Thirteen Weddings

  I soon discover that Karmen’s family is huge. In every way imaginable.

  ‘Hello!’ Rachel says warmly, going to hug the person who I’m assuming is Karmen. She’s very, well, shall we call it voluptuous.

  No need to dispense the ‘don’t lose weight before your wedding’ advice here.

  At first, I’m slightly overwhelmed by the chaos, but everyone is a lot of fun and Karmen seems relaxed and happy as she jokes around with her five bridesmaids, two flower girls, one pageboy, mother and four ‘aunties’ – not all of whom are related, apparently. The make-up artist looks less relaxed as she tackles one boisterous bridesmaid after another. Karmen opted to use a local girl recommended by the hotel, but she could have really done with an extra pair of hands. If only Maria were here.

  There are many people in the room, but the one person attracting even more attention than the bride is the smallest: four-year-old pageboy Devrim. At one point he clambers onto Karmen’s lap and practically swings from her fluffy white robe.

  ‘Devrim, get off!’ she squawks as he hooks his fingers onto her bra and pulls.

  Whoa. One of the many aunts rushes in and extracts him. Someone’s had too much sugar this morning. There are platters of pastries everywhere and the make-up artist has to work around Karmen eating hers.

  ‘Want to come next door with me to shoot the dress?’ Rachel asks, indicating a door off the suite.

  I nod eagerly and the silence that greets us is blissful.

  ‘Got any headache tablets?’ I ask.

  She giggles, then stops in her tracks when she spies Karmen’s enormous white dress hanging from the doorframe.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she says with a sigh.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love a big dress, but this is strapless.’

  I’m confused. Suzie’s strapless dress was beautiful. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask.

  ‘Busty brides and strapless dresses don’t mix. She’ll be hoiking it up all day and night. It will ruin countless pictures.’ She sighs again. ‘Avoid overhead shots. I’ll be Photoshopping out nipples, you mark my words.’

  ‘Let’s just hope Devrim doesn’t unleash the puppies again,’ I say.

  The hotel is licensed to hold wedding ceremonies, so it’s only a short walk across the sprawling grounds to the building where the wedding is taking place. I don’t know what I expected, but the family of the groom, Luca, is Italian – there’s seemingly no one of Scottish descent at this entire Scottish-based wedding. Luca’s side of the family are a lot of fun, too. Big in numbers but not in body size, Luca and his ushers are mostly short and skinny. I wouldn’t have placed him and Karmen together in a million years.

  It’s a grey and gloomy day, but the over-excited, often oversized guests arriving in colourful outfits make a nice juxtaposition to the dark skies.

  Rachel texts me to tell me to look out for a blue and white Fiat 500. Who’s driving? And why a Fiat? Must be the Italian contingent. The grooms don’t seem to get very involved in wedding planning, but booking the bridal car usually comes top of their list of priorities.

  Even though I’ve been warned about the car, my mouth falls open when it pulls up. Karmen’s olive-skinned face can be seen in the front passenger window, pressed up against the glass amid a cloud of white fabric.

  Recovering quickly, I start to snap away, trying to keep a straight face. Rachel and a host of cackling bridesmaids dressed in purple, worryingly strapless gowns, appear on foot a moment later. The chief bridesmaid struts over to the Fiat and opens the door.

  ‘Out you get, love!’ she shouts.

  There’s a flurry of movement as Karmen’s white dress shivers and shakes, but Karmen herself remains firmly rooted in the car.

  ‘Come on, we’re late!’ another bridesmaid hollers.

  Another flurry of movement, followed by: ‘I can’t! I’m stuck!’

  Rachel flashes me a look and I try to keep a check on my building hysteria as two bridesmaids pull on Karmen’s arms and legs. Finally she bursts out of the tiny car.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ she shouts joyously, her tuck shop lady arms wobbling wildly as I laughingly snap away. At least she’s a good sport.

  Karmen’s mother and aunts go into the venue, and after Rachel has got a few shots of Karmen and her massive posse, she heads inside, too. The music pipes up and the flower girls take their places at the front of the queue, followed by Devrim the pageboy and then the horde of purple bridesmaids. Karmen’s beaming face turns into one of shock as Devrim races out of his position and runs up to her to swing from her dress. Luckily one of the bridesmaids intervenes before I can act on my impulse to clap the little urchin over his head. The flower girls walk into the room and he follows at a run, dressed in his mini pinstripe suit. I hear the sound of numerous oohs and aahs. Looks can be deceiving, my friends.

  Now for my part. The groom. Everywhere I look, my view is obstructed by a sea of smartphones. Surely this was easier before the digital age? I manage to find a spot with an unobstructed view, just as Luca turns around. His face goes red as he sees his bride and his eyes fill with tears.

  The sight warms even my cold, cynical heart.

  After the service, it’s time for the ubiquitous confetti shot. Everyone gathers around the bride and groom while Rachel counts to three and then:

  ‘Ow!’ Karmen hollers, clamping her hands over her eyes. ‘Who threw rice at me?’ she squawks.

  Rice?

  ‘Foreign weddings are a minefield,’ Rachel mutters.

  The bridesmaids help to cram Karmen into the front passenger seat of the Fiat while Luca hops into the driver’s seat. The uncle who threw the rice at Karmen looks red-faced as his niece rubs her eyes, but as the door closes, she peers out at us from her white cloud and beams. I wonder if Luca will be able to find the gearstick under all that chiffon.

  Rachel and I run as fast as we can, just managing to beat the bride and groom to the main hotel building, and our next couple of hours are manic as we shoot the wedding party on the lush green lawns of the hotel with Loch Lomond as a backdrop. It is so beautiful here, and when there’s a break in the clouds that lets the sun shine through, we can’t believe our luck.

  ‘That’s our teaser shot,’ Rachel says with a grin, as Luca and Karmen stand arm-in-arm, staring at the view. They really are a sweet couple.

  Later, everyone moves from the ballroom, where the wedding breakfast took place, into the adjoining dance hall for the live entertainment and dancing. I get an awesome shot of Devrim standing behind one large guest in a scarlet red dress. With the colour as a backdrop he looks brilliantly evil, especially when his peanut brain gives him the idea of pinching her bottom. She jumps and I move away, stifling my giggles. I may be immature, but it amuses me to no end.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ Rachel asks me with a grin as the other guests mingle.

  ‘Devrim. What a little shit.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she says drily. ‘There’s no way I’m having kids at my wedding.’

  ‘Aw, kids are okay. I think they add to the atmosphere. If their parents keep them under control...’

  ‘Not much of that going on around here,’ Rachel comments as we both spy Devrim’s mother laughing, completely oblivious, while Devrim pops out from underneath Karmen’s billowing skirt. The poor bride looks a bit harassed.

  ‘Ooh, hello there,’ Rachel says breathily. She’s looking at the small stage set up behind the dance floor, where a guy with sandy-blond, shaggy hair and a short-ish beard is perched on a stool. He’s holding a guitar. I shoot my head around to gape at Rachel and she smirks back at me.

  One word: Phwoar.

  He starts to strum his guitar, and when he sings into the microphone in a deep, sexy, soulful voice, I almost forget we have a job to do. Rachel is also staring, rapt. I nudge her and we both laugh at each other. She unzips her kit bag and gets out her speedlites because it’s almost time for the first dance.

 
‘I might just get a few of him with Sally’s 85,’ I tell Rachel nonchalantly. She gives me a significant look and I flash her an innocent grin as I move through the crowds to the side of the stage. I raise my camera to my face and stare at him through the viewfinder. He’s even hotter up close, and I’m mesmerised. I have to remind myself to take my photographs. His lips brush against the microphone when he sings, but when he pulls away to focus on his guitar, his shaggy hair falls down across his forehead and partially obscures his face. I decide to move around to the other side of the dance floor where I might be able to see him better. I turn around to check out the stage, and at that point he looks straight at me and my heart skips a beat. Photographing him now is going to be a touch excruciating. I’ll do it anyway – it’s my job. At least, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

  His eyes follow me as I take my place to the right of the dance floor. A smile plays about his lips while he strums an acoustic section. I can’t keep a straight face as I shoot him, and then he’s singing again and his focus is on his music.

  Rachel appears at my side. ‘The hottest wedding singer I’ve ever come across, period.’

  The song draws to a close, and when Guitar Guy makes an announcement, it comes out in an Australian accent. Rachel and I glance at each other with unbridled glee.

  ‘I just want to say congratulations to Karmen and Luca. I wish you all the best. Ladies and gents, let’s hear it for the bride and groom. The first dance...’

  Rachel nudges me excitedly. ‘He’s Australian!’

  ‘I heard!’ I’m a little gobsmacked. I wonder where he’s from and what he’s doing in Scotland.

  The crowd on the dance floor parts and Karmen and Luca take their positions in the centre. Guitar Guy starts to play ‘Love Cats’ by The Cure as Karmen and Luca throw themselves into an hilarious choreographed routine. Suddenly Devrim runs onto the dance floor, trying to steal the show. But he goes completely arse up and bangs his head. Everyone watches in horror as his face goes red and he starts to scream the room down. His mother – at long bloody last – runs to his aid and takes him out. I think everyone here is in agreement: serves the little bugger right.

  Guitar Guy stops playing, Karmen looks crestfallen, and then he announces in his warm accent, ‘Shall we start again?’

  Everyone laughs and cheers, Karmen and Luca attempt their routine from the beginning and every single person in the venue gets into the swing of it, singing along and clapping.

  After the first dance, we’re done. We haven’t been paid to stay for the evening do, so we seek out the bride and groom to say goodbye.

  ‘Do you really have to go?’ Karmen asks with dismay. ‘Stay and have a few drinks. Let your hair down.’

  ‘Yes, go on,’ Luca encourages as Rachel glances at me. I give her a hopeful look.

  ‘I suppose we could catch a cab back to the inn and return to collect the hire car in the morning?’ It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do for the night.

  ‘Yes!’ I agree eagerly.

  ‘Yay!’ Karmen exclaims.

  Karmen asks the bartender to put all of our drinks on the house, and Rachel promises to take some more photos in return, although there’s no pressure. All in all, it’s a win-win situation.

  Rachel and I grab a couple of glasses of wine and decamp to a table near the stage.

  ‘Do not let me lose this,’ she says after a while. She indicates her kit bag. ‘I once misplaced my compact flash cards for ten minutes and nearly had a heart attack.’

  ‘I’m not surprised!’ I can’t even bear to imagine how I’d feel if I lost the tiny little cards that hold thousands of pictures. An entire wedding: gone. I think I’d die if that ever happened to me.

  ‘Maybe I should go and lock what we’re not using in the room next door?’ Rachel says.

  ‘Might not be such a bad idea. Want me to go?’

  ‘It’s okay. You nip to the bar. I’ll hang onto my 200 and speedlites.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll keep Sally’s 85.’ Less chance of camera shake. Alex would approve, I think with a smile, before shoving him from my mind.

  She goes, while I stay and watch Guitar Guy for a little longer. He’s playing a quirky, cool, stripped-back version of Billy Idol’s ‘Dancing With Myself. He meets my eyes again, but this time he holds the contact for a good few seconds. I’m having a hot flush by the end of it as I fight the urge to look away. Then I realise he probably does this to all the girls and I feel a bit silly. I get up and go to the bar.

  When I come back, he’s no longer playing. Music is blaring out of the speakers instead and I feel a wave of disappointment. I wonder if that’s him done for the evening.

  A pint of beer is suddenly plonked on the table and I look up to see the man himself grinning down at me.

  ‘G’day,’ he says. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘G’day yourself,’ I reply with amusement. ‘Go for it.’

  He pulls out a chair and slumps into it. ‘A fellow Aussie, hey? Or are you just really good at accents?’

  ‘Right first time.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Bronte.’

  ‘Lachie.’

  It’s pronounced Lockie, but I know it’s short for Lachlan. It’s a pretty popular name Down Under.

  His handshake is warm and firm and he smiles as he stares at me directly. Full of confidence, isn’t he?

  ‘What are you doing in Scotland?’ I ask, keeping my tone neutral and friendly. I’m not falling for your charms, buster, even if they are considerable.

  ‘I like it here.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m travelling around a bit, gigging and doing a few weddings when I get a chance.’

  ‘Do you play for a living?’

  ‘I wish. Nah, I do a few odd jobs here and there. Don’t know how much longer I’m going to be here.’

  ‘In Scotland?’

  ‘Yeah, and in the UK generally. I’ve gotta head back home at Christmas and I still want to see Europe. What about you?’

  ‘I’m living and working in London. I’m here for about a year.’

  ‘Cool. Wedding photographer?’

  ‘No. I have a full-time job. I do the occasional wedding at the weekend.’ I look up to see Rachel approaching. ‘With Rachel,’ I say with a smile as she reaches us.

  ‘Hi there!’ She tries to contain her considerable delight as she sits down on the other side of Lachie.

  He introduces himself with another handshake before leaning back lazily in his chair so he doesn’t block her out from the conversation. He’s wearing a light-grey T-shirt which isn’t tight enough to outline what’s underneath, but his arms are toned and muscular so I’m guessing his body is pretty fit.

  ‘So you’re an Aussie, too?’ Rachel asks with a smile.

  ‘Yep. Born and raised in Perth.’

  He’s from Western Australia, then, the other side of the country from me.

  ‘You?’ he asks me.

  ‘I grew up in South Australia, not far from Adelaide, but I’ve been living in Sydney.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘And Rachel is from... I don’t know where you’re from actually,’ I say with a frown, my attempt to include her backfiring.

  ‘I grew up in Bath,’ she reveals. She notices our blank faces. ‘Neither of you knows where that is, do you?’

  ‘Nope,’ I reply.

  ‘Nup,’ he says.

  ‘Bloody Aussies,’ she mutters and I have a flashback to standing in the kitchen with Russ and Alex the day I asked Lily for the Joseph Strike pictures.

  Lachie grins and downs a third of his pint before banging it back on the table. ‘Better get back up there. Four songs. Keep my seat warm for me, would ya?’

  Rachel sucks the air in through her teeth as he strolls back to the stage. ‘He is so hot.’

  ‘Shit-hot,’ I agree. ‘But doesn’t he know it,’ I add drily.

  We watch him as he picks up his guitar and nods at the DJ in the corner. The song from the speakers dies down and he starts to play Ar
ctic Monkeys’ ‘I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor’.

  ‘How old do you reckon he is?’ I ask, silently instructing my eyes to peel themselves away from him. They’re being very disobedient.

  ‘Mid-twenties?’ Rachel replies. ‘Too young for me, that’s for sure.’

  ‘As if!’ I exclaim. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘So?’

  She laughs. ‘Toy boy.’

  ‘He could be thirty-six himself, for all we know.’

  ‘Ha! Unlikely,’ Rachel scoffs.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ I say determinedly. ‘I get the feeling he doesn’t need help puffing up his ego.’

  We manage, with some effort, to not pay Lachie an astounding amount of attention until he joins us again.

  ‘Have you guys finished working now?’ he asks.

  ‘Technically, yes,’ Rachel replies. ‘Karmen invited us to stick around for a few drinks so we’ll take some more photos in a bit when everyone’s loosened up.’

  ‘Have you done a lot of weddings?’ He glances at me when he asks this.

  ‘I’ve only done three, but Rachel has done gazillions.’

  ‘About fifty,’ she clarifies.

  ‘Cool,’ he says.

  ‘You?’ I ask him.

  ‘About the same.’

  ‘That many? Sorry, how old are you?’

  He grins. ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Twenty-four? And you’ve done nearly fifty weddings?

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘That’s impressive,’ Rachel agrees.

  ‘How old are you guys?’ he asks us.

  ‘Thirty-six,’ Rachel replies with a screwed-up nose.

  ‘Twenty-nine,’ I reveal. That makes us both too old for this little upstart.

  But he doesn’t look put off in the least. ‘When are you turning thirty?’ he asks me with an easy grin.

  ‘Next month.’

  ‘Are you?’ Rachel interrupts.

  ‘Yeah. But I don’t want a big celebration.’

  ‘Screw that,’ Lachie says, turning to Rachel. ‘ I hope you’re gonna do something.’

  ‘Do you sing at thirtieth birthday parties?’ she asks him pertinently.