Four Weddings and a Fiasco

Mallory is similarly strapped for cash and her motto, as regards gifts, is always brisk and practical. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’ (Her thoughts usually originate in charity shops, but that’s fine by me because she’s great at hunting down amazing birthday presents that you’d never, ever guess were second-hand.)

Not only is Mallory a great friend, she also assists me at weddings, gathering folk together so all I have to think about is taking the photos. For a while, after Sienna left, I struggled on alone, trying to manage without an assistant. But then Mallory stepped into the breach, offering to help out when she could. (She runs her own on-line vintage clothing business, so she can generally be fairly flexible.)

Mallory lives at Newington Hall, a huge and draughty cavern of a place belonging to her parents, Roddy and Eleanor Swann. They’re practically never there, so she rattles around it on her own. The house was quite clearly magnificent in its heyday but now the roof leaks into buckets dotted around the place and many of the window frames are sadly rotting.

Taking my freesias, I get in the car and set off to see the birthday girl.

Even though my temperamental little Fiesta has been fixed, I find I’m still tensing up as I drive along, waiting for the dreaded knocking sound that led me to the garage in the first place. But so far, so good …

Newington Hall is situated five miles outside the village of Willows Edge, and as I turn in and bump along the potholed driveway, I can’t help wondering how on earth Gareth, the gardener, manages to keep the fairly substantial grounds from running completely wild. A much younger man would struggle, never mind someone in his fifties, however fit and strong he might be.

I park up and get out of the car, walking round to the back entrance, which everyone uses, and bracing myself for the challenge of gaining entry. The doorbell there doesn’t actually work, which means that unless Mallory is in the kitchen, or at least in one of the ground-floor rooms, you haven’t much chance of being heard. Unless you graze your knuckles knocking and yell ‘hello-o-o!’ through the letter box. Which is what I do.

Today, the door opens almost immediately and Mallory appears.

‘No need to shout, darling,’ she laughs, tossing back her long, strawberry blonde hair and wiping her hands down the front of her flower-sprigged dress.

I grin and open my mouth to say, ‘Well, actually, I do.’ But my words are drowned out by a vast sucking sound coming from somewhere in the chilly depths of the house. The noise is getting louder and angrier by the second.

‘Blast! The coffee.’ Mallory rushes off to rescue the ancient stove-top beast, and I follow her down the flagstoned corridor into the huge kitchen.

Despite the enormously high ceiling, it’s cosy in here after the biting March wind outside. Actually, it’s the only warm room in the house. The rest of it is like a massive, twelve-bedroom fridge that instantly freezes your breath and gives you ice-encrusted eyebrows. Okay, I exaggerate slightly – I think there might be eight bedrooms –- but not much, believe me.

‘Crikey. Happy birthday to you.’ I gaze at the banks of lilies arranged in family heirloom vases on various ancient dressers and work surfaces. And the extravagant display of exotic blooms in the centre of the weather-beaten wooden table that’s had one shortened leg propped up on a pile of books for as long as I’ve been coming here.

Mallory gives a bark of laughter. ‘I know, darling. You’d quite think someone had died.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘All from Rupert?’

She smiles. Her floaty, floral-sprigged dress and burnished hair make her look like a heroine from a Barbara Cartland romance. ‘What are brand new fiancés for if not to spoil a person?’

She got engaged to Rupert just after New Year and I’ll be photographing their wedding in December.

I’m really happy for her, although I can’t help thinking that it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. But she seems certain Rupert is the one for her, and I’m the last person who should be judging people’s compatibility in the romance stakes. My own track record hasn’t exactly been brilliant.

I hand over my birthday card and gift.

‘God, I’m thirty-four,’ Mallory groans.

Then she smiles and sniffs the freesias. ‘Thank you. They’re perfect!’

‘You’re welcome, Granny.’ I grin.

‘Oh, ha flipping ha! You’ll be just as ancient as me in six months’ time, darling.’

Mallory is pretty much the same age as me but she turns older first. Not that I’d ever point it out, of course. Well, not often. (Rub it in? Me? Never!)

‘Coffee?’ she asks.

‘Go on, then. But I can’t stay long.’

‘Meeting with Miss Polar Ice Cap?’

I giggle. ‘No, that’s tomorrow’s delight.’

She frowns in sympathy and reaches for the ancient stove-top coffee pot.

‘Cressida is a perfectly nice client,’ I say, grinning. ‘Not terribly warm or friendly, I grant you. But she can’t help being a complete control freak who will actually kill herself if the raisins in the wedding cake aren’t all exactly the same shade of chocolate brown.’

Mallory pours coffee into mismatched floral china cups. ‘You do realise you took your life in your hands when you agreed to do her photos?’

I sink down gloomily at the table. ‘True. If they’re not perfect, she’ll probably sue me for ruining her day.’

‘So why are we doing it?’

‘Silly question. I can’t afford not to.’

‘I know the feeling. Thank God I met Rupert, that’s all I can say.’

I flash her a dubious look and she grins. ‘Joke, darling.’

I laugh, thinking she’s probably only half joking. Mallory has a decidedly practical attitude to relationships that I actually rather admire. She thinks romance is highly overrated.

She puts a cup and saucer in front of me then sits down, lifting her dainty feet in ballet pumps onto a chair and flicking back her hair.

‘Come December, money is the very last thing you’ll have to worry about,’ I murmur.

She frowns. ‘His family aren’t that rich, you know. I mean, obviously they’re a lot more affluent than my folks, but then Daddy probably qualifies as the poorest baronet in the history of the aristocracy.’

Two hundred years ago, the Swanns were wealthy landowners, but a succession of heirs with a liking for booze, gambling and women chipped away at the money – and now, Mallory’s parents are probably even poorer than the mice in their basement.

Newington Hall swallows cash as eagerly as kids breaking out their chocolate eggs on Easter Sunday.

They’re always having to auction off paintings to cover the cost of repairs to the house.

I don’t know why they don’t just sell it.

But Mallory says it’s all to do with pride. Her father couldn’t forgive himself if he failed to hold on to the family seat for future generations.

I glance sideways at Mallory. ‘Speaking of your dad … have you heard from them?’

She barks out a laugh. ‘What do you think, darling? I’m lucky if they remember to phone me every alternate Christmas. I’ve given up expecting a birthday miracle.’ She takes a sip of coffee, her eyes clouding over, and we’re silent for a moment.

I really feel for her. I can’t imagine my lovely mum ever forgetting to include me in her Christmas plans. It would be unthinkable.

Mallory flicks a glance at me. ‘On the subject of wealth …’ She hesitates. ‘Did you manage to sell the piano?’

My heart lurches. ‘Yes. Some men came and carted it off.’ I glance down at the table. ‘Should have got rid of it a long time ago.’