Carol sniffed and sighed as the gleaming black car pulled away to the sound of rattling cans and shouts of good luck. At last she could relax following Eve's departure. Perhaps I can change into something more comfortable than this flouncy purple monstrosity of a dress. Maybe enjoy a drink, perhaps a dance or two, relax a little and then go to bed. I am that tired, that I might even have a little bit of a cry and release all this pent-up emotion - those were her simple plans for the rest of the night.
"Hold that pose!"
Carol shook herself out of her malaise to identify where the insistent voice came from, slightly ahead and to her right. Oh no! It's that damned photographer! Not the main one, no, she was a charming and chatty middle-aged woman, who had gone home hours ago. She had been professional and quite lovely. No, it was her annoyingly silent baby-faced assistant, who had accompanied the groom getting ready in the morning like an eager cub scout and then took lots of creepy, sneaky, impromptu shots at the meal and the dance afterwards. Every time she turned around he seemed to be snapping away at her, or the other bridesmaids or the groomsmen.
"Oh, you moved," he pouted as he lowered his camera. God! He's probably a poof, even though he looks about twelve, she thought, it must be the groomsmen he kept in his sights all afternoon and evening. Until this particular instant, when Carol appeared to be his singular victim of choice.
His pout, however, immediately turned into a child-like smile, quite cute actually, she thought. After all, she'd always liked kids, actually preferred them to adults every time.
"I bet the first thought that went through your head was 'oh no! It's that damned photographer!' right?" he said with his big goofy grin on his little-boy-pleased-with-himself face.
It was an infectious smile and besides he had got her absolutely bang to rights.
"Mind reader as well as budding paparazzi, huh!?" she grinned back. His smile appeared genuine and natural, despite everything else about him being annoying.
"I happen to know how great minds think -"
"You forgot to flash" she interrupted.
"Pardon?" his eyes widened, she could see the whites of his eyes, like a deer hesitant in the face of approaching headlights.
She pointed to the camera in his hand. "That last shot is spoiled, it is far too dark out here without the flash," she observed. The only camera she had experience of was her mobile phone, all you do is point and click and express general disappointment at the result. What's difficult about photography?
"No, I got the shot I wanted, this camera has been set up for low light, and I think I got a soft focus exposure that should prove to be quite beautiful. Do you want to see?"
In for a pound, in for a penny, she thought, he was quite funny. "Sure," she shrugged.
The photographer approached her and held up the back view screen of his camera to show the last but one shot. Carol looked at the photographer's smiling face first, now he was close up she could see he was actually an inch taller than her, which was unexpected, she would have sworn he looked shorter, smaller somehow. Then she looked at the tiny screen. There she was, a very clear close up of her face, in three-quarter view, her eye moist, with a single teardrop formed in the corner, frozen in that moment before the surface tension burst and launched a stream down her cheek. If it had been anyone else but herself, she conceded, it would have been ... well, beautiful. As it was, it still took her breath away, in that instant, revealing too much emotion. Too personal, that shot, way too personal.
"Beautiful ... isn't it?" he said. Carol noticed that although the "isn't it" carried the emphasis of a query, the word "beautiful" itself appeared to be a statement, however unlikely that could be.
"You're the artist," she countered, "I guess it's down to the eye of the beholder."
"Beautiful, it is then," he said emphatically.
"Not sure if it will go down well in the wedding photo album, though," she ventured. "It should be all about Eve and Adam and that shot of me is a little too ... me, just me. You'll have to relegate it to the cutting room floor,won't you?"
"Or promote it to my personal collection."
"Oh! A voyeur, huh?"
"Occupational hazard of any photographer, whether there are attractive maids of honour about or not."
"I suppose." Yes, he was quite funny, for a kid. "Is this a full time job or a hobby just for Fridays and Saturdays?"
"Well, it's a full time job for Aunt Jane. I help out from time to time when I can but I can't do Saturdays outside the summer. Or Wednesday afternoons and evenings, for that matter."
"Your night for scout troop?"
"Oh I packed up the 'dib-dib-dib' business, long before the 'say cheese' part of my curriculum vitae."
"Tell me, what so fascinates you about Saturdays and Wednesdays that you have to hang up your lenses temporarily?"
"Oh, I still use the cameras, I follow the Rovers during the football season for the Herald & Echo; I take the photos, write the report, interview the manager as well as one or two players afterwards. I've even been known to collect up the corner flags."
"It's good to feel useful I suppose. So, what exotic location are you going to tomorrow?"
"Home county cup semi-final against Winslow Town, should be a sell-out. I could get you a place in the press box with my press ticket, if you're interested."
"Wow! I don't get such temptations put my way every day of the week, even when I'm maid of honour. Even in mid-April it's going to be chilly, so no, I don't think so. I better go. I'm going up to get changed into something more comfortable, certainly warmer, anyway, it's quite chilly here."
"If you'd reconsider, I can supply a cushion, warm car blanket and an unlimited supply of hot chocolate," he offered hoping something would change her mind. He didn't actually offer the added incentive of his own company for the afternoon, perhaps he didn't consider an insight into how he lived and worked was much encouragement for an attractive girl.
"Does every young woman come in for this charm offensive or just desperate-looking bridesmaids?"
"Oh you are up there as the first, number one and only but as an attractive woman, not a bridesmaid and certainly not desperate-looking at all."
She smiled, you've got to admit he's a trier, and charmingly ernest. Perhaps he's Aunt Jane's youngest sister's son. She shook her head in answer, meaning no, nice try son, but sorry.
"Anyway, that's my last exposure of the night ..." he said brightly, trying to hide his disappointment and barely succeeding. He hesitated for a moment and added, "I need to lock all this stuff away in my truck ..."
He was encumbered, she noticed, by at least three cameras, flash charger and camera bag, he had more straps crisscrossing his chest than the average Mexican bandit.
"Perhaps once you've changed your dress you would do me the honour of joining me for a drink or a dance ... that is if your card has any dances free?"
"My card is pretty well empty, but I'm suddenly feeling very tired and thinking of calling it a night." Oh dear, Carol thought, he looks as though I've slapped him in the face again. She relented, "Perhaps we could have just one dance, after I get changed, I feel really frumpy in this dress, now that the bride has left."
"That'll be great," he grinned, making him look even younger. How old was he? She wondered if he was still at school? Was she so desperate for nice polite male company that she would even consider cradle snatching? She always seem to attract the arseholes like Barry, not nice men, or boys for that matter.
Carol recalled that she had gone on two blind dates with Barry in company with Eve and Adam. She had told Eve after the first one, "never ask me to see that creep again!" Even after that she was still so weak she was persuaded to join in a foursome with them again a year or so later. That was two years ago and from today's evidence Barry hadn't improved any. Most of the dances Carol had taken part in this evening had mainly been group ones, in lines like the hokey cokey or the conger. She did have one nice slow one with Eve's father Alan, a couple with Adam and one god awful one with Barry, who kept trying to feel her up and had almost reduced her to tears.
"You any good at dancing, then?" Carol asked, innocently, better to get this out of the way first, he might have had lessons, or he might just want to get his hands about her person, she thought gloomily.
He smiled that little boy smile again as they began to walk away from the driveway in front of the hotel, towards the cars parked by the side.
"Frankly, no," he offered his answer with disturbing honesty. "I was born with two left feet. It's an hereditary thing, I inherited it from my father, actually it is the only thing I got from him. My grandfather is exactly the same. In fact, having studied my family's genealogy, I can trace this defect back to my multiple-great grandfather who lost one of his left feet at Trafalgar."
"With Nelson and the fleet, was he?"
"No, I think it was a coach trip. They were supposed to meet up in Trafalgar Square at the end of the evening and he fell off one of the lions."
"Clumsy sod, was he?" she giggled.
"I told you, left feet run in our family," he laughed. "Actually, when the ambulance came and the Doctor said 'we need to cut off his left foot', they cut off the wrong left foot. They managed to save the bad foot, fortunately, but he always had a terrible limp."
"I bet he was a terrible liar, too!" Carol commented, cheekily adding "It's not just left feet that run in your family, huh?"
