‘Would you like some bubbly? You look even paler than I feel.’
And damn that it’s that obvious. ‘I’m fine.’ I’m lying. And dying of embarrassment too, because everyone knows the bride should have the monopoly on wobbles on her wedding day. I smother the shock waves and concentrate on how I was before. ‘Actually, I’m a bit nervous.’ It’s the ideal way to cover up that the moment I heard about her Christmas Day proposal I felt like passing out. ‘Whatever Jess
