Nadja had been paid to photograph the bride's left side. The instructions described it as a preference. Now the bride was holding up her right sleeve and asking for one picture that showed everything.
Four bruises ran around her wrist. The fifth was lower, where a thumb had pressed against the bone.
"Before it fades," she said.
Nadja took the photograph. Beyond the dressing-room door, relatives were arguing about whether the storm would reach the estate before the ceremony. The bride lowered her sleeve as someone knocked.
"Was it him?" Nadja asked.
"No."
Her name was Tilda. Nadja had met her twice, once with her mother and once with a woman who called herself a family coordinator. Every question about what Tilda wanted had been answered by somebody standing closer to the table.
The coordinator entered without waiting. She checked the veil, checked the window and asked Nadja to photograph the groom by the loading entrance.
He stood alone beside the loading entrance, where her van was parked. His cuffs were undone. As she lifted her camera he slipped a key wrapped in folded paper into her hand.
"Side gate," he said.
His right wrist had the same bruises as Tilda's.
Nadja lowered the camera. He glanced toward the man stationed beside the main stairs. The man's suit fitted badly across his shoulders, as though it had been bought for a different kind of work.
"We tried yesterday," the groom said. "Separately. They told her I'd changed my mind. They told me she'd signed."
Nadja unfolded the paper. It was a page from a private agreement between the two families, with lines requiring signatures from the couple. Nothing about it could make the ceremony compulsory. That had not prevented anyone here from behaving as though it did.
"Call someone," she said.
He held out his empty hand. Their phones, their car keys, even the overnight bags had been taken upstairs for safekeeping. The estate stood at the end of a long gated drive. The guests were arriving by coach, brought from the families' hotels and expected to leave together.
Nadja took out her own phone. No signal inside the stone loading passage. She told him she would go to the road and call.
"Take us," he said.
The coordinator called his name from the hall. He buttoned his cuffs and went toward her. Nadja opened the back of her van. The padded backdrop rolls occupied one side; the other held a folded stool and a case of clamps. There was room for two people to sit, though not comfortably.
The first hail struck the roof as she moved the clamps. Inside, someone shouted for the guests to leave the terrace. Caterers hurried past her with wet chair cushions. She caught Tilda's eye through the open dressing-room door and pointed to the van.
Tilda came out without the veil. She carried her dress high, exposing ordinary walking shoes. She had already prepared as much as she could.
The groom reached the loading passage as Nadja lowered the van's rear step. He was holding the remaining pages of the agreement. He tore them into broad strips while he walked, letting them fall where the coordinator could see.
"Get in," Nadja said.
They sat on the floor and held the cargo straps. She shut the doors, got behind the wheel and reversed into the yard. The man in the badly fitted suit appeared at the main entrance. He shouted for her to stop. Rain made the side mirror almost useless.
The lane to the side gate was narrow enough that branches scraped both doors. Nadja reached the gate, put the handbrake on and searched for the key. It had slipped between the seats. Behind her, Tilda opened the rear door.
"Stay there," Nadja said.
"Find it. I'll open it."
Nadja passed her the key through the window. Tilda ran to the gate while the groom climbed into the passenger seat. In the mirror the guard was coming along the lane, his polished shoes sliding in the mud.
Tilda unlocked the gate and pulled it wide. A piece of her skirt caught on the projecting latch. She tugged once, looked back at the approaching man, then gathered the dress in both hands and tore it free.
The groom held the passenger door while she climbed over him. Nadja drove through with the door still open. It swung shut at the first turn.
At the road she stopped beside a garage with people under its awning. They called for help there. The couple made the calls themselves, giving their names and saying they had been prevented from leaving. Nadja stayed until a patrol car arrived, then drove home with hailstones melting beneath the van's rear step.
A week later, a magazine offered to buy the wedding photographs. Nadja told them there had been no wedding. She showed Tilda the few pictures she had taken and asked which she wanted printed.
Tilda chose the one of her wrist. Nadja printed it without smoothing the skin. In the corner was a small part of Nadja's own hand, holding the sleeve out of the way. She left that in too.
