Chapter 2 #2
‘I’m still alive…’ Greg made a sound that could almost be an attempt at laughter. ‘It seems that’s a good start. And I’m about to get fixed with some stents or some such thing. I just rang to say I’ve found someone to cover the photography today.’
‘Forget the photography,’ Sophie said, her voice catching. This was Greg all over, wasn’t it? Worrying about her when he might be dying? ‘Don’t even think about this wedding,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ll sort it.’
She became aware of two things then. That the room behind her had become as silent as an echo chamber. And that Greg was speaking again.
‘Already done,’ Greg croaked. ‘And… we got lucky. The Phoenix is on his way.’
‘The Phoenix?’ Sophie’s voice rose. ‘You don’t mean “Le Phénix”, do you?’
‘That’s him…’ Greg’s voice was fainter. ‘Have to go… Talk to you later, love.’
He ended the call before Sophie could tell him that she’d be in touch with the hospital all day. That she’d be there to see him as soon as possible. That she would do whatever she could to help him recover. Dazed, she clutched her phone as she turned to find everyone in the room staring at her.
Raven broke the silence first. ‘Greg? Gregory Glasson? Your photographer’s had a heart attack?’
André had his video camera balanced on his shoulder and his expression said it all. This was a major glitch in what was probably the most important wedding Marry Me in Provence was ever going to cover.
But the expression on Zara’s face was, oddly, not one of horror. Her eyes were wide and her jaw had dropped.
‘The Phoenix?’ she asked. ‘Are you kidding me? The Phoenix?’
Sophie swallowed. ‘You know him?’
Zara shook her head. ‘I know of him. Who doesn’t?’
‘Everybody’s heard of him.’ Raven sounded stunned.
‘He does the most amazing wedding photography in like… forever.’ Zara turned to her bridesmaids.
‘Not real weddings. At least, I don’t think they are.
He probably uses models to do that dystopian thing with stuff like the bride and groom standing in a nuclear wasteland looking like zombies and they reckon he invented that whole new “drown the dress” trend.
He’s even set fire to a wedding dress – while the bride was still wearing it. ’
Sophie bit her lip. ‘We don’t have to use him,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ve got any number of photographers I can contact. Someone will be available at short notice.’
But Zara didn’t seem to be listening.
‘Oh. My. God…’ The bride-to-be had her phone in her hands, her thumbs moving impressively fast. ‘I’ve gotta tell Joe. This is huge… I’ve never even heard of The Phoenix going anywhere near real weddings.’ Her jaw dropped. ‘Maybe I’m going to be first real bride he’s ever photographed.’
Sophie could believe that. She wouldn’t have had any idea, either, but then she wouldn’t want him near any of her weddings.
She had her doubts that he would be capable of taking any of the kind of wedding photographs that everybody wanted in their albums, like romantic poses around tree branches, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes.
For heaven’s sake, the mysterious Phoenix was famous for pushing the boundaries of conventional wedding photography into something so different it could be described as shock art.
Sophie had seen the images online. Who hadn’t?
She’d dismissed them as more confrontational than edgy or compelling, though.
As though the person taking the shots was some kind of cynic who didn’t believe in the concept of marriage.
Might hate it, even? Not to her taste at all.
How on earth did Greg even know the man? This was a looming disaster. Zara was probably just as horrified as she was.
‘I’ll get someone else,’ Sophie promised.
She’d find Tilly and get her to help with the phone calls.
Alain, their drone operator, was very likely to have a good quality camera or two amongst his gear.
Worst-case scenario, they could still get all the traditional stills by lifting them from André’s videos.
Raven was staring at her. ‘Why would you pass up an offer to work with someone like Le Phénix? The guy’s a living legend.’
There was no doubt that Zara was looking horrified now.
‘Don’t you dare get someone else,’ she snapped at Sophie.
‘If you do, I’ll make sure that you never get another client again.
Ever. This…’ She reached for her champagne flute and clearly drained vintage Dom Pérignon from her glass without even tasting it.
‘This is… mega,’ she announced. ‘Straight up massive. Guaranteed, 100 per cent, to go viral.’
Zara was definitely looking happy. Thrilled, even.
Maybe this unexpected twist could turn out to be a blessing in disguise for everyone – including Sophie.
That star-struck look that Raven couldn’t hide might mean he’d just lost interest in anything to do with her tragic past history, which was absolutely a bonus but, while it had been framed jokingly, Zara’s threat to eliminate any future bookings had felt a little too real.
Any business could be damaged by bad reviews online.
Getting dumped on by someone with eight million followers could probably annihilate hers in one fell swoop.
The young women were chattering as Sophie left them to finish their breakfast and move on to the serious business of formal wedding make-up, nails and hair appointments. Teams of salon experts would have completed setting up in the dedicated suite next door by now.
‘No one knows his real name. He just goes by Phoenix.’
‘Phénix,’ someone else corrected in an exaggerated accent. They were all scrolling on their phones now. ‘’E is French and so sexy. That Hozier vibe with the long hair and that black hat and sunglasses. Oh, my…’
‘He’s got nearly as many followers as you, Zara.’
‘Wow… Look at this. Is that wedding dress really on fire or is it AI?’
‘I don’t care,’ Zara said. ‘As long as I get a photo like that that goes viral.’
Sophie’s phone pinged several times in succession as she left the room and she found the alerts were for the first Instagram posts for ‘#Zara’sBigDay’.
There was a shot of the grazing table with the pretty sprigs of lavender and tiny bunches of grapes between the platters. There were hands holding up champagne flutes to touch in a circle, the bubbles from the wine creating a faint mist above the rims.
The caption ran:
The day has begun…
And then there was the shot that Sophie had seen Raven taking, of Zara with her eyes closed and croissant flakes on her lips.
What could be more delicious than the perfect wedding breakfast and champagne?
The last image was Zara, with her robe slipping to reveal a bare shoulder, her mouth and nose hidden behind the hand she had cupped beside a bridesmaid’s ear. Through a few perfectly tousled curls, she was looking sideways over her fingers, directly into the camera.
Shh… It’s a secret… Can’t tell you yet but I’m sooo excited…
Sophie almost ran down the sweeping staircase.
She needed to find Tilly and tell her not only that Greg was alarmingly physically ill but that it seemed to have affected his common sense.
The success of this day might now depend on whether this surrogate photographer actually turned up and – if he did – it might still be a disaster because he was highly likely to take photographs that would make conventional wedding photographers throw up their hands in horror and it would do untold damage to the reputation of Marry Me in Provence.
* * *
Luc Moreau parked his rented black transit van in the space an usher directed him towards.
He was in the right place, he noted. That pale purple vintage van with the lavender hedge across the lower half of its back doors and sunflower blooms scattered along the sides had some romantically curly, cursive signwriting to advertise the name of the business.
Marry Me in Provence.
For a long, long moment after he’d parked his vehicle he sat in the driver’s seat, his hands still on the steering wheel, simply staring into space.
What was he doing?
Why hadn’t he just told Greg Glasson that he was busy and couldn’t possibly do a favour for someone he’d met by chance a few years ago when he’d dropped into The Photography & Video Show in Birmingham.
The two men had bonded over a shared interest in vintage Leica cameras and, in particular, for the 1960s model M3 that Luc had slung over his shoulder in its original leather case.
They’d exchanged numbers. For someone who was such a loner, Luc had surprised himself by being the first to reach out, sharing a link to an article celebrating Leica cameras in advance of the approaching one-hundred-year anniversary of the iconic brand.
Maybe – even though he hadn’t shared any details – it was because Greg seemed to instinctively understand how life-changing it had been for a teenager, living in one of London’s more notorious council estates, to save enough to buy a very old camera from the pawn shop and discover a passion for photography.
Or perhaps it was because Greg had shared details of his life and the company he worked for and Luc was the one who understood that protective note in the older man’s tone when he talked about his boss.
Sophie Spencer.
Sophie…
Ouais… Judging by the fist-like squeeze in his chest right now, this was the real reason he’d agreed to help Greg out and fill in for him.
He should be avoiding that pull towards her like the plague but he’d done that for nearly ten years in the hope that it would finally fade and… it hadn’t.
Not that he’d realised quite how much it was still haunting him until this morning when Greg had told him that Sophie needed help.
At least he was so much stronger now. He’d been through the fires of hell and he’d survived. He’d risen from the flames like the triumphant mythological bird whose name he’d appropriated for his second chance at life. No one could crush him again.
Not even Sophie Spencer.
Especially not Sophie Spencer.
He could do the clichéd wedding photos that would be required today. The ones that dripped with a saccharine sweetness that was as fake as the promises the majority of people made on the day turned out to be.
He could do a good job.
But would Sophie be happy that he was here or did she hate him with the same amount of passion as she had the last time they’d been breathing the same air?
Luc was about to find out.
He took two cameras with him. The latest, top-of-the-range Nikon that he would use for the shots today and the ancient Leica in its leather case. His touchstone. Because he never went anywhere without it and he had the feeling he might need its magic today.
The black leather jacket he had on over his black tee shirt and black jeans was going to be far too hot to wear today but it felt like an extra layer of protection. So did his hat and the sunglasses that would hide any reaction he hadn’t anticipated being triggered by proximity to Sophie.
At least he had the advantage of being forewarned and therefore forearmed. Sophie would have no idea who Le Phénix truly was. So far, he’d managed to keep the two facets of his life completely separate.
So why did she seem to recognise him so instantly as he walked towards her a short time later?
Why had she gone as still and pale as an Italian marble statue?
And why did his name on her lips sound almost like a prayer?
‘Luc…?’