Be Careful What You Wish For Read Free

prays to the God of Graham Norton.
    ‘Oh, my word, thank goodness,’ he whispers loudly. ‘I was beginning to think we were going to have a riot on our hands.’ Scratching his goatee, he rolls his eyes round the room theatrically.
    ‘Don’t worry, the cavalry’s here now.’ Brian tugs a little black object out of his pocket, holds it out in front of him and points it in different directions.
    The registrar stares at him quizzically. ‘What’s that?’
    ‘A light meter,’ I reply, and spot the pile of cases in the corner. Unzipping a black holdall, I pull out a tripod and begin to assemble it. ‘We need to check the readings for the exposure.’
    The registrar nods. ‘Oh, I see.’
    ‘As the official wedding photographer it’s my job to make sure the happy couple get the photos they’ve always dreamed of,’ interjects Brian, reaching for his camera and selecting a lens. ‘Because memories fade . . .’
    On hearing my cue I join in: ‘. . . but a photograph lasts a lifetime,’ we chime together.
    ‘That’s the motto of Together Forever,’ Brian continues, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. He passes me the lens cap and points the camera at the registrar. ‘I thought of it myself.’
    ‘You did?’ The registrar looks dubious. ‘I thought it was already a well-known saying . . .’
    The shutter releases with a loud click, catching him by surprise. ‘Oh, goodness!’ Captured with his mouth wide open like a fish, the registrar stands blinking after the brightness of the flash. Which brings us to the attention of the wedding party, who turn round in their chairs in excited anticipation.
    A hush falls as all eyes turn towards us. But I know they’re not looking at us – we’re just the wedding photographers – they’re too busy looking beyond us, at the doors that are swinging open as someone presses ‘play’ on the tape-recorder. The sound of a sax fills the air and Whitney Houston blasts into ‘I Will Always Love You’. As the registrar scuttles back up the aisle, Brian and I take our positions. Here we go.
    I wait expectantly. This is the moment when the bride makes her grand entrance and you get to see the dress. It’s my favourite bit. After all, most of us, at some point in our lives, have dreamed about what we’ll wear to our own wedding. When I was about six years old my favourite game was dressing up in my white nightie and Mum’s old wedding veil and pretending to marry Barney, my teddy. One day I fell over in the mud in the garden and my mum dried my tears and told me I looked beautiful anyway – because every bride is beautiful on her wedding day. It’s only since I took this job that I’ve realised my mum told fibs.
    Because, yes, I’ve seen lots of brides look beautiful in their dresses, but I’ve also seen big white meringues that make you want to cover your eyes with your fingers, family heirlooms that should have stayed in the attic, and corsets so tightly laced that the bride is literally spilling over the top like ice-cream in a cornet. Not to mention the dodgy veils, tacky tiaras and twenty-foot-long sequined trains. Believe me, Trinny and Susannah would have a field day. But, then, who I am to talk? I have loo roll stuffed between my toes.
    There’s a loud sob from the mother of the bride. Oohing and aahing from the elderly relatives. A stifled giggle from one of the boys who was playing tag, followed by a clip round his ear from his dad.
    And a gasp from me.
    Only this time it’s not because of my blisters.
    Before me, in a bright pink dress that looks like something worn by a Spanish flamenco dancer, is a bride who’s old enough to be my mother. Actually, no, I’m mistaken. My grandmother.
    ‘You look gorgeous, sweetheart,’ gushes Brian, rattling off frame after a frame.
    What can I say? This man is a pro.
    ‘The dress is stunning . . . just a little bit to the left . . . truly stunning . . . Now, big smile for the