All In The Edit - 1. Chapter 1

From a distance, all weddings look much the same. Brides, glimpsed through the rear window of a passing limousine; an impression of brilliance in the shadowed interior. Church bells on a Saturday afternoon. Confetti blowing across the pavement like fallen petals. Gaudy dresses and big hats grouped on the village green, moving to and fro to the summons of the photographer.

In the albums and the finished videos all brides look happy. It’s only when you follow the whole process throughout the day that the rough edges behind the wedding game start to show.

***

It’s Saturday morning again. As usual, I am up bright and early, mentally checking off items as I pack them into the car. Greg is still eating breakfast. As I go back and forth, he’s scrolling through something on his phone screen and making comments without looking up.

‘Got the extra lights?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the tripods?’

‘They’re in the car.’ Nag, nag, nag. Don’t let it get to you, I remind myself.

‘You’ve remembered to charge the spare battery pack this time?

As if he’d ever let me forget. ‘That was weeks ago,’ I snap.

‘Yes, but -‘

‘Once, just once, I forget to switch on the charger. So, what’s the big deal?’

He looks up from the screen. ‘It’s not professional, that’s what. If they want amateur crap they can have all the wobbly, thumb-over-the-camera stuff their relatives stick on Facebook. If I recall rightly, the couple were pretty upset at not seeing their first dance all the way through. I had to drop the price to make it up to them.’

‘You’re so fucking perfect.’

He shrugs. ‘No. Just a perfectionist. You should be, too. This is our living.’

‘So, can’t I mind the shop for once and let you go out and do the filming? I hate weddings.’

‘But Mark, you do them so well.’

After three years, I can predict his every move. Calm him down, he’ll be thinking. Don’t let him blow up until after today’s wedding is in the can. He sets his phone down and walks around the island to give me a quick hug and a camera kiss; the kind that means nothing. When did I get so cynical, I find myself wondering.

‘It’s tough at this time of year,’ he says. ‘I know that. But we’ve got to build up the business.’

‘Your business,’ I correct, pushing him away.

‘Our business.’ He grabs me again. ‘Let’s not argue. Not now. We’ll have a talk this evening, all right?’

Only, by this evening he’ll have forgotten and I’ll be too shattered at the end of another long wedding day to bother to remind him. Before I have a chance to reply, he kisses me properly. I’m just starting to enjoy it when his phone chimes. ‘You’ll be late,’ he says before switching attention back to the screen.

The bride’s sister is outside as I pull up in the car. She’s tying ribbons over the bonnet of a customised and lowered Vauxhall Corsa.

‘Video man’s here, mum,’ she shrieks through the open front door.

‘Tell him we’re out the back.’

‘Go on through. Straight down the hall and on your right.’

‘Thanks.’ For this part of the proceedings I only need the camera and a portable light. I’ll take a few minutes of informal shots; the proud mum helping her daughter to get ready. The final, breathless preparations for her starring role in today’s events. For, let’s face it, that’s what weddings are about these days. A photo opportunity for Mr and Miss Ordinary to capture everyone’s attention and to have the moment recorded for posterity, until death - or more probably divorce - do they part.

Another sister and a friend are squeezed into the corners of the room by the voluminous bride. I don’t mean that she’s fat; under all those layers of tulle petticoats she’s probably only an average size fourteen. At the moment, though, it’s difficult to tell, as her skirts are pushed uncomfortably and unflatteringly over her head while mum struggles to fix the traditional garter in place.

‘Ooh,’ she squeals, aware of my presence even through metres of gauzy material. ‘Don’t film me like this.’

‘Yeah, go on,’ the sister prompts. ‘It’ll give us all a laugh later.’

I unpack the camera, waiting for Tracey to regain some of her bridal dignity before focussing on her radiant features. I’m still not sure why brides inevitably look so radiant. Maybe it’s because of all that tight lingerie. Perhaps it’s some special tonic they drink for a couple of weeks beforehand; a secret potion passed down from mother to daughter. Or maybe it’s simply because she’s in love and happy. Lucky cow.

The bridesmaids’ dresses are fuchsia pink. Mum is wearing something similar in style, but a couple of shades darker. Greg would probably say something along the lines of, ‘And you must be the chief bridesmaid,’ just to flatter her. Then rip her appearance to shreds later, in the editing suite. I merely mutter something about it being a lovely colour, at which they point out that the bride’s veil has subtle streaks of the same shade running through it, although in a much paler hue.

‘Well, I couldn’t wear all white, could I?’ she laughs, with a knowing look.

But I am remembering a different bride; one of last summer’s batch, wearing a very similar outfit. She wasn’t as robust as Tracey and she looked a little bit lost in the midst of all that material. Her dark hair hung in carefully contrived ringlets, framed by the same two-tone veil. Her hands shook slightly as she grasped her bouquet. On the way up the church path - it was a small, country church with rose bushes framing the tombstones - one of the thorny branches seized at the gauzy stuff and ripped it away, unveiling her face prematurely. The service had to be delayed by a couple of minutes as the bridesmaids rushed to rearrange her.

I suppose the incident wouldn’t have stuck in my mind so much if the rest of the day had gone off without a hitch but as it turned out, the veil incident had been the least of the poor girl’s traumas. It had been the kind of wedding that makes you wonder how the hell did it get this far? The bride’s family kept as far away as they decently could from the groom’s relatives. Difficult, as there were so many of them. When they streamed out of the village pub immediately opposite the church, you marvelled that they had all managed to fit into such a tiny bar. The bride, whose arrival had prompted this hasty exodus, took one despairing look as she alighted from her carriage and wailed, ‘But you’re all supposed to be in the church!’

‘Don’t worry, love,’ the groom’s mother laughed. ‘We soon will be and we’ll make sure he is and all.’ She pointed to the groom who was enjoying a last smoke with his best man beside the lych gate. ‘Come on, son. get in that church, pronto.’

Nicola, that had been her name. I couldn’t remember his. By anyone’s standards he had been a pretty forgettable character. His best man was marginally more memorable in that firstly, he had a cute ass and secondly, his speech was the worst I had ever filmed. I cringed with embarrassment for the poor bastard as he struggled to read the lines he had scribbled earlier, totally out of his depth.

Now, another year on and Tracey is being invested with the full bridal regalia; the veil, the bouquet, the lucky charms. Her mum has to reach for a tissue and dab her eyes as she sees her daughter on the verge of becoming a wife.

‘You look smashing.’ Even the sister is impressed.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘That’ll do for now. I’ll see you later, at the church.’ It’s the first fade out of the day and breathing space for me to set up the lights and sound. Also for my thoughts to wander as I drive down the High Street, wishing I could be sitting outside that cafe, enjoying the morning sunshine.

The vicar at St John’s is very cooperative, unlike some who try to hide you away behind a pillar, or insist on no extra lighting so that the resulting footage looks like it’s been shot in a cellar at midnight. His liberal attitudes to the wedding experience ensure that his church is fully booked all summer. I reckon he enjoys the celebrity status. I know for a fact that as soon as the camera is rolling his voice takes on a sonorous quality lacking at other times.

‘In the presence of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we have come together to witness the marriage of Tracey and Steven, to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love.’

The service gets me every time. I doubt that the bride and groom, nervous as they are, listen to the words as I do and in any case, I’ve heard them enough times in various forms to know what’s coming.

‘Marriage is a sign of unity and loyalty which all should uphold and honour. It enriches society and strengthens community. No one should enter into it lightly or selfishly but reverently and responsibly in the sight of almighty God.’

That’s pretty serious stuff you’re about to promise here, in front of all these witnesses. But it’s the next part that’s the really heart-stopping moment.

‘First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.’

However confident they may be that there is no skeleton in the closet waiting to jangle its chains, this is the moment when I can be assured of a lovely close up of the glance the couple give each other for reassurance. It’s a bit like that moment when you go through Customs after a holiday abroad; you never feel truly innocent, even if you have been scrupulous about keeping to the duty free restrictions.

In the seconds that follow, there is always a certain degree of nervous coughing to punctuate the awful silence before the vicar continues. ‘The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts; therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.’

Of course, they never do. After having had so much money lavished on preparations for the big day, anyone who piped up with, ‘Er, well, actually there is something I forgot to mention…’ would be ripped to pieces by the opposing family.

As the service resumes, there is a kind of collective relaxation. Everyone enjoys the next part and those who have already been married remember their own emotions when they stood before the altar. I have wired the groom for sound; a discreet radio mike tucked into his buttonhole, the simple flower disguising it further. The unfortunate Nicola’s other half had picked up a corsage by accident (or maybe he was too drunk by then to notice the difference). I prayed that a bee might not come along and start rumbling among the petals, ruining my sound.

As usual, the bride is barely audible. Tracey’s voice, so clear earlier, is muffled by the veil and lost in the vaulted ceiling of the church. I can hear her whisper through my headphones. ‘I will.’ The modern wedding ceremony has the bride and groom promise to comfort, honour and protect each other. Not a bad thing in any relationship, I always think. At this point during Nicola’s nightmare wedding, the groom’s relatives’ children began to get bored and started running up and down the aisle, various adults trying ineffectively to catch and shush them. The vicar, professional that he is, simply ignored them and carried on.

Eventually, we get to the final lines. ‘Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.’

After which there’s the signing of the register, some prayers, blessings and a couple of hymns which only a handful know well enough to sing. It’s rare these days to have a congregation of regular churchgoers at a wedding. Today, the groom sings along, although he’s badly out of tune. Never mind, we can tone him down in the edit. Although, sometimes a couple insist on keeping everything, no matter how dire. Nicola was like that. ‘It all happened,’ she’d said determinedly. ‘It was all part of the day, so let’s keep it in.’

Greg laughed when he saw the footage from that one. ‘It’s priceless,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t that groom look gormless? And as for the best man…’

‘I dunno. I thought he was quite tasty.’

He gave me one of his looks, as if to say, you wouldn’t dare. Because for him, the relationship hasn’t moved on; he hasn’t moved on from where he was when we first met. But I have. ‘You told him that?’ Only half-joking this time.

‘No, of course not. He was as straight as they come. Besides, that wouldn’t be professional, would it?’

The service finished, it’s the photographer’s big moment; pausing the newly-weds halfway down the aisle for a couple of pictures before grudgingly moving aside to let me film the procession out of the church. The bells are ringing out merrily. Guests stand around with boxes of confetti at the ready, knowing they don’t dare to throw it until the main man gives them the word. For an hour or so, as he arranges the relatives in formal groupings, I keep occupied by getting some fill-in shots. People chatting. ‘Doesn’t she look lovely.’ The photographer being bossy. A couple of children playing tag among the tombstones. At last, the confetti is flung, the couple get into their car and after a quick shot of it pulling away, I run to my own vehicle for a bit of crazy driving to beat them to the reception venue. It’s always a good idea to plan the route beforehand; figure out the quickest way. The limo driver won’t be in any hurry and will probably go by the scenic route.

Arriving, I park quickly, change the battery and get into position. It’s always a tricky shot, as the camera tends to over compensate for the brilliance of the bride in her white dress and leaves the groom as a shady silhouette, like someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Open the iris too much and you get a whiteout, as if they’d stepped out of the car into a nuclear explosion.

Tracey and Steven pose with their traditional glasses of champagne. She looks even more flushed than earlier. Either the drink has gone straight to her head, or he’s been groping her in the back of the car.

Their guests file past, smiling and wishing them good luck as they make their way inside. You have to make sure you get everyone in the line up. If Aunt Mary dies next week, this will be the family’s last memory of her. A few of the guests are coy about being filmed and look away. Kids stare straight into the lens and some pull faces.

‘Look at that ugly brat,’ Greg will say while editing. ‘Better chop him out.’

‘No. He’s the bride’s nephew. She thought he was a little darling.’

‘No accounting for taste, is there?’

Nicola didn’t have a line up, as such. She had intended to and the book was already open for the guests to sign as they went in, but the groom’s father had decided at this stage that there had been too much standing around. He opened the door of the village hall with a flourish. ‘I dunno about you lot, but I’m starving,’ he boomed. ‘Come on. Pile in. Eat all you want. There’s free champagne on every table.’ He ushered them through.

Flummoxed by this lapse of protocol, I forgot my camera was still recording and as I was pushed aside by the stampeding guests, inadvertently recorded a comment from Nicola’s mother to a friend. ‘What did I say! They have absolutely no idea how to behave. Poor Nicola.’

Why did she do it? To prove something to her doubting family? I wonder how soon it was before she began to regret the whole thing. Are they still together, bickering and bitching? Does her mother confide in friends that she knew it was doomed from the start?

‘Would you be able to let us see the video tonight?’ It’s Tracey’s sister, disturbing my thoughts.

‘Well…’ Greg wouldn’t like it. ‘It’s no good showing them the unedited stuff,’ he always says. ‘We’re supposed to be providing a professional service, not showing them something Uncle Phil could have taken.’

She takes advantage of my hesitation. ‘It’s just that some of the older people here today have come all the way from Australia. They’d love to have something to take back - even just a few minutes of the ceremony. They’re not very technical, you see and they don’t even have Facebook.’

And after all, this is supposed to be the happiest day. ‘Okay, I’ll put something on a memory stick for you and bring it this evening.’

‘Thanks ever so.’ She flashes a smile and it’s not just for politeness’s sake, but genuine, all the way to the eyes. Ah well, at least I can please someone.

I leave the afternoon’s proceedings at the stage where the adults are sitting around chatting after the massive lunch and kids run amok through the wreckage of the decorations, nearly knocking the waitresses for six. The bride’s father undoes his waistcoat buttons just before they pop off and leans back in his chair. A young girl surreptitiously takes a sip from an abandoned glass of champagne and makes a face. Wish I’d got that on camera. By this stage of the event, all that matters are the opportunities for good footage. I’m thinking like a videographer every moment. Even during the drive home, I’m composing shots and thinking of the enhancements I can make to what I’ve already got. As always, I wonder how the sound will have turned out. At one service, the radio mike kept picking up the local taxi firm. I know the pictures will be fine. The light in St John’s is always good and with this morning’s sun streaming through the stained glass, it would have been perfect. Yes, there should be no problem compiling a couple of scenes, as long as Greg doesn’t find out.

When I get home, he’s not there. Still at the shop, I suppose, although Trina, the afternoon girl, will be in by now. Well, all to the good. If he’s not back for a while, it’ll give me a chance to get my dirty work out of the way. It’s not just the ‘unprofessional’ lecture I want to avoid (and really, what is so unprofessional about giving customers what they want) it’s the look on his face when he realises I’ve been editing stuff on my own.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing with this program,’ he’s said, over and over again.

‘Then show me.’

‘I don’t have time. Anyway, it’s easier and quicker if I do it.’

He’s an impatient tutor, tutting and getting irritable when I ask too many questions. I’m usually pretty quick at picking up how to use unfamiliar software, but it’s almost as if he doesn’t want me to learn. Well, I suppose everyone needs to have their own thing and the editing is Greg’s. I tell myself I wouldn’t like it if he started telling me how to rig lighting, or set up sound systems.

I open the door, feeling guilty already. I know the login on the computer. I’ve seen him type it enough times to work out it’s the registration number of his car. Not really very secure at all.

As the computer wakes up, I notice is that the editing software is already up and running. He must have been working on something, earlier. I’m not really paying attention as I plug in the camera to download my own footage. Then I look up and register what’s on screen.

What hits me first, like any good camera operator, is that the scene is badly lit and the focus slightly off. Or is that just my brain attempting to distance myself from the content? For what is unfolding before my eyes is undeniably a home-made porn film. A bit too close to home, at that, as the bedroom is unmistakably ours and one of the participants is Greg. The other is a young man I’ve seen a few times at the pub, but never like this, with his head thrown back in acted - or possibly genuine - ecstasy as my partner gives him a blowjob.

After a couple of seconds, I hit the pause icon, leaving them frozen in mid-act. It’s not that I haven’t sometimes suspected he might be playing around, but to see the evidence in glorious HD is quite another matter. I try to blank it from my mind, but all the time I’m putting together the short wedding montage for Tracey, I’m going through the possible scenarios of what happens next.

Firstly, I suppose, I could pretend I’ve not seen it, let life play out in the same old way, unchanged. But I really don’t think that’s an edit I’d be comfortable with. Things haven’t been brilliant lately - okay, for quite a while - and although you could say the same about any long term relationship, deep down I know I’ve been putting up with it for the sake of an easy life. The prospect of change bothers me. Moving out, having to find somewhere to live; another job. Starting all over again with someone else.

My mind races through scenarios. What if Greg comes back right now? What exactly will I say? ‘You bastard,’ would be appropriate, although it’s a bit of a cliche. ‘Why?’ might be another place to start. I’ve never been much of a drama queen, but maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. I’m fairly easy going, ready to shrug things off or to give people the benefit of the doubt. Is that why he’s done it? Am I too boring, too conventional?

I finish the edit, copy it over to the memory stick. Then, being careful, I delete everything I’ve done, so that he’ll never be able to tell I’ve been using the computer. Still, I wonder why he’s not home yet. My newly roused suspicions come up with all kinds of questions. Where is he? Who’s he with? Images of them re-enacting the scenes I’ve just viewed or relaxing afterwards, sharing jokes and small talk. Greg saying something along the lines of, ‘It’s okay, I don’t have to rush off. Mark won’t be in until late.’

I drive back, find somewhere to park and return to the hall. By then, my professional demeanour has clamped down on anything resembling emotion. I carry on filming, catching every smile, every knowing look between couples whose perfect happiness may be as superficial as ours, yet seems otherwise because the camera captures nothing but the facade.

Take Nicola, last year. Anyone who sees the finished video as shown to potential customers, would see yet another glowing bride, another glossy car, another smiling pair of newlyweds leaving the reception through showers of confetti and goodbyes. I wonder if they’re still together? I wonder how many of the so-called happy couples I’ve filmed over the past few years really were. Happy, that is. And how many have stayed together purely because it’s too much effort to break away.

‘Over here, Mark. She’s going to throw her bouquet.’

I get to my feet mechanically. The girls are gathering in a brightly-dressed and red-cheeked huddle.

‘One… two… three!’ They leap and dive like a rugby scrum. Petals detach and are crushed underfoot before a blond girl surfaces triumphantly to cheers and whistles.

‘Well done, Shaz.’

‘Who you gonna propose to, then?’

I grab another glass of champagne for myself. I know I shouldn’t be drinking. It’s not professional, plus I still have to drive home. Home! Now that’s a joke. What the fuck am I going to do? Confront him, of course. Then what? Walk out? Sleep in the car? Trouble is, the car’s his, like everything else. All that I’ve put in to the relationship; the long hours, the hard work, isn’t something that can be easily divided when it’s all over. Most of the material goods are in his name, too. Clever bastard.

I keep thinking of that video I saw. Maybe some of the people we both know have seen it too. Is that why some of those comments I never quite understood were made? They must think I’m stupid, or pathetic. How can I ever face any of them again?

I’m up again for the first dance; the slow shuffle of two people who haven’t had ballroom dancing lessons. The music is amplified to the point of distortion. I move around carefully in the dark hall, keeping the footage smooth, trying to put it all to the back of my mind. But I keep wondering what Greg’s doing now. Perhaps he’s watching it again, remembering how it felt. Getting himself turned on so that when I come in he can pretend he’s been missing me and it’s this body, this man that he really wants.

Never has an evening reception dragged on for so long. Never has the final fade to black - as the limo sweeps them away to the Honeymoon Suite - seemed so welcome.

***

All the way home I’m playing through the expected scene. Should I just walk in dramatically, throw all the video equipment on the floor and say, ‘It’s over.’ Walk out again. End of.

I just don’t know. Except that it definitely is over. I’m starting to see behind the edit now: behind the facade. How could I have been so blind for so long? I wonder how many others there might have been; how many he’s filmed in our room without me suspecting.

The lights are visible behind drawn blinds in the living room. His car is on the drive. My heart begins speeding up, preparing for the confrontation.

He looks around from the TV as I walk in, with what I’ve always taken to be a welcoming smile. ‘How’s your day been?’

‘The wedding went fine.’ I want to wipe that phoney expression off his face.

‘Good,’ he says, unsuspecting.

‘I came back earlier. Made them a short edit.’

‘Oh, Mark.’ Just a mild touch of annoyance in his voice. No guilty jumping to conclusions as I would be doing in his place. If he’s this cold-blooded about it, what else might he have successfully hidden from me?

I’m clenching the car keys in my fist so hard they bite into my palm. ‘You’d been doing some of your own editing, hadn’t you?’ Confess, you bastard.

His expression flickers. He knows, all right. He looks away. ‘Oh. That.’

As if it was nothing at all. ‘Can’t you even be bothered to try and think up an excuse?’

He shrugs. ‘What can I say? It happened. I’m sorry.’

I find myself almost wanting to believe in him, in the truth of how he looks at me. He’s so plausible. ‘Come and sit down,’ he says, in that same, reasonable tone.

‘So we can talk about it? It’s too late for that. Far too late,’ I repeat, my voice raised now. ‘You just don’t give a shit, do you? You say you love me, but that’s just a way to keep me sweet. It’s cheaper than paying someone wages, isn’t it?’

He doesn’t attempt to deny anything. If only he’d shout back. He can’t even give me the satisfaction of a good row; a bit of violence to end the thing properly.

‘You’re just a sad bastard.’ I turn to go, wondering if he’ll try to stop me. If he does, will I then slam him against the wall, put my hands around his throat and squeeze the life from him, like something out of a soap opera?

Nothing happens, in this edit. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper. I slam the front door behind me but even that’s not co-operating as it should. The glass doesn’t break, the wood doesn’t splinter. I get into the car, start the engine. All the while I’m waiting for him to follow; to try and stop me. To make some sort of an effort.

Nothing happens. He’s probably on Grindr already. In one last, crazy gesture, I reverse down the drive at speed, taking half of the hedge with me into the road. Drive off with a screech of tyres that rouses the neighbours, at least. A couple of curtains twitch but that’s all.

It’s over, I think, letting the car settle to a more normal speed, my last scene finished in the movie of our lives. Over.