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‘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?’
‘It’s actually only fifteen years old. There’s a bit of a story to it, although I don’t know if it’s true. Apparently, old man Beresford-Smith fell in love with the grounds, but he didn’t like the house that originally stood here. He applied for permission to demolish it and was refused because the house was listed. So, as a massive “fuck you” to the council, he used it to store animal feed. Very mysteriously, a few months later, a load of hay he was keeping in there caught fire and the whole place burned to the ground. Shortly after that, he got his planning permission and work on the new house began.’
‘That doesn’t sound like very aristocratic behaviour!’
‘Oh, there’s nothing aristocratic about him, don’t be fooled by the name. From what I understand, his original name was just Smith. He made an absolute fortune in the dot-com boom back in the nineties and changed his name by deed poll to celebrate his first hundred million. Apparently, he and his wife had elocution lessons at the same time, although I think she’s probably taken it a bit too far. Last time I came, the housekeeper told me that Sophie and Mrs Beresford-Smith were waiting for me in “the withdrawing room”. How pretentious is that?’
Just before we reach the front of the house, Toby turns right onto another track, which is signposted ‘Tradespeople and Deliveries’. It leads us to a large forecourt at the back of the house, where he neatly parks the car. We retrieve our rucksacks from the boot and he rings the bell by the door. It’s answered by a middle-aged woman in a pinafore, who I’m guessing must be the housekeeper.
‘Mrs Beresford-Smith has instructed me to give you free rein to go wherever you please, but she asks that you do not enter either the master bedroom or Mr Beresford-Smith’s study. Miss Beresford-Smith and her entourage are using the east wing for their preparations. I imagine you’d like to start there?’
She leads us through to the main hallway, a breath-taking double height room with a magnificent, curved staircase leading up to the first floor. We follow her along seemingly endless corridors, until the sound of female voices and laughter indicates that we’re nearly there. The housekeeper knocks on a door, waits to be invited in, and then announces us. I’m stunned to see that she curtseys before she speaks.
‘Mr Toby Roberts and his assistant for you, Miss Beresford-Smith.’
‘Thank you, Margot,’ a young woman wrapped in a white towelling dressing gown replies.
Although I have strong suspicions by this point that Mr and Mrs Beresford-Smith are probably awful people, Sophie proves impossible not to like. I was expecting a spoiled diva, but she’s kind, down to earth, and takes a genuine interest in everyone around her. I discover that we were actually at school together, although she was a couple of years below me and in a different house, so our paths never crossed. The Beresford-Smiths obviously have good genes because she is incredibly beautiful. Her face is almost doll-like, with wide blue eyes, a straight, well-proportioned nose and a rosebud mouth framed by shiny blonde hair. Her skin is flawless, and I suspect some very expensive dentistry has gone into her perfect teeth. I’m surprised I never noticed her when the whole school came together for chapel.
‘I was a bit different at school,’ she says, when I remark on it. ‘I was going through a gothic, rebellious phase so I dyed my hair black and wore a lot of kohl eyeliner. Mum and Dad absolutely hated it, which only made me do it more. There was one time when I got a temporary tattoo on my arm. I thought Dad was going to have a coronary. Do you remember that, Maudie?’ she asks one of the bridesmaids.
‘How could I forget?’ Maudie replies. ‘It was both terrifying and hysterically funny all at once. I’ve never seen your dad so angry, and you kept him going for ages before you admitted it was temporary.’
‘Honestly, she was evil,’ Maudie says to me. ‘She made up all this stuff about how she’d gone to some dodgy-looking tattoo place, and how she wasn’t sure how clean the needle was. I’m amazed he didn’t disown her there and then. He did see the funny side eventually, but it took him a while. To be fair, they were a lot more tolerant about the rest of your gothic phase after that, weren’t they, Soph?’
The storytelling is interrupted by another knock on the door, and the housekeeper announces the hairstylist and make-up artist. Toby and I unpack and get to work as Sophie and the bridesmaids take turns being primped and polished. I get some nice detail shots of the dress, which is still on its hanger, and one that I’m really pleased with of Sophie’s shoes just peeking out of the box. When the time comes for her to get dressed, Toby is banished, but Sophie insists that I stay. It turns out that her ‘something blue’ is a garter that she pulls midway up her thigh, and I take a couple of (hopefully) tasteful pictures of it in situ.
‘Are you going to get James to remove it with his teeth and throw it into the crowd?’ another one of the bridesmaids asks. I think her name is Kate.
‘I don’t know,’ Sophie replies. ‘On the one hand, it might be fun, but it might also set James’ rugby mates off and that would be bad. I might wait until we’re alone, that might be safest.’
‘Spoilsport!’ Kate replies. ‘Maybe I’ll get one of James’ rugby mates to help me with my underwear instead.’
Sophie rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. ‘Kate, I love you to bits, but try to control your raging libido, just for my wedding day, would you?’ She turns to me with a smile. ‘She’s hopeless. At my twenty-first birthday party she disappeared with one of the boys for half an hour. She swore blind that nothing had happened, but the grass stains all down the back of her dress told a very different story. At our engagement party she hooked up with Robert, one of James’ rugby pals. I’m sure you can spot the theme.’
‘I assume Robert is going to be at the wedding?’ Kate asks, not making any effort to hide her eagerness.
‘He is,’ Sophie replies.
