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dress, which is hanging behind the door. ‘Can you adjust the curtains to
soften the light?’ she asks me.
    I get up and close the net curtains a little, as Rachel moves in to photograph lots of tiny, delicate lace flowers across the bodice. I’m looking forward to seeing how Suzie looks with it
on.
    I watch as Rachel takes some shots of the bride’s shoes and her gran’s wedding ring sewn into her garter. Suzie’s mother comes in with cups of tea for us all. The atmosphere is
very relaxed, which is not what I was expecting.
    The doorbell rings to announce the arrival of Suzie’s only bridesmaid and the energy levels ramp up a notch. She’s a sweet, friendly girl, but over the course of a short space of
time, the chilled atmosphere becomes charged with electricity as we draw closer to the big event.
    ‘Time for you to go,’ Rachel says to me quietly with a smile as Maria puts the finishing touches to the bride’s make-up.
    My nerves return as she sees me to the door.
    ‘So don’t forget to get the details,’ she says. ‘The flowers, the candles, the organ...’
    A little dart of fear zips through me.
    ‘The Order of Service, the stained-glass windows...’ she continues.
    I recover quickly and shake my head. ‘I won’t forget.’
    ‘Try to get the groom arriving if he’s not already there, and as many of the other guests as you can. Don’t specifically ask guests to pose for shots, but do take any that they
ask you to.’
    ‘I remember,’ I say, nodding quickly now.
    ‘And do your best to get his reaction,’ she urges solemnly.
    ‘I will,’ I promise.
    ‘Just do your best,’ she says again, this time with a reassuring squeeze of my arm. I sense she’s as nervous about my abilities as I am.
    The church is a mere three-minute walk from Suzie’s parents’ house along a pavement slick with dew. There was a frost when we arrived this morning, but it’s burning off now in
the late March sunshine. The blue sky is streaked with wispy white cloud. It’s been overcast and freezing this week. Could Suzie and Mike be the luckiest bride and groom on the planet? I
breathe in the crisp spring air and listen to the sound of birdsong coming from the nearby trees. I pass a tiny chocolate-box thatched cottage behind a low hedge lined with bright yellow daffodils
and impulsively start to click off some shots. This is such a pretty, picture-postcard old English village. I round the corner and the grey-slated church spire comes into view, gleaming in the
sunlight.
    I move out of the light and into the shadow of the stone church, walking with trepidation along the winding asphalt path to the porch. I take a deep breath and try to calm my jitters.
    Get it together, Bronte. Get it together. I stop on the path and close my eyes, bracing myself.
    ‘Hello!’ a cheerful voice says. My eyes shoot open and I see a well-groomed usher waiting in the porch, holding a stack of sheets.
    ‘Hi,’ I reply quickly.
    ‘Bride or groom?’ he asks brightly.
    ‘Photographer,’ I tell him and he smiles.
    ‘Great.’
    I force myself to smile back as I pass by him into the church. It’s the first time I’ve been inside one for years – Polly and Grant got married in a register office. I inhale
the cold, damp air in short, sharp breaths. The musty smell is making me feel lightheaded. How can churches smell so similar, even when they’re oceans apart?
    It’s okay. It’s okay. I look around. The church is vast and chilly, with a grey stone floor, cream limestone walls and enormous, arched, stained-glass windows.
    There are already a dozen or so guests seated in the pews, talking quietly amongst themselves in hushed and reverent tones.
    My dad used to say churches are like libraries. But he was wrong. They’re nothing alike. I like being in libraries.
    Rachel has already met the vicar, but she asked me to introduce myself. I feel a surge of relief when I see that she’s a woman. She welcomes me warmly.
    ‘I’ll be