The bride stared at the glum faced woman in the mirror.

The dress was perfect, a cascade of pearlescent silk that shimmered in the cracked light streaming through the rectory’s windows. Her hair had never looked so good; the stylist had done wonders in bringing out her natural auburn, and it burned with unnatural brightness. Even the bouquet, which she held awkwardly at her waist, was far more jubilant than any arrangement of dying flowers had any right to be.

But still she frowned. This is the happiest day of my life, she told herself. Her frown remained unconvinced. I couldn’t dare hope to meet a better man than Harry. He’s very kind and caring, he has a good job and a secure future, and he cares for me deeply. And I like him, I really do. Her features were steadfast. Okay, so he isn’t exactly the type of person I imagined marrying when I was a little girl, but it’s past time I grew out of such childish notions of love at first sight. Eternal happiness doesn’t hinge on some chance meeting backed by an angelic choir! True love comes from appreciating what you have and realising that you aren’t wanting of anything. Where there’s comfort contentment isn’t far behind. Love is only a matter of—

“Time to go, Mrs. Carver!” Boomed a cheery voice through the doorway. It was closely followed by a stout, balding man that had presumably had a run in with a professional hypnotist moonlighting as a suit salesman.

“I’m still Miss Jones for the moment, Uncle George.”

“But not for much longer, eh?” Said the man, bobbing excitedly from foot to foot.

The bride turned and gave him a pained smile. “I suppose not.”

“That’s the spirit!” Said George, his smile impervious to the abject lack of enthusiasm in her voice. “I’ll go and bring the car ’round, so you just be careful not to dirty that lovely dress from ’ere to your faithful chariot.”

He dithered in the doorway for a moment, seemingly unsure if he should do as he said or simply burst from happiness then and there. Sealing his choice with an impossibly wide smile, the small man waddled off.

The woman in the mirror sighed. If only I was half as excited.

Clutching the flowers to her breast the bride gave her reflection a stern look. This is my wedding day and I’m all dressed up for the occasion. I’ll be damned if I’ll let last minute nerves ruin things for me! With a deep breath the bride forced a smile. It was not entirely convincing, but what are veils good for if not to disguise false displays of happiness?

She closed the door behind her.

• * * * *

The bride watched Uncle George piling his plate high at the reception buffet table, a now genuine smile playing upon her lips.

Sipping at her drink she played back the day’s events. It had been a beautiful service, and she had surprised herself by not so much as hesitating when it came to saying “I do”. Her misgivings must have been the spawn of simple nerves, the relief of which was reason enough to smile. Doubts were such nagging things, constantly pulling at the sleeves of your concentration like some aggravating child.

“Hello, my dear!” Bellowed a lipsticked voice behind her.

“Oh, hello Mrs. Carver.” Said the bride, mentally cursing the woman for making her splash her wedding dress with champagne. “I didn’t see you.” Which is quite a feat, she thought before chastising her own unheard cruelty.

“I’m your mother-in-law now, dear. Please, call me Velda.” The round woman’s snake-like lips formed an unnatural smile; it was the expression of someone that had learned how to smile from a description in a book.

“Alright, Mrs. Ca— Velda.”

The mother-in-law’s grimace widened.

“I’m afraid I can’t chat at the moment, dear. I have to go and organise my niece’s class as they are due to provide some hymns for us.”

“Oh. Lovely.”

The round woman rolled off into the crowd.

I’m surprised she didn’t eat Harry as soon as she’d birthed him, the bride thought. Skipping her self discipline she searched the throngs of guests for her recent husband. He had excused himself to talk business and smoke cigars with his friends, both of which would have left the bride retching. She couldn’t see any sign of him.

Her eyes fell on a man in the corner that was looking straight at her. Taking her gaze as an invitation he strode over to introduce himself.

“Congratulations.” He said, holding out his hand.

“I’m sorry?” Replied the bride, gingerly shaking his hand.

“The wedding?”

“Oh, yes of course. How silly of me.” She blushed slightly under his gaze.

“I can’t blame you for forgetting,” the man said, “the guests seem more interested in talking amongst themselves and leaving you by the wayside.”

The bride blushed deeper. “The service was for me, the reception is for people like yourself.”

“People like me?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Guests.” Replied the bride, looking at her drink to break his gaze. There was something uncomfortably exciting about his look.

“Ahh, I’m not a guest. I’m the wedding photographer.” Said the man, patting the camera case at his hip.

“Oh, I’m sorry! No wonder I didn’t recognise you.” And with looks like that you’d be seared onto my memory, she thought, the idea of reprimanding herself not even crossing her mind.

“Then allow me to introduce myself properly.” He held out his hand again. “I’m Nathan Matthews, professional photographer and designated non-guest.”

The bride took his hand and gave a mock curtsy. “Rosemary Jones, unprofessional writer and often uninvited guest.”

“Don’t you mean Rosemary Carver?” The man asked with a wry smile.

“Oh!” The bride snatched back her hand and clamped it to her mouth.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.” Laughed the man. “Besides, a Rose by any other name…” He had a devilish look in his eye.

The bride bit her lip as his comment turned her heart into a helium balloon. Behind the smouldering of her cheeks and the chattering of guests an angelic choir broke into song.

Well… shit.