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‘Sorry darling. In that case I can’t promise anything,’ Kate says, with a giggle.
Sophie sighs theatrically, but smiles indulgently at her.
Once the bride and bridesmaids are all decent, Toby is readmitted for a few final shots before they head downstairs to the cars. He pauses them at the staircase and takes a couple of them standing one behind the other, before we’re joined by Sophie’s parents. I almost do a double take when I meet them, because Sophie doesn’t look like either of them at first glance. Mr Beresford-Smith is short and squat, with a squashed offset nose that looks like he’s been in a few fights, and a thin, mean-looking slit of a mouth. His wife, on the other hand, is waspishly thin, with a pointy nose and dark, glittering eyes. There’s something almost rat-like about her. I conclude that Sophie is either adopted, or their recessive genes really came to the fore when they made her.
Toby takes a couple of photos of Sophie with her parents, and then her mum heads off to the church. Three vintage Rolls-Royces stand outside the front door and, with a certain amount of pushing and shoving, everyone finds their place.
‘Right,’ Toby says to me. ‘They’re going to let us go first, so we get to the church before them. Have you got everything?’
‘Yup, all set, boss,’ I reply, as we hurry through the house to retrieve Toby’s car. ‘Bring on act two.’
20
SEPTEMBER
‘You can relax during the service,’ Toby tells me, as we park at the church. ‘I’ve already agreed the shots I’m going to take with the vicar. It’s always a balancing act; the vicar wants as little disruption to the service as possible, but the couple want the photos. I know some ’togs who just shoot all the way through the service on the basis that the vicar isn’t really in a position to stop them, but I think that’s disrespectful. I always make a point of phoning and speaking to them in advance and agreeing which points I’ll capture.’
He puts on some sort of harness and attaches two cameras to it, one with a standard zoom lens and the other with a telephoto.
‘You look like photography’s answer to a gun-toting sheriff in the Wild West!’ I laugh.
At that point, the bridal cars arrive and we rush over. Toby choreographs various shots, one of Sophie and her father in the car, another of him helping her out, and so on. I focus on the bridesmaids. The vicar fits my stereotype much better than Sharon did; he’s an older man with a shock of white hair, half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, and little tufts of stubble here and there that he’s missed while shaving.
The procession begins to form up and Toby vanishes into the church to capture Sophie walking down the aisle. I slide into a chair at the back. The church is packed to the rafters; the men are all wearing morning coats, and the ladies appear to be in a competition for who can have the largest hat. They’re all craning round, trying to get a glimpse of Sophie. There are flowers absolutely everywhere and the air is thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and colognes. It takes me straight back to the way the hallway in my house at school used to smell at the start and end of term, when the parents descended en masse. I can see James, the husband-to-be, standing with his best man at the front. He’s a good match for Sophie physically, being tall, broad and good-looking. They will have beautiful children, that’s for sure.
The organist strikes up the ‘Wedding March’, the congregation get to their feet, and we’re off. The vicar enters first, followed by Sophie and her father, with the bridesmaids behind. Sophie is beaming, and even her father seems to be enjoying the moment. I smile at Maudie and Kate, and Maudie gives me a friendly wink as she passes. I can’t see James’ face any more as all the hats are blocking my view, but I hope he’s as delighted as she is. Eventually, they obviously reach the front, because the music stops and the vicar’s voice comes over the PA system, welcoming everyone and asking them to sit down. As they do so, James comes back into view, and I’m pleased to see that he’s looking at Sophie with an expression of complete adoration on his face. This all bodes very well indeed.
I’m aware of Toby appearing by my side. ‘How did you do that?’ I whisper to him.
‘How did I do what?’
‘Get back here from the front of the church without ploughing through the wedding procession!’
‘Oh, there’s a side door that the vicar had opened for me. I went out of that, round the outside and here I am.’
‘Do you know anything about James?’
‘Not a huge amount. His family are rich, of course, but they’re old money. Extensive estates down in the West Country somewhere. I think they’re moving down there after the wedding.’
The vicar announces the first hymn, which is a well-known traditional number. I notice that hardly anyone in the congregation is singing. Some of them are mouthing the words, but others are just standing with their mouths shut, staring at the orders of service. Thankfully, I can hear the choir giving it all they’ve got at the front, including an ambitious descant in the final verse. At the end, the congregation sits down again, and the vows begin. Both Sophie and James say their vows loudly and confidently, and I can hear them clearly. They’ve obviously been coached, because most of the brides and grooms at other weddings I’ve been to have been practically inaudible. A big cheer goes up from the congregation when the vicar declares that Sophie and James are husband and wife, and Toby uses his long lens to capture their first kiss from the back of the church.
I let the rest of the service wash over me. It’s familiar, and even the vicar’s address isn’t too bad. He’s obviously done his research because he seems to know a lot about how they met, what their interests are, and what attracted them to one another. When it comes to the signing of the register, the bridal party disappears into the vestry and Toby follows them in. The choir sing a couple of pieces, but nobody appears to be listening, if the hubbub of conversation is anything to go by. After ten minutes or so, Toby reappears and takes up position about halfway down the aisle. He’s followed by the vicar, who tells the congregation to get their cameras ready because Mr and Mrs Huntingdon-Barfoot are about to make their appearance. The organist strikes up again, and Sophie and James emerge from the vestry, followed by their parents, and then the bridesmaids. Cameras and phones flash madly as they make their way back down the aisle towards the waiting cars. Toby gets them to pause and look back by the door, and then they disappear outside. The rest of the congregation follows in a slightly haphazard manner, and soon the church is empty. I wander around, getting some pictures of the floral decorations, the hassocks that Sophie and James knelt on to be blessed, and any other details that I think might be of interest. After a little while the vicar comes back into the church and approaches me.
‘Please do tell Mr Roberts that it was an absolute pleasure to work with him,’ he tells me. ‘Such a courteous young man, and he stuck to everything we’d agreed. I’m afraid I don’t have a very good opinion of your lot; I’ve had photographers using flash all the way through, which is incredibly distracting, and one fellow even commandeered my pulpit. That was a bridge too far.’
I open my mouth to tell him that I’m not a real wedding photographer, but then think better of it. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll let him know.’
Everyone is still milling around outside as I walk out of the church into the sunshine. Some of the women are struggling with their stiletto heels on the grass, which makes me smile. Toby is nowhere to be seen, so I take a few candid shots of some of the guests to pass the time.
‘I bloody hate this bit,’ a female voice close to me says, and I busy myself fiddling with the camera so I can eavesdrop.
‘Yah,’ another voice chimes in. ‘So boring. Why can’t they do the photos at the venue, so we can have a drink at least? I just hope the photographer guy hurries up. I can’t decide what I want more, a glass of fizz or a wee!’
They dissolve into fits of giggles and I move on. Eventually, I spot Toby with Sophie, James and their families. He’s trying to organise them into a group shot where everyone can be seen, but I can see it’s a bit like herding cats. I go over to help him.
‘Last one before the confetti shot,’ he calls and puts the camera up to his face. As soon as they hear the click, the group starts to disperse and Toby shepherds Sophie and James down towards the lychgate. One of the bridesmaids hands round a basket of confetti and I notice that it’s real dried rose petals, rather than the cheaper paper or rice. Toby positions himself, counts to three and a cloud of petals fills the air, along with a cheer from the throwers. After a couple more pictures of them getting into the car, Toby comes to find me.
‘We’ve got to get moving,’ he tells me. ‘They’re going to take a slightly circuitous route to the reception venue, but we need to make sure we’re there before them. Are you OK?’
