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Chapter 19
August
“You know the wedding I’m doing in a few weeks?” Toby asks me, as I help him to tidy up the studio after his final set of Art Nude photos. In addition to chaperoning him with the various models he’s brought in for the book, I’ve taken to coming down and helping out when I’m around and not working. Toby says he enjoys the company, and he has shown me how to set up the lights and what the various different umbrellas and soft-boxes do, so I actually feel useful in here now. I’ve also learned quite a lot about cameras, and how changes in the various settings affect the final picture. It’s been surprisingly interesting, although I think I’ve seen enough female flesh in the Art Nude sessions to last me a lifetime. The models have been very varied, from tiny waif-like things that look like they’ll blow away in the breeze, to plus-sized women with curves aplenty. They’ve all radiated with confidence in front of the camera though, and I’m sure the book will be beautiful.
“The incredibly lavish one? Sophie double-barrelled something and James double-barrelled something else?” I reply.
“That’s the one. Sophie Beresford-Smith and James Huntingdon-Barfoot. It’s the first weekend of September. Are you around?”
I consult my phone diary. Toby and I have not long returned from a trip to Morocco, which I’m in the middle of writing up, and I know I’m going to the West Country to review a number of boutique hotels in the next week or two. I’ve also got a trip to the Caribbean in September, which I’m in two minds about. Although I love the Caribbean, it will still be the hurricane season, so the weather might not be great.
“I am,” I tell him. “It’s the weekend before I fly to Barbados.”
“Do you fancy coming along as my assistant? I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Won’t I just get in your way?”
“No. I’ll do all the main stuff, but I can find things for you to do. If it were a celebrity wedding, such as the one I did last week, then there would be no chance because you’d have to be vetted and everything. There’s no issue with this one though, and it promises to be quite a spectacle.”
I think about it. I do love weddings and, from what he’s told me about this one, it promises to be seriously over the top. The bride is the only daughter of a billionaire, so no expense has been spared.
“Count me in,” I grin.
“Excellent. It will be a fairly early start, as we have to get to the bride’s house to capture her getting ready, and we’re there until the first dance, so it will be a long day. Can you get here for seven o’clock?”
I make a note in my diary, and we head across the road for our traditional fish and chips. We’ve graduated from sitting on the floor in the studio, and now we eat it at the table in the kitchen of his flat.
On the day of the wedding, I arrive at Toby’s studio bang on seven o’clock. He’s already loaded his car, but there’s an extra rucksack by the back door, which he offers to me.
“I thought it was time you had your own kit,” he explains, “so I’ve got you a camera, a flash, and some lenses. Have a look.”
I open the rucksack and see a camera pretty much identical to the one he’s taught me to use, with a standard zoom lens, a telephoto lens and a wide-angle. There’s also a flash unit in there.
“It’s for you to keep,” he tells me as I adjust the settings and take a couple of test shots to check the results.
“Oh, Toby. I can’t possibly accept this!” I exclaim. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“Nonsense, of course you can accept it. Think of it as payment in kind for all the help you’ve given me over the last few months. Also, I need the camera you usually use as backup today, in case anything goes wrong with the main one.
“Well, if you put it like that…”
“I do. There are spare batteries and memory cards in the bag, so you’re all set up.”
On the way to the bride’s house, Toby explains how the day is going to work.
“First of all, we have to capture the bride getting ready. It’ll be a mixture of posed shots and reportage. I’ll focus on the bride, the bridesmaids and her parents. What I’d like you to do is look for little details; maybe a pattern on her shoes, or a detail of the dress, OK?”
“Yes, I can do that,” I reply. “What’s reportage?”
“It’s literally just telling the story of an event in photos. So, you aim to capture the emotions, the special moments, the things that will bring the memories to life for them.”
Toby turns off the road and we are confronted by a pair of tall wrought iron gates. He presses the button, announces himself, and they silently swing open, as if they’re being moved by a giant invisible hand. We follow the driveway through woodland for what seems like miles before the view opens up and we catch our first glimpse of the house.
“Bloody hell, it’s like something out of a Jane Austen novel!” I cry. The enormous house is Georgian in style and is surrounded by immaculately kept lawns with ruler-straight stripes. The front of the house overlooks a substantial lake, and I can see a tennis court and a croquet lawn off to one side.
“When do you think it was built?” he asks.
“I don’t know, early eighteen hundreds?”
