SAM BINNIE
The Wedding Diaries

For J,

Bringer of sunshine

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

August 15th

September 2nd

October 2nd

November 8th

December 2nd

January 1st

February 4th

March 1st

April 1st

May 1st

June 4th

July 1st

August 2nd

Acknowledgements

Welcome

Sam’s Wedding Guide

Top Five Wedding Essentials

Wedding Inessentials

Hen parties – Dos and Don’ts

Stag parties – Dos and Don’ts

Family

Decorations

Wedding Lists

Table Plans

Honeymoon Destinations

Money

Finally, my attempt to lower your chances of future marital discord

Read on for an exclusive extract from The Baby Diaries out in Spring 2013

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

August 15th

Here’s who knows about weddings: Abba. The Dixie Cups. Alfred Doolittle. All masters on the theme of matrimony, whether it’s the oaths (I do), the venue (Chapel of Love) and the punctuality (on time). But can they tell me: what happens when you ruin the proposal?

It was the final night of our long weekend in Bath, an early birthday gift from me to Thom, and I was getting suspicious. Thom had been strange with me for the previous week – silent, jumpy, and staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking – and had been in an odd mood for most of the weekend. He seemed twitchy and insistent on going out for dinner when all I wanted was to sink into our hotel bed with room service and some TV, so I put two and two together and decided that five = looking for somewhere public to break up with me. I’d had passing concerns every now and again since February, when I’d ruined a Valentine’s meal at a tapas bar by rifling through each dish looking for a ring that wasn’t there. In the taxi to the restaurant my nerves were noticeable.

Me: Are you sure this is the restaurant you want to go to?

Thom: [silence]

Me: Oh Jesus. Please can we just go home?

Thom: [silence]

Me: Look! There’s a homeless man. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take him?

Thom: [silence]

Me: Brilliant. This is just how I hoped my holiday would end.

I’d whipped myself up into a frenzy by this point, dizzily chattering away as we were shown to our table. All I could see was that we were tucked into a corner, out of earshot but still in eyeshot should a court case demand it. As we settled into our chairs I realised that, having been eyeballing me for the last week, Thom now wouldn’t even look at me, and I began to panic. I started reading out the menu, describing each item in my cheeriest voice and making comments on the dishes with a joyful tone that kept sticking in my throat. Hurray! I was becoming my mother. When I summoned the courage to look at Thom again he was staring at me, apparently about to speak. At that moment someone started tapping a knife against a wine glass, and the restaurant went silent. A handsome, happy man rose to his feet.

Handsome Man: Sorry everyone, sorry. I’ll let you go back to your delicious meals in one moment. I just need your attention for a minute. This beautiful woman here [gestures to woman apparently trying to eye-laser an escape route through their table] has made me so happy over the last two years. In front of all of you here tonight, I would like to ask her: Jen, will you do me the great honour of becoming my one and only wife?

Jen: [blanching] Oh, Steve …

HM: Come on, stand up, darling! Will you join with me in holy matrimony, and finally make an honest man out of me?

Jen: I’m sorry, Steve. [picks up handbag] This isn’t going to work. [walks out]

HM: [after a long silence] Sorry everyone. Sorry. Please … [sitting down] carry on.

I turned to Thom and he was paler than poor Steve. He actually looked as if he was going to be sick. At that moment the waiter arrived to take our order, attempting to plaster over the dreadful event the entire restaurant had just witnessed. Thom blindly ordered for both of us, which was unusual but fine by me as my stomach seemed to be about to crawl out of my throat. He couldn’t break up with me now, could he? He opened his mouth to speak, his tongue dryly clicking.

Thom: Kiki, we’ve been together a while, and I’ve started thinking about where we’re going—[voice disappears]

Me: [gibbering] No! Don’t think about it! Although you did say that you wanted to go to Berlin, didn’t you? Let’s go to Berlin! That’s where we can go!

Thom: [touching my hand, looking at me] Keeks. Please will you marry me?

Me: Is that a joke?

I didn’t intend to say something so horribly unromantic, and a better story will definitely have to be devised for the grandchildren, but after I realised that he was serious and Thom realised that he wasn’t about to relive the Steve and Jen Story from the sharp end I couldn’t stop crying. Thom moved his chair next to mine and hugged me for a really long time. Every time I’d almost calmed down, he’d say something like ‘This will be brilliant’ and I’d start off again. The manager was so delighted that someone would actually have a positive experience of the restaurant that night that he sent over a bottle of champagne. When we staggered out of the restaurant arm in arm and quite definitely tipsy, I kept thinking over and over: I could get used to this.

August 16th

So this is why I’ve started this diary. It will be a lovely keepsake of the wedding as well as a handy one-stop notebook for everything that needs to be done; all of it will live here. This organisation thing will be a lark. I’ve also signed up to receive a lovely inspirational email each month; a wedding from great literature. Not bad, eh? This wedding will be the making of me.

After work, we rang Thom’s parents in Australia, who squealed down the phone at us and promised not to call my parents for at least an hour or two, giving us time to break the news. Alan and Aileen are dream in-laws-to-be: funny, thoughtful, kind and on the other side of the world, having emigrated there on retirement three years ago. Thom’s an only child, and Alan and Aileen said they knew they didn’t have to worry about him so would go and warm their bones for a while, just outside Sydney. They love it over there: the weather, the food, and their neighbours, but they say they miss us.

Mum and Dad were over the moon when they heard our news. They’ve always loved Thom (a little bit more than they love me, if my suspicions are correct) and jumped from their armchairs when Thom announced our engagement. Well, I say jumped: Mum leapt up and started kissing everyone while Dad’s face glowed, then he carefully lifted himself from his chair to pump Thom’s hand up and down and envelop me in a lovely Dad-hug. Mum was already crying, and when Dad whispered, ‘Well done, my girl – he better look after you or he’ll have me to deal with,’ I was laughing and choking up a bit too. Dad might be six foot four and solid as an old brick shed, but he’s the kindest, most gentle person you could ever wish to meet. He retired early from a very dull senior job in a law firm and, while all his cronies were perfecting their golf swing and talking about running for parliament, Dad saw a TV programme about fine-working silver, took a short course and was such a natural that he now teaches Jewellery Making at the local sixth-form and adult college. He produces such beautiful, delicate pieces, necklaces and rings and gorgeous Christmas ornaments for the Twins, all of which seem impossible until you see his long, fine fingers, and all of which go with his brilliant, lovely mind, and all of which make you wonder how he managed to spend all those years in a legal office. A girl couldn’t wish for a better dad.

Once Mum had mopped her eyes a bit, she found a dusty old bottle of pre-mixed Buck’s Fizz from some party back in 1987 and we all toasted one another.

Mum: Congratulations to you both!

Dad: We’re so proud of you two. We wish you every happiness.

Thom: Tessa, John – if we can spend one day of marriage as happy as you have always been, I’ll consider us truly blessed.

Me: I’m not particularly comfortable with public displays of emotion, but I will raise a toast to that. To my mum and dad, and the giant wedding extravaganza that will make their daughter as happy as they are!

Mum rolled her eyes a little at that but Dad chuckled, and on cue the phone rang: Thom’s mum. Leaving the mothers to discuss hats (or whatever), Thom bundled me into the car to go and see Susie, just around the corner, after swearing Mum and Dad (Mum) to secrecy for the next half-hour. Susie’s been my sister for about as long as I can remember, being two years older than me, and – if I block the time she cut all my hair off when I was four – has been my best friend for pretty much the entire time. Susie, Pete and the kids live in a lovely old terraced house, extended almost into oblivion by the previous owners, so although the front is tiny, it opens out into a huge warehouse space once you get inside. The front door is tricky to get through, though, being jammed with children’s boots and coats, Pete’s souvenirs from around the world and a huge window seat that doesn’t fit in the hallway but Susie insists is necessary, glamorous hallway furniture. She’s going through a Sunset Boulevard stage at the moment, so thinks a lilac velvet chaise longue is exactly what a terrace in North Finchley requires.

She opened the door to us in her apron (not only her apron, obviously) with hands covered in flour and her six-year-old twins Lily and Edward scampering around her.

Lily and Edward: Thom! Hurray!

Thom: Susie. Children. [picks the Twins up by their ankles and carries them off upside down to the garden]

Me: [faintly] Hi … children …

Susie: Come and have a drink.

Oh, Susie, so good with the drinks offers. After Mum’s ecstasies, I could have murdered a Band on the Run. She held up her floury hands and kicked a foot towards the fridge for me to help myself. After rummaging around for a while, I gave her my most disgusted look.

Me: You don’t have anything to drink, do you?

Susie: Ooooh … funny you should say that. I bought some vodka a few months ago—

Me: [snatching up a pair of kitchen tongs and brandishing them in her face] Susie …

Susie: No. We probably don’t. Sorry!

Me: Is Pete around to do an alcohol run?

Susie: Since it’s neither Christmas nor the Twins’ birthday, I think it’s safe to assume he’s not.

Also, Susie: not so good with possessing the wonderful drinks she offers. But the few times she has, combined with the frequency of her offers means she is somehow still seen as a glorious homemaker. I blame Lily and Edward. Their charm and beauty distract from the true horrors of their mother’s hostess talents. And since Susie’s husband Pete is almost never at home to ease her household burden, frequently away with his glamorous travel agent job, the fact that her children still have their full complement of fingers/legs/heads ought really to be enough for us.

We chatted for a minute or two, until I reminded her of my weekend away with Thom. I knew she wasn’t really paying attention when she asked for details since she was so busy rolling out scores of pastry cases for some school event; I repaid her with a mind-numbing parody of our mother’s anecdotes, in the style of a particularly dry shopping list.

Me: … And then we looked at the baths, so that was five o’clock, then we went back to the hotel, then we changed and went to dinner, at seven … no, eight … no … was it? … No. Eight o’clock. Then we were at the restaurant. Oh. And then he proposed.

Susie: [stunned] Is that a joke?

And they say we Carlows are unromantic. Besides our inability with languages (Susie and I once took a trip to Italy in our teens and when our passports were stolen, discovered that the only Italian we’d picked up was seventeen different kinds of pasta) it seems we also face romantic situations with the same facial expression and tone of voice of someone asked to kick a piglet.

When she realised that I wasn’t joking, she lifted a floury hand to her throat, then clasped my hands between hers. As she warmly expressed her joy and excitement with little giggles and happy sighs, and clutched my arms, I suddenly twigged what she was up to, and looked down to find myself covered in flour up to the elbows. She started backing away, chuckling, but I held up my hands – Peace – and promised that I only wanted to wipe the mess off her neck. When she gave me that fatal moment of trust, I grabbed as much flour as I could from the counter and ground it into her hair.

Thom came in with the children moments later to find me bent over the worktop as Susie held my ponytail and rubbed my face in the flour, both of us weak with laughter. Susie called the Twins over.

Susie: [sternly] I don’t ever want to see you doing this to another child, do you understand?

Twins: Yes, Mummy.

Edward: [thoughtful] But can we do it to adults?

Susie: No.

Lily: But we can do it to Aunt Kiki?

Thom and Susie: Yes.

TO DO:

Dress

Venue

Food

Honeymoon

Find out if I absolutely have to invite own sister

August 18th

My colleagues at Polka Dot Books were exactly as supportive as I’d expected: Alice was excited, Carol suspicious (‘And how long will you be expecting to take for Honeymoon?’ Me, to self: Why is she making that sound like a disgusting illness?) and Norman apathetic. Carol’s our Commissioning Editor at Polka Dot and one of the grumpiest people I’ve met, but she speaks with such a beautiful tone, like a cross Joanna Lumley, that I never really mind her irritable pronouncements, while Norman, Head of Accounts and taciturn to the point of muteness mostly, would be newsworthy if something caused him to react at all. Alice is my closest friend there, and a member of the Hamilton family, of Hamilton Industry fame, the tooth-achingly rich owners of 60% of the world’s chalk mines. I still can’t tell if Alice works here for a dare, or if she’s trying to prove something to her parents. She got the job through connections, of course, her father being the godson of our boss’s mother (this is what Alice’s whole life is like), so I was tempted to tip her off the fire escape when she joined the company. She’s always immaculately dressed in DVF or modern Chanel with a few choice pieces of Whistles and Topshop thrown in, and I’ve never, ever seen her with egg on her blouse or a large bump of hair sticking out the top of her ponytail. Her handbags alone would be enough to make a grown woman weep, but combine that with the face of an angel and the wallet of a Trump and Alice completely terrifies most of our authors (while others are completely in love with her – one a little bit of both), so she turned out to be a great guard dog for the office. It also gradually became clear that like many of those lusciously maned ex-Edinburgh Uni girls, she was great at publicity, pulling on her spiderweb to get our authors into great magazines and media slots, so we all had a meeting behind her back and decided we’d let her live. She’s incredibly posh but undercuts it all with a deadpan humour that took me three months to get but now is my favourite thing about going to work each day. She can say anything – literally, anything – to our authors and to Tony, the boss, and they might blink for a second but will never, ever disbelieve her or question quite how filthy/offensive/untrue what it is she’s saying.

But it was a surprise for my boss to be so gleeful. He doesn’t really approve of personal lives.

Tony: What’s all this fuss about?

Me: [nervous] Oh … It looks like I’ll be getting married next year.

Tony: Fine. [suddenly paying attention] Really? That’s brilliant! Brilliant! What great news!

Me: Ummm … yes?

Tony: No, that’s great! Have you got much planned?

Me: Well, it’s still pretty early, so—

Tony: Brilliant stuff. Good. Well, this couldn’t have come at a better time. I’ve got a new book for you!

New book was selling it somewhat short. Through some hideous Machiavellian scheming that I definitely don’t want to know about, Polka Dot Books have somehow landed model/soapstar/popstar Jacki Jones’s book – and it turns out that since she too is getting married next year, it’s going to be a wedding book.

I’m a humble editorial assistant at Polka Dot Books, a smallish publisher of very commercial titles (the books you’d see at the supermarket mostly) which was opened in the eighties by Tony’s parents. They kept their small family firm under the radar by publishing nothing arthouse, nothing controversial, nothing groundbreaking, just making cheap populist paperbacks available to a hungry public. Tony’s father died when he was young, but his mother, Pamela, is still around, and Tony lives in awe and terror of her. She, in her turn, has rewritten the importance of Polka Dot into something comparable to the Gutenberg press, defending the honour of her publishing house by criticising most of what we publish. She also holds the family purse strings, and is the majority stockholder here (rumour has it she gave Tony 10% of the company on his 21st birthday, certain – and correct in her certainty – that those shares would keep him attached to the Polka Dot where mere maternal threats might fail). He’s worked harder than his 10% would warrant, some might argue, doing a fairly good job (although the office hasn’t been repainted in almost a decade, at least it’s still open) with little from her but an occasional visit to snoop at the books ‘she’s’ publishing.

Since arriving here four years ago my duties have officially been limited to office diary management and author care (patting the authors on the head, making sure they know how to get in and out of a taxi, taking them to the BBC and showing them where the door is for them to walk through, giving them a snack and carton of squash when they get fractious) with a little bit of editing on the side, although actually I’ve done so much ‘editing on the side’ that Tony’s been promising me my own titles for almost a year now. So I should be excited that I’ve finally got one, and such an exciting one at that. But the fact that Tony’s given me a book to work on at all (and such an exciting one, etc.) has rather set alarm bells ringing. What’s so wrong with this author or this book that Tony is happy – and I mean happy – to hand it over to his assistant? The thought that this is finally a charitable move on his part is quite literally incredible, so I shall have to wait and see why Jacki Jones’s Perfect Wedding is so monstrous that Tony Cooper, big fish in this small Polka Dot pond, has washed his hands of it. At least I might be able to pinch something from the photo shoots, I suppose.

When I came out of Tony’s office, Alice was smiling wistfully.

Alice: I was engaged once.

Me: [shocked] Were you?! When? How?

Alice: Thank you for your incredulity, Kiki. I was engaged when I was seventeen, to the first man I ever slept with. Mummy and Daddy didn’t really like him, and it didn’t last long. After we broke up, he kidnapped a girl who looked exactly like me but he got off on an insanity plea.

Her tale was so awful, but Alice’s straight-faced delivery and shrug – what? Doesn’t that happen to everyone? – meant that I couldn’t stop laughing for fifteen minutes. She came out as gay in her early twenties, to everyone except her parents. She now lives with a man she describes as ‘so dim it hurts to talk to him’, sharing a two-bed flat and moving into one room when her parents visit. Soon after I met her, I asked her why she was with him. She said, ‘I’m not with him, with him. Anyway, he’s really kind, he has an amazing collection of obscure science-fiction novels and my mother loves him. It keeps them off my back.’

It’s not a large company – Tony, Editorial Director; Carol, Commissioning Editor; Norman, Accounts; an Art team of three, Dan, Mark and Nayla; a part-time Sales team of five; Alice and two others, one freelance and one part-time, make up Marketing and Publicity; a marvellous Production duo; whichever intern we’ve signed up for the month (currently Judy the Intern, who, now I think about it, seems to have been here forever); various other freelancers; and me. In the early glory days of Polka Dot Books there was talk of moving to a building with a reception desk where guests would be warmly greeted and actually assisted, rather than bumbling up the stairs until someone recognises them, but one thing after another meant we’re still in this sad office block off Baker Street – a lovely location, but a structure that is surely only standing because the developers haven’t decided what to build on top of its shattered wreckage. The office itself is some odd hybrid of Dickensian lair and supermarket warehouse: books are piled on every surface, blocking windows and propping open doors, but each book usually has either glitter or a sexy-looking weapon on the front and back (each with a heavily airbrushed author photo). These are not Booker winners. But they keep people reading, and they pay for a roof over my head. I’m a fan.

TO DO:

Venue – location?

Dress – book Suse to come

Investigate how cross Mum will be if I don’t ask her to come dress shopping too

Honeymoon – New York? Berlin?

Buy bridal magazines

August 20th

Tony’s very kindly ordered a pile of wedding books For Reference Purposes before I get to work on Jacki’s book. I am indeed referring to them, not least to work out the things I need to get done over the next few months. Some more for the list:

TO DO:

Announce our engagement – email? Newspaper? Rooftops?

Engagement party – usual gang? usual place? Friday night?

Sort wedding date – August? (nice weather)

Choose a colour scheme – blues? Nautical but Nice? Pinks? Like a big bruise? Or … all green. The Wedding of Oz. Ask Suse about colour schemes

Dress – decide what shape I want (fishtail, strapless, A-line, column, empire, spherical, whatever)

Find magazine images of veils, accessories I like (who has veil preferences?)

Music for reception – see if Thom would be happy for Jim to find local band?

August 23rd

Here, for the record, is how we met.

One day, seven years ago exactly, I’d come to stay with Susie and Pete during a university holiday, and was working at a terrible data-entry job, typing in the details of vacuum cleaner warrantees for seven hours a day. Susie – young, carefree, albeit recently married – had called me up and said, ‘Stop moping over your horrible lists. No one should have to care about vacuum cleaner purchase histories. If you haven’t met your quota, you can hang yourself later. You’re coming dancing with us tonight.’

There was a big gang of them going out, a group from Susie’s radio station, all impossibly cool to someone still not quite officially in the big wide world, even though most of them were only a couple of years older than me. One of them had a birthday so they were all heading east to some super-chic bar, and Susie was insisting I join them. It was either that or an evening in with Pete (he was exhausted from his new job at a travel company) so I bolted back to the flat, threw on Susie’s favourite dress, pinned up my hair, and was out the door before Pete could regale me with a hilarious double-booking anecdote. When I got to Bar Electric – a bar so cool they simply put their records on shelves along the walls, so their hipster crowd could help themselves – Susie’s original gang had swelled to include other friends of friends, so I was tucked into the booth next to someone Susie didn’t know, so couldn’t introduce me to, while she went to get drinks. I had no eyes for the company though, because I couldn’t take my eyes off a guy I’d spotted the second I walked in. He had to be the best-looking human being I’d ever seen in my life. Piercing blue eyes, a half-smiling mouth, thick, perfectly-not-styled hair, and (from what I could see) a killer body: this was the full cliché. He was amazing. I couldn’t believe that not only had he not had me thrown out for looking at him, but he’d actually been looking back at me, talking to his friend, looking at me, turning back to the friend but constantly seeing if I was still looking at him. He was amazing. Susie arrived with my drink shortly after, which I necked in my nervousness.

This went on for a while, until, after chugging four drinks and ignoring everyone else at our table, I’d gained enough confidence. I told Susie I was going over. She goggled her eyes at me and told me to take care and to be careful; she was pretty hammered too by that stage. I strutted over to where he was sitting by a wall of vinyl, and flicked through one box of records for a while. I could see a better lot higher up, and reached up as far as I could to access the Whitney Houston winking to me from its heavy wooden box. I stretched up past Handsome Man to show off my body at its best (‘Look how slender and supple I am,’ etc.) and just got my fingertips to it, pulling, lifting it down – and it teetered, overbalanced, tipped off the edge and punched its full weight directly into my eye socket. I screamed: ‘Motherfucker!’ and doubled over, clutching my hand to my face, while bar staff hurried up to pick up the box and check the records were OK. Susie rushed across to take me back to the table where she could check me over, and I got a quick glimpse of the exquisite discomfort on Handsome Man’s face. As Suse sat me down, I saw him getting his coat and pals and leaving the place, unable to look in my direction. Susie was drunkenly flustering a bit, but out of nowhere came a pint glass full of ice and a bar towel. I looked up and saw a guy turning away, sitting back down at the other side of the booth and continuing his conversation with some of Susie’s gang.

I poured a handful of ice into the towel and put it to my face. I watched him as he was talking. He was so good looking: not hip, not breathtaking, not someone who would stop you in your tracks as you walked down the street, but with a face that looked good. Someone you would trust with your dog, your grandma, your handbag, your life. ‘When did he get here?’ I asked Susie. She looked at me, laughing. ‘Cuckoo, he’s been here all night.’ Just at that moment, he turned to me and smiled. And my heart disappeared somewhere out the top of my skull.

(Just for the record, turns out the Twins were conceived that night. Who had to be careful, Susie?)

Seven years ago today, Thom was out with his new work colleagues for his birthday. Happy birthday, you good man.

August 26th

I love our flat. It’s tiny, absolutely tiny, but I like it. Our landlord is totally brilliant – he lives in Canada so if anything goes wrong he just sends us money to fix it – and you get brilliant light in the living room in the summer. The kitchen is big enough for one (two if someone gets a chair and sits on the landing) which is just how I like it, the bathroom has a bath and a shower, and the bedroom has a king-size bed in. This is everything anyone could need in a home. Add to that our neighbours downstairs – a couple in their forties always offering us their lovely cast-offs, including a beautiful enamel casserole and an Art Deco glass jug recently – and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Thom, I think, could stand to live a little further from my family; Susie’s five minutes’ walk away and my mum and dad three minutes’ drive, but it’s not like she’s one of those creepy mums who keeps a key to all her children’s homes and lets herself in to do the laundry and washing up. Although if I could guarantee we’d always be out when she came, that wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing in the world. I’ve lived in a few places since leaving home, but we all ended up in the same neighbourhood, which still surprises me.

We had a tough Sunday afternoon in the flat, dealing with all the various key points. Organising weddings is hard work.

Me: I was thinking about the wedding party. Susie and Eve for my bridesmaids?

Thom: Do you even like Eve?

Me: Thom! She’s my oldest friend.

Thom: I thought as much.

Me: Have you sorted out your best man yet?

Thom: I thought Rich.

Me: Of course. And when shall we do this thing? August?

Thom: Why not? If we do it near my birthday I’ll have no excuse for forgetting our anniversary.

Me: Right. Done.

Thom: Another beer?

Me: Sure. We’ve earned it.

TO DO:

Relax. This stuff basically organises itself.

August 28th

Christ. Who knew you had to make an appointment just to try a dress on? Alice asked me where I’d booked, then had to explain it to me two or three times before I’d believe her. Not to be measured, not to be fitted, just to pull on a dress to see if you like it. Jesus. I’ve now made appointments at two wedding dress shops nearby for early September. Susie’s booked Pete to be at home for once so she can leave Lily and Edward with him, and we’ll have lunch and cocktails either side of the fittings. Is it wrong to feel like I’m doing charity work when I manage to take Susie out without the children? Giving her a window back into Living as an Independent Adult? Anyway, I’m led to believe the dress will be the trickiest bit of this whole wedding; Mum has demanded photos of everything I try on. I wonder if she bothered with all this for Dad? Or did she find a dress in her local shop, get a matching hat and let the pub know there might be more of them than usual for lunch? I rather think he might have encouraged the latter.

TO DO:

Honeymoon – get guidebook for Indonesia

Think about ceremony and reception

Food – don’t forget a veg option

Buy some more bridal magazines

Hen night?

August 29th

For the sake of posterity, I shall explain who some of the people in this wedding are.

Me: Bride. Full name Katherine Joan Carlow. Editorial Assistant at Polka Dot Books. Likes: almost all food, books, picnics, Elle Deco, Thom Sharpe. Dislikes: capers, oppression by the patriarchy, being made to watch snooker into the small hours.

Thom: Groom, Thomas William Sharpe. Accountant at corporate accountancy grindstone. Likes: twentieth-century literature, Kiki Carlow, snooker. Dislikes: most of his colleagues, anchovies, spending over £10 on three wedding magazines.

Susie: Sister of the bride, bridesmaid. Mother of the Twins, wife of Pete (a man whose passport has more stamps than a child’s tantrum, and whose children have been known to confuse him with a delivery man, such is the frequency with which he arrives bearing a large parcel for them). Former leading light in radio production, now a stay-at-home mum. Incorrigible.

Rich: Best Man. Thom’s oldest friend, boyfriend of lovely Heidi, computer programmer and expert pizza maker. Always welcome at our house. Especially when bearing homemade pizza.

Eve: Eve. Mmm.

I met Eve on the first day of secondary school, on the bus from the local streets of our little primary school in Finchley to the big scary comp from which we would spend the next six years dreaming of escape. She was tiny – a blonde sparrow, with thick lenses in the plastic frames of her glasses and an own-brand rucksack worn on both shoulders like a hiker. The space next to her was the only seat available, so Susie (chaperoning her baby sister) signalled me into it while she stood in the aisle, chatting to her own classmates and occasionally involving me in their conversations. Gathering confidence under the protection of my glamorous older sister I deigned to talk to this speccy mouse, and following Susie’s lead, was as friendly as could be. We ended up sitting next to each other in every lesson for the next two years, until one September, Eve arrived back at school with contact lenses, breasts, and a sharp blonde bob. The ensuing attention resulted in the school authorities declaring us a bad influence on one another – ha! – and we were reduced to only hanging out every weekend, the bus to and from school and two hours on the phone each evening. We stopped being friends at the very end of the Upper Sixth, when Tim O’Connell, the crush I’d laboured under for a year and a half, finally got sick of Eve pushing her new cleavage at him and snogged her. We didn’t speak for months. This was the start of a pattern: we’d visit each other at university, I’d let slip about a guy I liked, then I’d find Eve kissing him (or more) in broom cupboards, dark corners of nightclubs, brightly lit kitchens, even, at one memorable house party, my own bed. I’d be so hurt and furious that I’d have no contact with her for months, then I’d find some old photos, or she’d be mentioned in conversation, and I’d start thinking: is she so bad? Really? And it would begin all over again.

But with Thom, it was so different. For a start, I didn’t even tell her about him until we were moving in together; secondly, Thom has never liked Eve. He doesn’t like the way she speaks to me, and he’s no great fan of her past conduct, either.

So that goes some way to explaining why the phone call announcing our engagement went like this:

Me: Eve! It’s Kiki! I’ve got some great news …

Eve: George Clooney’s leaving his pig for you. You’ve found Atlantis.

Me: Nope. It’s—

Eve: Hang on. [crashes about, away from phone] No, darling, you have to go! No, now. I’m sorry, it’s a work call and I simply have to take it. [back on phone] Sorry. Some guy. Incredibly hot but with the smallest hands I have ever seen. Can you imagine some tiny ventriloquist’s dummy manhandling you? Dummyhandling. God, I’ve absolutely no idea why I let him stay …

Me: Eve! Thom and I are getting married! [silence] Will you be my bridesmaid?

Eve: [long silence] Kiki, darling, can I give you a call back later? Little Miss Muffet can’t find his way out. Love you!

Thom’s asking why I’m writing my diary so angrily. I’d better stop for tonight before this page becomes shredded paper.

TO DO:

Rest of wedding party – best man, maid of honour, bridesmaids, ushers, ring bearer, flower girl

Find out if Thom is allowed to carry the ring himself, being a grown man and everything

August 30th

I took Thom out tonight to the bar where we had our first date. It happened a couple of days after we met; he ‘found’ my number (thanks, Suse) and called me within twenty-four hours, asking if I’d like a drink with him. Just him, no heavy storage, he promised. I felt self-conscious as I still had not only an enormous black eye, but also an eye-patch that the doctor wanted me to wear for the next week, to protect the – I don’t know – eyeball, or something. But speaking to him was so lovely that I said yes. Sure. Thank you.

The night of the date I despaired of ever finding anything to go with an eye-patch. I toyed with going full-blown pirate, but just picked my favourite summer dress and headed off to the bar, hoping I could hide most of the patch under my hair. I got there first, and took a little booth at the back, facing away from the door so I wouldn’t be looking up every time it opened. Then suddenly I was aware of someone standing at my table. I looked up. It was Thom.

Thom: [pointing to his own eye-patch] Well, if this isn’t just a coincidence.

With that, I was hooked.

August 31st

An engagement ring! I hadn’t thought too much about it until now, but my hand certainly did feel a bit light without one. Who knew picking a ring was an extreme sport?

We were using up the last of our summer days off at a dusty antiques market this morning, trying to find a suitably beige-and-purple (Mum’s favourite ‘tones’) watercolour for Mum and Dad’s anniversary present. Then Thom turned to me, grinning, and said, ‘Let’s find a ring.’ Turning around the dark and plain hall, I felt pretty pessimistic about the whole thing, but Thom’s face was so hopeful it felt mean to not even look. At the very first stall the man behind the table gave Thom a little smile and pushed a tray towards us. Off to one edge of the tray was the most gorgeous ring I’d ever seen – a pale gold band with a small ruby and two tiny diamond flowers off to one side. When I picked it up to try it on, it fitted perfectly.

Thom: Do you like it?

Me: Like it? This is … perfect.

Thom: Then it’s yours.

Me: But how much is it?

Man at stall: To you two? £400.

Thom was grinning at me, but something in my stomach had shrunk from that figure. Yes, it was lovely, but it was also only £400. Weren’t engagement rings the one thing that you’d wear forever and ever? I pulled him a little bit away from the stall.

Me: Shall we look at some shops in town?

Thom: But you love this! [laughing] Do you think it’s too much?

Me: [queasily] It’s just … aren’t engagement rings supposed to cost one month’s wages? It’s got to be an extra-special piece of jewellery, to show how much … your husband … loves … you …

Thom: If that’s what you really want, Kiki. [turning to vendor] Sorry mate. Looks like I was wrong.

It turned out that Thom had snuck over to the market a few days before, spotted the ring and, knowing I’d love it, asked the guy to keep it for me. Thom told me all about how special he knew I’d find it, with its own personal history and a unique story that no ring in a jewellery shop would ever have, of how it was originally made for a young wife by her new husband, with stones to signify passion and constancy for their life ahead. Unfortunately, he didn’t tell me this until he’d turned off the light after finally coming up at midnight; he’d driven us home without talking and had been watching the TV in a terrible silence, until I’d lost my nerve and slunk off to bed alone. I’m writing this now in the bathroom by the shaving light, wondering whether my dearly beloved is tempted to call off the whole thing. Oh God. What have I done?

TO DO:

Dress – still needed?

Venue – as above?

Honeymoon – see if Susie is available to accompany me on the solo holiday I may need to get used to, in my new single life

September’s Classic Wedding!

Everybody was asked to the fêtes of the marriage. Garlands and triumphal arches were hung across the road to welcome the young bride. The great St Michael’s Fountain ran with uncommonly sour wine, while that in the Artillery Place frothed with beer. The great waters played; and poles were put up in the park and gardens for the happy peasantry, which they might climb at their leisure, carrying off watches, silver forks, prize sausages hung with pink ribbon, etc. at the top.

Vanity Fair

William Makepeace Thackeray

September 2nd

Thank bloody God. Thom went back to the market the next morning and bought the ring without telling me. I hadn’t said one word to him since we’d left the market the day before (besides a whispered but heartfelt apology when I finally got into bed with him after writing this last night) and felt nauseous all the next day – what a horrible way to behave! When he came home last night with a poorly hidden smile and a tiny parcel of ring, I was full of promises and apologies, leaping at him like an overexcited puppy.

When I wore the ring to work today, Alice was in raptures over it, and even Norman raised an approving eyebrow. Carol could only muster, ‘Couldn’t afford a new one?’ which earned a guffaw from Norman. He might not give two figs about your weekend plans or the small talk of an office, but I have my suspicions that he may actually be human after all.

Tony gave me Jacki Jones’s email address so I could get in touch with her to start planning the book. Her agent is also her fiancé so I’m to avoid letting him know anything about the book, which, I have to say, is probably just about the worst business sense I’ve ever heard. Still, her wedding has been set for April next year, and the book will be rushed out to hit the shelves three weeks afterwards. Tony’s promised me a definite promotion if this book works out. Not only a whole new job title (not Editorial Assistant – oh no – now I would be Assistant Editor. Woop!) but more money too (which in publishing terms probably means only enough money that I can switch from ‘takeaway’ to ‘eat in’ at the café at the corner, but still). And if I ever want to make it out of Polka Dot’s hallowed doors and into the world of the big hitters, I need something like this under my belt.

TO DO:

Find out what we need to do for ceremony and reception

Guest book and photo albums?

Ceremony music – piano?

Wedding cake – classic cake? Something different?

Ultimately treat someone else’s wedding as a great deal more important to me than my own

September 4th

Right, time to think about the engagement party. With some brief research (three bridal magazines and asking around the office) the trend seems to be for garden parties and gift lists. I think we’ll just try the Queen’s Arms: it’s close to us and Susie, and it’s nearish enough to the tube that people can roll around after work without too much labour. We’ll try for next Friday, and allow a few rounds to be bought if the Moneybags Crew turns up from Thom’s work. Thom can tell his lot, I’ll tell mine, and we can flip a coin for anyone who falls into both or neither camp.

September 8th

Dress day! What joy, what raptures! Who would have known that white floor-length dresses are the most flattering thing ever? Well, maybe Elizabeth Taylor. I thought it best to hedge my bets by booking us into an affordable place, as well as a more expensive option. We thought we’d work our way up, so started just off Oxford Street at the cheap place. And when I say cheap, I mean the wedding dresses are a bit less than £1,000. £1,000! Hahahahahhahaha! £1000! The absolute most I have ever spent on a single piece of clothing is £210, on a beautiful Jigsaw dress that was the most stunning thing I’d ever seen but in practice made me look like a gammon with the string left on. The ‘Cheap Dresses’ were even more lovely than that, and I was hugely surprised by trying on – and loving – the most Bridey McBriderson dresses, strapless and flouncy and lacy and glittering, like big white cakes. Oh, they made me so happy (them, or the champagne they gave us. One or the other). I felt like a royal-iced angel, and wanted more than anything for the walls to drop away to reveal Busby Berkeley dancers that would high kick and lift me around and around in a bridal wonderland. Maybe that was the champagne. I came out in one dress like a tulle snowball.

Susie: Oh, to have and to hold.

Me: For richer, or for poorer?

Susie: I’m sickness for how in health you look.

Me: Death will not part me from this dress.

We were sniggering so much by then that the nice lady encouraged me to maybe take off the dress, so I did just that, waving goodbye to the beauty as we headed off with light, giddy hearts to the Pricey Shop, sure that we’d already seen our winners and only anxious over convincing Thom that his salary honestly could stretch to £950 for a dress I’d sport for ten hours. But then … Oh, then. The Pricey Shop wasn’t just full of the most beautiful dresses, but the most beautiful everything. The carpet. The chairs. The changing rooms. Even the women in white gloves who helped me in and out of each dress. They only laughed politely when I asked if I could move in with them there. I, however, sighed piteously when, after three dresses, Susie said she didn’t have much time left in town – Pete had something on in the evening so she had to get back to get the Twins in bed.

Susie: I’m sorry, Kiki, but he did ask me yesterday, and I have been out all afternoon.

Me: All afternoon? Bloody hell, move over Emmeline Pankhurst.

Susie: Don’t, Kiki.

Me: What?

Susie: Don’t give me a hard time. He needs some time to himself too – while we’ve been gadding about like bridal pixies, he’s been slaving over a hot desk. Give the poor lad a break.

Me: [swallowing rage, sitting down next to her and slinging an arm around] Of course. I’m only sad that we don’t have time for the post-wedding-dress-try-on paintballing I had booked.

Assistant: Excuse me, madam, we have one more that may be what you’re looking for.

Susie: Ah, the old ‘one more thing’ trick. Worked for Columbo.

Me: I don’t think that’s the same trick as Columbo’s.

Susie: Your mum doesn’t think that’s the same trick as Columbo’s.

Me: That doesn’t work either.

Susie: Shhhh. Look. They’re bringing it.

Then … The Dress. It was Perfection in the form of Fabric, like music you only hear in your dreams, like food you remember from your childhood; familiar yet foreign. A simple white asymmetric sheath dress, with an organza overlay gathered at one hip in a large flower, and a matching silk tulle veil with a satin trim. I’m trying to not weep as I write this, but it was so beautiful. When Susie saw me in it, even she said, ‘Wow. If it had been a toss-up between that dress and the Twins, Pete and I might have a house with fewer crayon scribbles right now.’ The only fly in this Ointment of Delight is the price. £2,300.

I haven’t quite mentioned the price to Thom yet.

TO DO:

Sell kidney (or even better – see if Thom needs both of his) for wedding dress

If that fails, see if can barter one of the Twins instead

September 13th

God, I feel sorry for Thom sometimes. How does he bear working there? He told me, laughing, that when he’d been inviting people from his office, the reactions varied from ‘Where’s your list?’ to a baffled ‘What kind of venue is it?’ I despair. It’s A PUB. You might have heard of them? What a strange bunch they truly are. So we shall just wait and see which of them shows up, but in the meantime we’ve got a yes from Suse (although Pete may be in Malaysia, lucky guy), from everyone at work, from my lovely old friend Jim, Rich and Heidi, and Nick and Rose, friends from uni. Eve says she’s got a hot date that night, but will swing by if it all falls through. I’ve dug out my gorgeous blue dress (dry clean only – number of times worn previously: one) and Sheila the Landlady has put some extra champagne on ice for us. Done.

September 15th

I finally got in touch with Jacki today. She hasn’t worked out how to put hearts underneath each of her exclamation marks, but I do slightly feel like I’ve been molested by a giant glittery bunny nonetheless. This was her final email of the day:

From: Jacki Jones

To: Carlow, Kiki

Subject: Hey!!!!!

Hi Kiki!!!

I hope you don’t think I’m loopy, but I’m totally completely excited about this project!!!; I know we can sort out all these questions you’ve got. Let’s meet up!!! You’re such a gem to be helping me (I think I’ll have loads of questions) and I’m sure we can make this book as brilliant as the wedding itself!!!! Bring a list of everything you’ve been asking me and we’ll find an answer for all of it!!:

I’m free tomorrow 10–12 – do you want to come to Leon’s office?! How exciting!!!!

See you then,

J xxxxxxxx : )

I’m sure this will all be fine.

: (

September 16th

Today’s meeting went well, but I take it all back. It wasn’t a fluffy glitter bunny; it was a fluffy glitter bunny ROBOT. Jacki is the most amazing machine – which is no great surprise, given her swift and inexorable rise from catalogue model to TV soap actress nobody to household name. She is efficient and professional, and incredibly, unbelievably fond of (shudder) All Things Girly. But she’s lovely. It’s just that conversation with her is slightly unnerving, like your washing machine suddenly insisting you deserve a pedicure.

TO DO:

Actually start looking at some ceremony and reception options

Check whether Jacki has her own staff for this wedding, or whether Polka Dot are expected to plan it for her as part of our ‘publishing’ deal

Start thinking about guest list

Discuss with Dad while Mum isn’t about who we absolutely have to invite

Get Thom to ask Alan and Aileen who needs to be asked from the Sharpe branch

Do I have to invite the whole office? Does Thom?

Florist – visit local florist on high street, get rough estimates

Save the date cards – necessary?

Wedding cake – start collecting images of cakes I like from magazines (this may turn into a slightly food-porny book of cake pictures)

September 18th

Heyyyyy! Great

September 19th

Sorry, I may have slightly fallen asleep writing last night. It was such a great time, is what I think I was probably saying. Three people from Thom’s work turned up – Paul, Robert and a really sweet girl called Luisa who’s just started there as an intern. She looked about fourteen but was incredibly nice and bought us a bottle of champagne because she felt so bad for ‘crashing our party’. Susie was unbelievably drunk (having slugged most of that bottle) and started the dancing at 10pm, in which she was joined by Alice, Jim and Heidi. Someone had brought party streamers and we were all tangled up in them. Purely due to not wanting her to feel like I wasn’t in the spirit of things, I eventually joined in too, grabbing Sheila the Landlady’s hand and doing the Twist. Suse and I set that place on fire! Not literally. But we Carlows can certainly shake it. That’s all I’m saying.

At one point, Thom and I found each other in the crowd, and managed to get out into the fresh air together.

Thom: This all seems like good fun, doesn’t it.

Me: Are we really doing this wedding thing?

Thom: Looks like it.

Me: I’m really happy.

Thom: Me too. I’m glad you said yes. If you hadn’t, I’d have had to go with my backup girl. And she isn’t too bright. [taps head]

Me: You are so romantic.

Thom: [picking me up, hugging me really tight]

Me: Hulk happy.

Thom: Yeah, I suppose Hulk happy. And if you buy me a drink I’ll show you how easy I am when we get home.

God, I ache today. Hulk dance.

September 25th

I haven’t spoken face to face with Eve since I told her about the engagement – I thought she took it well (for her), but she didn’t take it well enough to make it to the party (that hot date was a success, apparently). But I don’t blame her. Weddings are never particularly heart-warming when yours is still broken, and I know she isn’t really over Louis (soul of a cockroach, hair of a god); they’d been together for three years by the time she finally woke up and realised love doesn’t mean trying to make your loved one go completely mental with jealousy. She dumped him on her birthday last year when he turned up to her party with a drunk girl on his arm. God, he was good looking, though.

When she rang yesterday asking if I was free at the weekend, I had to tell her we had plans at Susie’s. But she was eager to see us all, and asked if she could tag along and bring her new squeeze, the date she’d missed our party for; someone she’d met through her work as a fast-rising star in the charity world. Eve’s so utterly charming that although she started as an intern at her charity for London’s vulnerable people only two years ago, she’s rocketed up the ladder and now has her own assistant (who she says is so useless it’s more of a curse than a blessing), business cards, and even gets to travel for work (mainly to other UK cities, admittedly).

Susie knows her of old, and it was only a barbecue, so there we were: huddled around the grill in Susie’s back garden with Susie’s lovely friends Maggie and Eric, trying to pretend summer hadn’t entirely given up on us, as Suse tried to remember which country Pete was in today. Then Eve arrived, carrying a giant bunch of peonies for Susie in one arm and her date on the other. When she pulled him into the back garden, my mouth fell open, and when I swung my gaze towards Thom, his had done exactly the same. Eve’s new boyfriend – oh, how does she find them – was the very man we had witnessed proposing in Bath. Steve. Jilted Steve. Dr No. The Refused. How was that possible? How could fate be so kind/unkind as to bring him to us again? We just goggled at him for a while, but Steve, thank God, had no idea we’d seen him at the site of his knock-back. By his fifth bottle of beer, however, it was clear that Jen’s rejection had caused him to jettison his social skills entirely. Susie and Maggie were really enjoying him in a car-crash sort of way until the conversation took a fatal turn.

Steve: That’s all well and good, guys, but you can’t really trust women, can you? I mean, I’m sure you had your reasons, Eric, but you can’t say that you don’t realise what a huge mistake it was to marry. Every day, right? [roars with manic laughter]

Eric: Actually, Steve—

Steve: You know it! All women are liars, cheats and deceivers. All they want is to grind a man under their heel, grind him down … break him … [sobbing]

Even Eve had the sense to look uncomfortable by that point, tearing herself away from an ill-at-ease Thom who she’d been talking to at the edge of the garden (had she been backing out of bridesmaiding?). She dragged Steve into the kitchen to ‘help her with drinks’ and they left without sticking more than a goodbye arm back in the garden. Susie told Lily and Edward that it was worth remembering that actually, women were particularly brilliant, and the Twins responded by rote: ‘Gene Tierney, Aung San Suu Kyi, Marie Stopes and Marie Curie.’ Susie patted them both on the head and gave them a fruit kebab. Something tells me we won’t be seeing Steve again.

September 29th

Further emails with Jacki have confirmed that she has all her own staff for the wedding – the venue is booked, the dress is designed, the food arranged and even the hen party organised. From the little I’ve had to do with her, I’m not remotely surprised. But I am surprised to discover how much I like her: she’s not only incredibly professional and sweet, but pretty funny too.

We had this correspondence yesterday:

From: Carlow, Kiki

To: Jacki Jones

Subject: Engagement?

Hi Jacki,

Will you be happy to include details of how you and Leon got engaged in the book?

Thanks again,

Kiki

From: Jacki Jones

To: Carlow, Kiki

Re: Engagement?

Hi Kiki!!!!!!

I am more than happy to have that in there. But we may need to freshen it up for the readers! I’m not sure how much they’d like to hear about me just grinding him down until he proposed.

Jacs xxxxxxxxxxxx

TO DO:

Probably don’t recommend Jacki’s book to Steve.

October’s Classic Wedding!

ROMEO

Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap’d like mine and that thy skill be more

To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath

This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue

Unfold the imagined happiness that both

Receive in either by this dear encounter.

JULIET

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,

Brags of his substance, not of ornament:

They are but beggars that can count their worth;

But my true love is grown to such excess

I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

FRIAR LAURENCE

Come, come with me, and we will make short work;

For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone

Till holy church incorporate two in one.

Romeo & Juliet

William Shakespeare

October 2nd

Oh Christ. I think I’d forgotten that we’d really have to invite people to this shindig. Talked briefly with Thom about doing it just with family somewhere quiet, and his face lit up. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘We can do it so cheaply!’ Then I remembered The Dress and mumbled something about us having to learn to be sociable. I’ve been working on it all morning, and so far I’ve got:

Me & Thom

Susie & Pete (if he’s in the country)

Twins

Mum & Dad

Thom’s Mum & Dad (Alan & Aileen) (10)

Eve & her +1 of doom

Jim and his +1

Alice (& Gareth?)

Carol (& husband Vincent)

Norman from work & his +1? (Does Norman have a special someone? How can none of us know this? What goes on behind that silent façade?) (10)

Rich (Thom’s best man) and his girlfriend Heidi

Dave, Jules and Andy and their +1s, and Ben & Hester (Thom’s school pals) (went to Ben & Hester’s very drunken wedding a few years ago but we haven’t seen the other three since then)

Six boffins from Thom’s uni course and their +1s (names from Thom – have only faint memories of them)

Fiona (my first boss) and her boyfriend Mark

Nick & his fiancée Rose, Tim, Clare and Sara (uni housemates) and their +1s (haven’t kept in particular touch with Tim and Clare, but can’t invite some and not all)

Five of my course-pals from uni and their +1s (lived briefly with Lucy after graduation and see her about twice a year, but mainly get news of the others from her) (they were utterly hilarious at uni, though)

Ruby, Ella and Vuk (friends from travelling) and their +1s

Other Tom from terrible holiday job I did when I was 17, and his +1 (50)

6 aunts, 7 uncles and 15 cousins between me and Thom (mostly me), including the v entertaining wonder that is cousin Emma (28)

8 horrible sweaty men from Thom’s previous accountancy division with their anorexic, thick-haired public-school girlfriends/wives

10 horrible piggy men from Thom’s current accountancy division with their slimdim Eurotrash girlfriends/wives

2 quite nice men from Thom’s current accountancy division and their also-nice girlfriends

1 horrible fat sweaty boss from Thom’s current accountancy division with his brutal, cold-eyed wife, living in terror that she’s about to be usurped by one of the Eurotrashers and she’ll be left with only their eight-bed townhouse, the Courchevel ski lodge, the New York apartment and the villa in Nice to comfort her (42)

So, as it stands, that makes 140, and that doesn’t include the ‘family friends’ I’m sure Mum will insist on. It’s fine. We’ll get that down. Jacki’s will be over 400, she tells me, so really it’s still a nice quiet number.

October 3rd

It turns out that venue hunting is basically just like house hunting, with the only difference being that I will never get to live in places with a ballroom and an east wing. The money is just as eye-watering, though, and the venues themselves make me queasy in the same way that Alice’s Hermès handbags do: I don’t want to pour a cup of tea inside it, but the mere fact of its existence in proximity to me means it could happen. And I might, could, burn down a wedding venue. One careless sparkler, one stray sky lantern, and England has lost one of its top beautiful buildings (but also an entire wunch of bankers and accountants, so maybe the Daily Mail will go easy on us after the event). Thom was supposed to come, obviously, but his work was so horrific this week that he has to go in this weekend too. He was hugely apologetic last night, but I can see how stressed he is, so I smiled and said I didn’t mind at all, that I’d give him a full debrief and he wouldn’t miss a thing. He suggested I take Susie instead, but when I called her she said Pete was due back from a trip from which he’d be really jetlagged and the Twins had friends coming over, so she was stuck there.

When he left this morning at 7am, Thom gave me a kiss on the tip of my nose and said, ‘I hope you have a nice day. What about Alice?’ I told him I wasn’t sure she’d want to, but sent her a text to find when she woke up, giving her the rough breakdown of the day, and saying she could join me at any of the venues if she fancied. I got a text back immediately: WITH YOU IN 30 MINUTES.

She was as good as her word, and I made us a pile of bacon sandwiches to keep us going while she outlined quite how lucky I was that things had turned out this way.

Alice: I’m truly sorry that Thom can’t make it today, but you are now in the safest pair of hands there is. I’ve seen it a hundred times, Kiki, people get swept away by a nice staircase or a draped ceiling, and their numbers and plans go out the window. I’m not going to have you signing up to some townhouse rip-off just because the lady spoke nicely to you.

Battle-ready, we aimed for three of my shortlisted venues today, and there was a definite fleeting thought at their prices that if this is a business they can sustain, something is seriously wrong with the world. Who has that kind of money? (Besides Alice and her family.) And why aren’t they spending more of it on C-list celebrity autobiographies and cookery books that are tenuous tie-ins from successful but un-cooking-related television series? (See Polka Dot’s The Duchess’s Diet, with some poor model done up like a Downton Abbey extra.)

First stop today was Fairley House, a Georgian townhouse just off Hampstead Heath, its chequered path shaded by two elegant plum trees. The house looked beautiful from the outside, but was actually quite dark and poky inside. I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach – how to tell them it wasn’t right, without offending them or convincing them that I simply couldn’t afford it. After five minutes and a swift tour of the space, Alice looked disappointed.

Alice: Thank you so much, but this really isn’t what she’s looking for.

Me: [shocked] Alice.

Alice: It’s too small for us, the lighting’s wrong and the flow-through from dining room to ballroom isn’t ideal.

And that was it. ‘Alice!’ I said out of the side of my mouth, trying to smile coolly at the staff as we walked out. ‘You can’t just tell them that.’ She turned and took my elbows. ‘Kiki, this is their business. It’s not their first born. You need to focus.’ It’s then that I realised that Alice was right, and I was lucky to have her. Sorry, Thom.

She was equally relentless with the other two places. One had mould in one corner of the main hall (Me: ‘It’s … vintagey?’ Alice: [hissing] ‘It’s a bloody airborne toxic event’) and the other was decorated like a gentlemen’s club, circa 1905 (Alice: ‘Still, better than a gentlemen’s club circa 2005’). We were still without a venue at the end of our day, but Alice had some great leads for me; places in less salubrious areas of London, but central enough that I would still pay a reassuringly eye-watering fee.

October 7th

Rose rang me today, of Nick and Rose (the Noses as we think of them), due to marry in May. I do like them so much, even if they do have more money these days than seems sensible for anyone who is not a national public service. But they are actually very sweet, and I’ve known Nick for years, back when he was one of my university housemates with big City plans. Rose turned him from potentially a fairly revolting Banker Playboy into a middlingly revolting City Worker (slightly lower down the revulsion ladder) and although they still do things like buy new plasma flat-screens for every room because Sony have released a new generation model, they are funny and very thoughtful for Rich Folk. After small talk, Rose seemed to want to say something else to me.

Rose: Kiki?

Me: Yes, Rose? [thinking, Please don’t ask about that time Nick and I kissed when we were nineteen. For everyone’s sake]

Rose: [deep breath] I’d like you to be my bridesmaid. Well, one of my bridesmaids. What do you say?

I didn’t say that I was deeply surprised and slightly perplexed, both by the offer and the manner in which it had been ordered of me. I screwed up my face, knowing she couldn’t see me, and said I would be honoured. She’s so lovely, but I genuinely cannot fathom why she would want me to be her bridesmaid. It is kind of her, though.

TO DO:

Subtly investigate whether Rose will make us wear the ugliest dresses she can find

October 8th

A strange moment with Carol today. She’d been having her usual conversation with charmless Simon, head of our Sales team, in which she battled to get some sales figures out of him during what he clearly saw as his brilliant one-man comedy routine. It ended, as always, with Simon’s weary sigh that ‘Some people don’t have a sense of humour,’ as Carol shook her head with tight-lipped resignation. Then Alice grabbed Carol and me for sandwiches at the café on the corner, and I thought while we were out of earshot of the office, now was the time to probe into Norman’s marital status. But when I asked if – for my wedding numbers – he had a special someone, Carol went white as a sheet and said she wasn’t hungry anymore, and we’d have to go on without her. Alice and I looked at one another, wide-eyed. Is there – Does she – Are they …? Must now definitely continue my investigation.

October 12th

I made a big pot of stew and dumplings as Mum and Dad were over at ours tonight. (Could stew be a possible wedding meal? Christ, no, not in August.) When we sat down to eat, Dad said thoughtfully, ‘You might know that we gave your sister a little bit of money after they’d married – obviously there wasn’t much expense on their wedding, bar the cider and doughnuts, but we’d like to offer you that same start, if you want it.’ I leapt up to give him a hug, and remembered that I ought to thank Mum too. Dad just nodded his head and smiled at us both, while Mum fussed with her napkin a little, unsure of what to say at this rare moment where we were all happy. Thom said how kind that was, and maybe, Kiki, we could think about putting it into our house-deposit fund, as our wedding surely wouldn’t cost a huge amount, would it? I hem-hemmed a bit, and asked as sweetly as I could how much we were talking; I knew Suse and Pete had got £3,000 seven years ago, so was enjoying the thought of some inflation working in my favour.

Bad news. Inflation is apparently not applicable within families. £3,000 might just cover the venue costs if we marry on a Tuesday in February. That house deposit is not going to be hugely swollen by this gift.

October 14th

Jim is one of my oldest friends, after Eve. Fortunately, that’s exactly when I met him: after Eve did, meaning that she’d already had her claws into him and he’d developed an immunity. They are civil enough to one another, but I get the sense that they each like to pretend I’m not particularly good friends with the other one. More than anything Jim’s a kind man, one who is small on dredging up the past and big on simply being nice, and who lives a low-key yet secretly glamorous life as a session pianist. At a small bar near his studio, his response to my engagement was notably different to his ex’s:

Jim: Enough about my fascinating world of popstars and the soundproofing of recording studios. And we all know that it is fascinating. Tell me a little bit about yourself.

Me: Well, Jim. You know that fellow I’ve seen once or twice?

Jim: Thom. I’m aware of his work.

Me: It seems he wants to marry me.

Jim: Oh, well done! [sees my face] Sorry. Not well done. Well … engaged?

Me: I suppose that’ll do. Why are women congratulated on their engagement like they’ve been tracking their prey with a blow-dart for several years?

Jim: [opens mouth]

Me: Don’t. It’s too depressing to continue down that line of thought. Do you think you might come?

Jim: I’m sure I can’t think of anything I’m doing that night. Whichever night it’ll be. Do you want me to do the music?

Me: Oh, Jim, that’s so kind, but Thom and I haven’t really discussed the music yet. I’m not sure if we’re going with something more … music-y – dance-y – or something.

Jim: Ouch! Maybe we should leave that discussion there, don’t you think? Well, great news for both of you, tin-eared bastards that you may be.

Oh, he’s some kind of good friend. Jim also reckons he’s done a couple of gigs at country houses in the area and will find out if mates’ rates are available for weddings there.

October 18th

Bloody hell! Investigations bear fruit: Alice confirms that Carol and Norman are, in fact, ‘an item’. But apparently they are top-secret-hush-hush, and Alice only knows because she came back into the office late last night to pick something up, and found Carol and Norman smooching against the temperamental photocopier-printer. I felt my gorge rise a little bit, but Alice said I was a prude and we should celebrate Love In All Its Forms. Not when it’s getting all over my printouts, I won’t.

October 19th

Raff Welles came into the office today. He’s an ageing comedy actor from the seventies, famous for catchphrases that may have swept the country at the time but now don’t mean anything to anyone but the most hardened vintage TV and film fans. He’s charming and softly-spoken, always dapper – he plays the role of ageing and forgotten star to perfection. But he requires a lot of reassurance. We bought his memoir (called AutobiogRaffy, which I quite like) for peanuts, in the hope we could build some retro-wave for him to ride, but our legal team is working overtime to check his dangerously risqué anecdotes (can Sid James and Raff really have had an orgy with seventeen young nurses?) and it’s turning out to be more work than we can possibly reap in sales. And Raff is in daily, requesting comfort, validation, and encouragement, that his semi-pornographic recollections of semi-forgotten actors is absolutely what the reading public has been waiting for. Our average conversation goes like this:

Raff: [pokes head around door, stage whispers] Hello! Hello all! Sorry to bother you all, working so hard!

Me: [keeps typing in the vain hope he’ll get the message this time] Hello, Raff. [silence] How are you doing?

Raff: Oh, Kiki, it’s so kind of you to ask. I thought I should pop in and help you with this book of mine – do you think we need more on X’s alcoholism/Y’s fetishism/Z’s drug abuse and sexual aberrations?

Me: [gripping knees with claw-hands under the desk to keep from shrieking] Really, Raff, your book is brilliant as it is. I think you’ve really captured the fun/darkness/cultural importance of those times, and it’s best if we all focus now on what we can do to promote the book in March.

Raff: Promotion! Goodness! Of course, you’ll need me out in front of the public again. Yes, you’re quite right, I’ll start thinking about appearances. I’m sure Wogan will want me again – he’d better do, after that party I threw him in ’78. But are you sure this book is right for today’s audience? I’m sure they can’t care about me, can they?

Me: [momentarily tempted to answer honestly] Raff, this book is going to be perfect. Your writing is fantastic and it will be the perfect gift book for anyone who’s ever watched TV. Honestly, Raff, just let us take care of this now. You’ve done a brilliant job with your book and you should be very proud.

Raff: Marvellous! Kiki, you are a wonder of the world. Thank you all! [leaves, entire room sighs with relief]

It doesn’t seem like much, but when he’s round to Polka Dot Books every afternoon I despair of him, then always remember Raff’s six marriages – ending up again and again with the One Who Didn’t Stay. I’m so happy with Thom, and I’m reasonably sure that neither industrial quantities of uppers/downers nor Hollywood producers shall come between us. And that thought makes me feel a little bit warmer towards poor Raff.

TO DO:

Get some invitation samples

Caterers – match to colour scheme? Fish if blue colour scheme, steak if pink, etc.

Start investigating any friends’ special dietary requirements (so can ensure we don’t invite them hahaha)

Look into photographers

Car or transport – will we need it, or will ceremony and reception be at the same place? How far will it be? What’s available?

October 22nd

Speaking of photographers, Jacki has requested ‘Pedro’ as the photographer for the book. They started their

careers at roughly the same time and have travelled up the ladder together – but I imagine our profit on this book will be approximately 3p per copy, such are Pedro’s fees these days. At least when Polka Dot Books goes bust we can all sleep on the streets under the beautiful glossy images we’ll have produced. And I do look forward to meeting him.

October 24th

Alice and I are still searching for the right place, after having seen twelve venues. They all pull faces when I say we’re looking at August dates, and some of them suck their teeth like plumbers as they flick through their desk diaries. ‘August?’ they say, as if I’ve asked whether they could manage tomorrow night. Some of them shake their heads at me – Sorry, love, I wish I could, their plumber equivalents would say – but some of them flick back and forth, back and forth, pretending to calculate something, before saying, ‘Yes, I think we’d be able to do that.’ I wonder if the fact that you can’t cross a road around here without running into a wedding venue means that the demand isn’t what it used to be, but there are several that can fit us in, even though I don’t think they’re quite right.

TO DO:

Keep looking

October 27th

For the most part, the authors we work with – like Jacki – are lovely. They’re professional, most of them having worked in the public eye for several years already; they’re prompt, thoughtful, helpful and co-operative. Then there are the other 49%.

These authors would be a nightmare to work with even at a Trappist monastery. They are selfish, greedy, needy babies who need their hands holding and their noses wiped. Some of them are sexually aggressive (a knock on Alice’s hotel room door at 11pm, a memoirist in a towel saying, ‘It’s a beautiful night. Would you like to come skinny dipping with me?’ Alice: ‘We’re in Slough, not Thailand. I think I’ll leave it, thanks’), some of them spoiled (I spent four days sourcing an antique tiara for one author. What’s almost worse is how much she’s worn the damn thing), some of them merely drunks. One of our authors, a ‘towering master of suspense’ (– The Times), insists that he must be chaperoned to every event we want him to do. It’s not so much that he wants company, but that he needs someone to carry the bottle of whisky he requires for each appearance. We have to wrap it in a plastic bag so he can reach in, swig from it and not be spotted. Right. Because that’s so innocent-looking. I’ve been to one party with him where he was so drunk, he offered another guest some wine, then carefully poured a glass’s-worth into his cupped hand. When she didn’t seem about to sip from his upturned palm, he looked puzzled at the situation he found himself in, then reached forwards and wiped his hand down the front of her friend’s jacket.

I’ve had other authors for whom writing a book is the scales on which all their woes and successes balance. If it goes right, we are their best friends in the world, and our office is filled with chocolates, flowers, champagne. If things don’t go according to plan, we are the Destroyers of Hope, the Evil Forces of Capitalism. When one author – let’s call her Mary – received only a three-star review from Time Out magazine for her World War Two romance, she sent me an email saying simply: ‘This makes me seriously consider leaving the country.’ She spent the next three days making mock-inquiries into how she could write from France/Germany/Japan, until the Telegraph did a five-star write-up and suddenly this was a home she could never dream of leaving. Unfortunately, the positivity didn’t last: when her expected review got bumped from a magazine, she called me at 2am, screaming: ‘I’m going to KILL MYSELF and it’s going to be YOUR FAUUUUUUULT!’ I listened for a while, then said, ‘Sorry, who’s calling please?’ She was so taken aback that she halted her wails and her social conditioning kicked in. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s Mary. Who’s this?’ I briefly considered putting on an accent and claiming it was Ingrid, and who was this, but I told her it was Kiki, and asked was there something I could do? Her pace had been lost now, her stride broken, and she couldn’t work herself back up again. She ended up talking for an hour and a half about how her grandmother had recently died and she wasn’t coping well with everything. I listened to her until she started to nod off, and said we could talk more the next day. She hasn’t mentioned it since.

November’s Classic Wedding!

Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his ‘I will’ firmly and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even these words seemed to choke me. The dear Sisters were so kind. Please God, I shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have taken upon me.

Dracula

Bram Stoker

November 8th

Delights! Today was Jacki’s first photo shoot for the book, and it was beautiful weather. We met at a studio in Chiswick with a gigantic garden, where the prop trunks and outfits were being unloaded from three giant trucks. It didn’t matter much though, as Jacki’s team were STILL working on her hair and makeup two hours after our official start time. By 12.30 we were all finally ready and in the studio: me, Jacki, Pedro the photographer, his team, her team, and the caterers. We had fifty-six dresses, thirty veils, forty-nine pairs of shoes and a whole case of tiaras, stockings, gloves, fascinators, wraps, boleros, boas, fans, parasols, pearls and diamonds, not to mention the props for the shoot: flowers, bunting, bird cages, fairy lights, lanterns, flags, wreaths, signs, puppies, topiaries, vases, tealights, place names, chairs, tables, sofas, marquees, tents, tiered cakes, cupcakes, invitations, save-the-date cards, tissue paper bells and balls, favours, pompoms and chickens. OK, fine, not chickens.

Pedro is a tiny, glamorous monster. He can’t say a nice word to anyone who isn’t famous or important (but is utterly charming to those who are) and treats Jacki like a trained monkey, but he takes the most beautiful photos in the world. I was making notes after lunch in the one corner of the studios that wasn’t covered in lace and glitter, and he saw me.

Pedro: Katy?

Me: No.

Pedro: [apparently unaware I’d spoken] I’m tired, I need a little coke. Go and sort me out, would you? [seeing my face and getting all the wrong ideas] Ask my assistant for money, if that’s your problem. [sneers, walks off]

Me: [wishing I had the courage to shout after him, instead of muttering] I’m not your fucking … drug dealer.

I was beyond furious, both with being put in this position and with the idea that I might be killed in the Colombian drug warfare I was reasonably sure occurred anywhere near any Class-A drugs ever, and thought of Thom having to go to our wedding alone because I’d been mown down in a W4 gun battle. I got so angry I marched straight up to Pedro and tapped his assistant gently on the shoulder before asking her if I could have a quiet word. Pedro gave me another smirk as she led me into the corridor, where I had probably the most embarrassing conversation of my life.

Me: Zoe. I really like my job, and there’s so much variation and adventure and … colour … and Polka Dot Books are so honoured to be working with Pedro on this project, but … sometimes the job demands hit a wall, you know?

Zoe: Kiki, I’m really sorry. Has he propositioned you?

Me: No! No! Hahahahahahaha! No! He hasn’t. He asked me to get him …

Zoe: Oh God, not a prostitute?

Me: No! Why, do you have to get him prostitutes? Don’t answer that. Actually – maybe they’ll help. He asked me to get him … some coke.

Zoe: Oh God. Kiki. This is awkward.

Me: Tell me about it. Where the hell am I going to get drugs in Chiswick at noon on a Tuesday?

Zoe: [not sure if I’m joking, clearly] No, Kiki. He means a coke. A drink. That’s it. A coke. He’s clean as a whistle drug-wise these days. He just likes being a total and complete prick instead. He’s done this gag to a few assistants in the past. He thinks it’s really funny.

Me: I’m fairly sure I’m about to die now.

Zoe, may heaven rain down blessings upon her for all eternity, grinned at me and mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Pedro at that moment, so I walked to the corner shop and bought six cans of Coke with my Polka Dot credit card. There’s something unbelievably forlorn about putting four quid on your corporate credit card, but I was damned if Pedro would have anything from me bar my extremely efficient but ice-cold presence at his bloody photo shoot. I left them on his table and ensured I kept as far away from him as possible for the rest of the day – a feat not made easy by the fact that I had to also remain within earshot of Jacki at all times. This led me to spend almost an hour hiding behind a pillar in one room, until Pedro shouted, ‘Can someone get rid of that bloody hairdo behind the post!’ and I walked out of the room without looking back, wondering if Thom could marry me in prison once I’ve murdered a celebrity photographer.

I stayed until 4pm when they’d switched to doing dress shots indoors: they’ll continue for the next two days there. I convinced Jacki that she didn’t need me there for tomorrow at least, and I’d be back on Wednesday if she really wanted.

Don’t tell me this job ain’t glamorous.

TO DO:

Photographers are clearly nightmares – find out if we can take our own wedding photos (hold camera at arms’ length and beam up into it)

Find out if I can get The Dress cheaper online

Find a wedding cake maker

November 12th

Jim’s come through like a star. He called last night to say he’s had luck with two of the houses he’s gigged at. Wingfield Manor and Redhood Farm are willing to give us 20% discounts, meaning it would only be around £6,000 at either place. Now I need to frame this for Thom to make it sound as attractive and necessary as possible, and we will all be laughing (not least on our wedding day, surrounded by honeysuckle and rose sprays on the terrace of a beautiful old house while I pray no one’s got drunk and attempted to throw an antique sofa in the lake, or whatever). Wingfield Manor is out of London a bit, towards Reading, but seems like a really charming old Brideshead Rejuvenated manor house; while Redhood Farm, while it looks utterly delicious from its pictures, is all the way out by Ipswich. Ipswich! That’s

basically Denmark.

Poor Thom has to work again this weekend. I’d feel a little bit cross but his job is making him so miserable right now that I know he’d do anything to not have to go in, and to come venue-shopping to the few remaining London venues with me. I’ll take him in lunch both days, although I don’t expect to eat with him – he’ll just give me a frazzled thank you and a kiss, then he’ll leave the food on his desk until 5pm when he suddenly realises he’s starving, and vague memories of seeing me bring supplies will surface. Poor Thom.

I also know that in his absence, this is the kind of stuff I should be doing with my bridesmaids, but it’s so depressing to always get the same response from Suse for this kind of thing, her stuck at home due to Pete’s travels, and Eve’s gone on a business trip for a fortnight. Even if Eve could come, I suspect she’d be trying to seduce the venue manager, or being cynical about everything I like. So Alice continues to be my man.

TO DO:

Flowers – decide what we want: boutonnières, posies/bouquets, headpieces, centrepieces, runners, ceremony, etc.

Collect images of nice flowers

Research flowers in season in August

Wedding night – is there a bridal suite at the venues? Or a boutique hotel nearby?

Confetti – rice paper, petals, rice?

Wedding workout schedule? Work out how to pay for wedding hahaha

Also: plan workout for arms and abs (wedding dress danger zones apparently)

November 17th

Could this all be coming together? Is it as simple as that? Thom’s being completely reasonable over the costs. Am I dreaming? Should it be so easy?

Thom’s got a job that can pay for all of this, having joined his firm almost straight out of university, and he always seemed to enjoy climbing the greasy pole to senior accounting executive. Neither of us love the hours, or the colleagues, or the schmoozing, or really even the work ethic of parts of his firm, but since Thom gave up hope of getting something for which he could use his English degree, he’s found a surprising clarity in numbers and a joy in managing them, corralling them into columns with sense and a purpose, turning symbols into someone’s future (and not their bankruptcy). He likes helping people, and although this slippery career ladder has meant more money and tougher work, it’s also meant the clients he’s dealing with have leapt from emerging businesses with everything to learn and everything to lose, to multinationals who have the cunning of a business-school fox and the morality to match. It’s still challenging work but in all the wrong ways, Thom says, and there are some days where all Thom wants to do is talk about where we’ll live when he retires, which going by his ex-colleagues will be in his mid-forties. We won’t be worrying about which child gets to go to university and which has to take an apprenticeship at the local blacksmith. We’re lucky – we have a car in London, a nice but tiny flat for just the two of us (rented), and we have a summer holiday and weekends away a few times a year. But we don’t have an Aston Martin, and we don’t go to those underwater hotels in Dubai, which is the absurd lifestyle I can see some people expect when they learn where Thom works and what he does. Instead Thom is always saving for something, insisting on Our Security in a manner that suggests he knows something incredibly grim about the future that I don’t, but I know that the security he’s building doesn’t make up for how little he enjoys work now. It breaks my heart to see him, sometimes.

But he arrived home on fine form this evening, happy that he’d managed to sneak advising a small start-up businesswoman into his busy schedule, so I thought it was my chance to begin my delicate cracking of the tough wedding nut.

Me: Thom, there’s something else I wanted to talk about, if you don’t mind talking about the wedding right now. When I told Jim about our engagement, he said he’d talk to some of his contacts at the big houses round here, and two have offered discounts. They’re really lovely and while their initial costs don’t include food they are really beautiful, and the corkage fee at Redhood Farm is waaaaaay smaller than the other places I’ve looked at, and they bring champagne for the bridal party on the morning of the ceremony and can do it all within their buildings, and will organise the food from an external chef when you tell them what kind of food-mood you want …

Thom: Food … mood?

Me: Yes, food-mood, it’s huge right now – and the photos at Wingfield Manor from previous weddings that I’ve seen on the websites are really amazing, and I think your mum and dad would love the gardens, and even you would approve of this place, really Thom, it’s so nice. And although neither of them is exactly in London the trains are frequent and quick and there are loads of nice affordable places for people to stay nearby.

Thom: Kiki, it’s fine. Let’s do it. That’s how these things work, isn’t it?

Me: [rare silence]

Thom: And no, that’s not a joke. Let’s get this thing locked down.

So that’s that. We’re going next weekend to have a look at them both, and then we’ll write the lucky venue a big fat cheque and I can stop fishing hairs out of the plughole (because my stress levels will decline and my hair will stop falling out, not because my hygiene standards will collapse).

November 23rd

Eve took me out tonight to a late night opening at the V&A, to make up for being away during the venue-hunt. In fact, I’ve not seen her since Susie’s barbecue, although we’ve spoken a few times. I feel like she’s somehow angry at me, but I don’t know why, and I don’t know why her nameless displeasure makes me feel guilty. I’m always scrabbling to make amends for something I haven’t done.

Eve: How’s the search been going?

Me: I think we’ve found our winner. Thom’s coming this weekend to give the two finalists the once-over, then the deposit’s paid and we’re in.

Eve: That seems painless.

Me: Ugh. The number of places I’ve seen where I’ve been addressed simply as ‘Bride’. ‘Which one of you is Bride?’ It’s not painless. It’ll scar me for years.

Eve: That sounds dreadful. Shall I tell you about some of the cases of homeless women and children I’ve been trying to get funding for this week? You could show them what a tough time really is.

Me: Ah, but if you’d been with me and not on one of your do-gooding missions away, I wouldn’t be making these horrific claims on your sympathy.

Eve: OK. You’re right, Kiki. You’ve taught me a valuable lesson I’ll never forget.

Me: You’re welcome.

We found our way to the ceramics rooms, and Eve linked arms with me.

Eve: Can we still do this even when you’re married?

Me: I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Thom.

Eve: You joke, Kiki. I’ve seen it happen.

Me: You’ve seen a lot of things happen. I try not to think about all the things you’ve seen happen. Please let’s not make predictions about my life based on the things you’ve witnessed in your job.

Eve: [makes wise face at me] You never know, Kiki, you never know.

I know you can’t ever know, she’s right, but when you’re planning your wedding it feels nicer to at least pretend that your fiancé couldn’t potentially be a control freak lunatic. I have no way of knowing the future, but it’s classic Eve to make that the note on which she ends a discussion on my nuptials.

We spent the rest of our visit in the shop, wishing we could fill our homes with the prints, books and jewellery. While I chose a card for Dad’s birthday tomorrow, Eve (of course) singled out the most beautiful object from the whole shop: a simple plate with a fish design, which I instantly lusted after once she’d picked it up. That dame has great taste.

November 27th

There has got to be a catch to all of this. First unlikely event: Thom didn’t have to work this weekend. We visited both venues today, and Thom absolutely loved Redhood Farm. We got up at the crack of dawn to manage them both properly in one day, and arrived at Wingfield Manor as the light was fading in and the mist rolled over the land. It was really lovely, light and pretty inside but something about the décor made me feel like I should be marrying in an off-the-shoulder meringue while my sister weeps blue eyeshadow down her cheeks. Put it this way: I would have gone crazy for it when I was seven. But after a few more hours in the car (it turns out it is way too easy to get lost in Suffolk) Redhood Farm was – like the dress – what I’d always been looking for without realising that I’d been looking for anything at all. It was charming and scrappy, full of colour and life and thoughtfulness, but professional and lacking in any of those dangerous witty little signs some wedding venues offer that make me want to abolish marriage altogether (‘Make Way for the Mr & Mrs!’). It was aesthetically and emotionally everything I wanted for the day; laid-back, casual, gorgeous and unique. I knew we’d all feel comfortable here, every one of our friends and family, and Thom felt the same. The only thing he said, after taking me off to one side while the manager tried her best to look like she wasn’t listening in, was, ‘Are you sure this is the one you want? It’s a lot of money, and I want this to be right for us. Is this really what you want to spend this money on?’ I hugged him and said there was definitely no finer venue for us, and he smiled a bit. But to give him full credit, he didn’t even cry when he – second unlikely event – wrote the deposit cheque for £2,000, just signed his name (I did check) and handed it over with a friendly nod. I’m so happy. This is going to BLOW EVERYONE’S TINY WEDDING MINDS (or something more fitting for gentle virginal white).

And on top of all that, it’s Polka Dot’s sales conference tomorrow. Fun times ahoy.

TO DO:

Block book accommodation locally – work out how many rooms we’ll need

Make sure nicest rooms are reserved for Rowland & Fenella (Thom’s boss and the wife)

Ceremony music – string quartet playing some Billy Joel?

Start taking skin vitamins

November 30th

Holy moly! I know Sales teams are notoriously tough but I was not expecting that.

For a company of thirty people (only ten of which are full-time), our ‘sales conference’ is really only a white wall, a projector and some presentations in a room over the Stuck Pig pub on the corner. It’s normally fairly high-spirited, as the people who don’t usually work in an office together break out of their cabin-fever and socialise with distant colleagues. Plus we had fresh blood in the form of Judy the Intern, keeping us on our toes as we all tried to behave like proper publishers. The bar staff come up every thirty minutes or so to top up our drinks, so by 3.30 it’s usually pretty ugly, but this year the drinks had been flowing faster than usual and the Sales team really had it in for our books. They’re a cynical bunch, hardened by years on the road without colleagues and convinced they are the lifeblood of Polka Dot, and they refuse to pull their punches when talking about our titles. It’s probably the only chance they’ll have to blow off some steam about books they may find are not their cups of tea – and normally nobody minds, since it does seem like quite a thankless task to explain to a bookshop owner how much they need the 500th incarnation of Angel Hamsters or I’ll Eat my Greens if You Don’t Lock Me in the Shed Again, Mummy – but there was something in the air this year which made them much meaner than anything I’d seen before. Simon, self-proclaimed ‘sales genius’ and completely hammered, was declaiming to the room about some of the garbage he had to sell (never nice for an editor to hear; they clamp their lips and pretend they’re thinking of something else), reeling off nasty joke after nasty joke about Jacki until I was digging my fingernails into my palms – just ignore him and he’ll shut up – when he suddenly laid into AutobiogRaffy. Laborious as the publishing of a niche memoir may be, that book is Carol’s baby and Simon really went to town on it, listing all the ways in which it was going to bomb. Carol’s face was getting redder and redder, but she didn’t say a word, just walked to the corner of the room, helped herself to a biscuit then busied herself tidying the books on the table at which Simon was perched.

Then Simon said, ‘And books like that aren’t helped by having past-it clueless old jokes like Norman working our numbers in the back office.’ Carol turned to him for a moment, her face suddenly pale, before rearing back and pronouncing in her immaculate RP, ‘Simon, you really are an absolutely unbearable cunt.’ Carol then immediately burst into tears and Simon stood up, red-faced but un-bowed, still determined to prove once and for all that he was a prick. His audience turned away as one, and resolutely studied their printouts until Simon stopped drunkenly blustering and vomited down his Ted Baker suit. Carol kept crying until Judy led her away to the toilets and Tony declared we should probably leave it there for the day.

Dan from the Art team, eyes slightly boggling, turned to me and Alice and said, ‘So that Carol – Norman thing is out in the open now?’ I squealed, and demanded to know how he knew. He said that after work one night, Norman had asked his opinion on the necklace he’d bought for Carol’s birthday, but sworn Dan to secrecy. I have got to start working late.

TO DO:

Find out if Redhood Farm have all their own tables, chairs, chair covers

If not, look at rental prices for furniture that matches our colour scheme

Pick a colour scheme

First dance – choreograph?

Clothes for ushers and best man – suits, ties, boutonnières, shoes, socks (forbid bright fashion/novelty socks) (unless in line with colour scheme)

Organise tastings for wedding cake at different bakeries

Arrange swearbox for Carol at the reception

December’s Classic Wedding!

Grace went out and bought a hat, and dressing for her wedding consisted in putting on this hat. As the occasion was so momentous she took a long time, trying it a little more to the right, to the left, to the back. While pretty in itself, a pretty little object, it was strangely unbecoming to her rather large, beautiful face. Nanny fussed about the room in a rustle of tissue paper.

‘Like this, Nan?’

‘Quite nice.’

‘Darling, you’re not looking. Or like this?’

‘I don’t see much difference.’ Deep sigh.

‘Darling! What a sigh!’

‘Yes, well I can’t say this is the sort of wedding I’d hoped for.’

‘I know. It’s a shame, but there you are. The war.’

‘A foreigner.’

‘But such a blissful one. Oh dear, oh dear, this hat. What is wrong with it d’you think?’

‘Very nice indeed, I expect, but then I always liked Mr Hugh.’

‘Hughie is bliss too, of course, but he went off.’

‘He went to fight for King and Country, dear.’

‘Well, Charles-Edouard is going to fight for President and Country. I don’t see much difference except that he is marrying me first. Oh darling, this hat. It’s not quite right, is it?’

‘Never mind, dear, nobody’s going to look at you.’

‘On my wedding day?’

The Blessing

Nancy Mitford

December 2nd

Dinner at my parents’ tonight. Mum and Dad’s house is nice – it makes me feel like a child again – but is also dreadful, because it makes me feel like a child again. So I can kick my shoes off and lie flat out on the sofa, watching the TV sideways, but it means too that everything about it bothers me: the fussy lampshades, the boring wallpaper, the general porridgeness of it. Dad’s added some nice touches since he’s been working at the college and got to know the local arts community – there are vases and pictures where before there were only terrible satin-finish school photos of Susie and me – but I still feel it’s basically the house that taste forgot. It’s not ugly, it’s just … dull. It makes me want to paint my house daffodil yellow and fuchsia, only because it’s not the 1960s anymore, no one can actually afford a house around here. I’m just waiting for my parents and Susie to die, and I’ll be laughing. (After the funerals, of course.)

Mum had made her supremely delicious chicken tagine with four hundred different spices (you know I love you, Mum; although it’s not entirely because you’re an amazing cook, that really doesn’t hurt) and it looked like we were about to make it all the way through the main course without anyone mentioning the wedding. Then Mum said: ‘Kiki darling, have you thought about letting me make your wedding dress? We can go through my old patterns to find something you’ll like. Those full skirts are easy enough to do, and we can add decoration to that strapless bodice that everyone has these days, if that’s what you’d like.’ I pushed my plate to one side and put my head on the tablecloth and tried to imagine myself somewhere else. Thom put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Keeks, do you think that might be helpful? Isn’t that a way for you to get exactly the dress you want?’ I raised my head and blinked to force the tears away, while my BLOOD BOILED. I tried to stay calm.

‘Thom, I’ve found exactly the dress I want. When you factor in the stress of fittings with … someone you know, and the reliability of the designer brand, doesn’t it seem like a false economy to have someone else do it? Everyone knows what a mistake it is to get family involved in stuff like that. Doesn’t anyone remember how messy it can be when a relative teaches you to drive?’

We Carlows all took a moment to recall our beautiful family car, and how much less beautiful it had looked after my first driving lesson with Dad. Dad, usually Forgiver of All Sins, hadn’t been able to talk to me for almost a week after that.

‘Fine fine fine!’ Mum said with a false cheery voice. Dad massaged his jaw with a pained expression and Mum took his other hand. ‘Are you alright, love?’

Dad winced a little, then smiled back at her. ‘I am, Tessa, I am. A bit of a sore jaw tonight. Too much chatting, obviously.’

I laughed. ‘Obviously, Dad. We can never get a word in when you’re about.’ I felt Thom and Mum look at one another, but was grateful enough for the interruption to not chase that glance down and kill it bloodily all over the dining table.

TO DO:

Check waiting times and delivery times on The Dress

December 6th

Am I simply having troubles with my priorities? Or am I a monster? A growing suspicion that it’s the latter. Susie invited us over for dinner last night, for Pete’s birthday and some early Christmas cocktails. For once she actually had both booze and Pete in the house, and was sloshing the former merrily into beakers as soon as we’d walked in the door. We toasted one another, with all the festive spirit mulled wine invites:

Susie: To friendship!

Me: To brotherhood on the high seas!

Pete: To the kingdom of Neptune!

Thom: To mermaids!

Susie: To milkmaids!

Pete: To milkmen! Speaking of which, Suse …

Susie: Are we blaming it on the milkman this time?

Me: [a bit tipsy already, laughing] Wait, what? Are you pregnant or something?

Susie: [pausing] … A bit?

Thom whooped and grabbed Susie, then Pete, and gave them huge hugs. I was a bit staggered – pregnant? Due in July? Which would mean next year would be entirely about the new baby? A new baby which would be there crying and sicking milk up during our wedding? Jesus, no, I am a monster.

Susie looked like she’d been slapped when she saw me hesitating, so I gave her an enormous hug and told her that she would be the finest milk-machine at our whole bash. She didn’t really like that either.

December 8th

Thom had a horrible day at work today. They have a new client, a ‘nutrition group’ conglomerate that includes all the no. 2 soft drinks, chocolate bars and potato-based snacks in Europe and Asia. They are rich, and powerful, and from everything Thom says they have a massive potato-based snack on their shoulder (accountant humour) from missing out on the no. 1 spot in every field. Apparently they spent $17 million on a marketing push in Korea which saw them hit the top for a fortnight, before they went back to their familiar, uncomfortable second-tier position. The men who came to deal with Thom today are hardly people you’d invite to a house party – pigs at best, full-on pricks at worst – but he’s always aware of how nice he has to be to them so that his company can get a little piece of their money, of which they’ll give an even smaller piece to Thom to keep his brain working on how to make these men a little bit richer, etc. Put it this way: when Thom talks about his job, it makes me want to bake a thank you cake for Carol and Tony and Raff and Jacki. And today was even worse than normal, because today Thom was supposed to show them some fascinating little Monaco loopholes which would make them jig all the way to the bank, and he’d spent the last week checking and double-checking all the figures and the byzantine laws that help rich men stay good and rich, and had everything lined up in a snazzy little presentation for them, neat and clear and simple. But when the time came to start pointing his clicker – or clicking his pointer, whatever – he found that the screen was empty, as was the computer file, as was his USB stick. His secretary came in and had a go too, but there was nothing to be found, and after ten minutes of staring at the company’s most handsome meeting room (while enjoying the finest coffee and biscuits money can buy and spending the time not tapping their feet in silence but comparing notes on their holiday homes and children’s school fees) the Gloucester Old Spots starting getting their bristles up, saying at slightly louder than shouting volume, ‘Bloody joke of an accountant, this one,’ etc. Quel charme. Thom took a deep breath and apologised for the 4,000th time, then from memory gave them all the facts they needed and passed around the very detailed and very boring document he had prepared over the last few days. But they didn’t want to know. Of course, they did want to know, and they’ll be back in a week or so to get the plotting plotted, but men like that enjoy knowing that Thom will receive a royal ticking off, probably from a former school chum of theirs.

Maybe Thom’s been hoarding all our money for his flight to Mexico when they all finally get too much. Maybe not.

December 10th

Alice and I enjoyed a – cough cough – extended lunch hour today, starting on our Christmas shopping. We’d elbowed our way into Liberty to admire the beautiful homeware rooms, when Alice spotted a sign, nudging me: ‘Wedding Lists available here’.

Me: [sighing] Oh, Alice.

Alice: Uh-oh. Don’t ‘Oh, Alice’ me. I think this was an error.

Me: I didn’t even want a wedding list before, but just think…

Alice: I am thinking. I’m thinking that if your fiancé finds out I’m to blame for you wanting your wedding list at Liberty, I won’t even be allowed at your wedding. And that will make me so sad. [pulls exaggerated sad face]

Me: [laughing] Alright, alright, I surrender. But a wedding list does seem like bloody good fun, doesn’t it?

Alice: I’m not sure I like that look in your eye, young Kiki.

I promised I wouldn’t do anything to get her banned from our wedding. She looked sceptical. How many other things have I not even thought about yet?

December 11th

Tonight was Thom’s work Christmas dinner. Every year they hire out one of the huge banqueting halls in a London hotel, invite everyone in the company, from the big cheeses to the secretaries, give everyone a plus one and access to an open bar, and let mayhem commence. We were on a table of twelve, and although officially I was seated next to one of Thom’s colleagues, he had swapped places to talk shop on the other side. Instead, I was next to his wife, Della – of a month, she insisted on telling me – while Thom chatted to the woman on his other side. Despite my best efforts, my eyes were drawn inexorably down to her hand, which waited, fingers tapping, to show the enormous ring. She laughed when she saw me looking at it, saying, ‘It’s subtle, isn’t it? Well, I thought I certainly deserved a reward.’ I thought: maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe she gave her husband a kidney. I’d want a giant piece of jewellery if I gave Thom one of my vital organs. Although maybe I’d want it shaped like that organ: a lung-shaped pendant. A liver-shaped brooch.

Della: We both work so hard that I thought it would be nice to have something to show for it, you know? We’re working over eighty-hour weeks, we bought our first place together before the wedding, and I knew a year ago that I wouldn’t just want some tiny little thing [flaps hand as if it’s almost too heavy to lift] for the rest of my life. D’you know what I mean?

Me: [trying to laugh] I do, actually! [lifts up hand]

Della: [looks mortified] God, Kiki, I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry. That’s a beautiful ring, anyway. Was it one in the family he had to use?

Me: No, Thom chose it for me. It is an antique, though.

Della: [putting her head on one side] Oh, well, well done you. Flying the flag for anti-consumerism.

Me: [taking a deep breath] Della. What do you do?

Della: Oh, I’m in the City. I’m a compliance consultant.

She saw my baffled/uninterested face, and proceeded to describe her job to me, but I tuned out after a while. Here are the highlights:

It’s mainly about managing client relationships [I start wondering how many strip joints she’s had to take those clients to] and ensuring their prime point of contact … blah blah blah … promotion of services within assigned accounts … blah blah … winning engagements … increased fee incomes … blah blah … supporting a new business direction … blah … allocation of resources for productivity levels … Ten minutes later I’d necked four glasses of wine and she stopped pitching to me, and switched gears to talking about how terrible it was that people were clamouring for any kind of financial regulations, and criticising bankers was a dreadful bore and utterly self-defeating. I suddenly felt very drunk.

Me: How exactly is it self-defeating?

Della: Well, all the banks will just up sticks and go to Dubai, or Singapore.

Me: And is that a problem?

Della: Well, the banks pay billions of pounds of tax every year, don’t they?

Me: But do they pay all the tax they should? Do they make our country’s life better?

Della: [scoffing a little] Yes, they employ thousands of people. Not everyone is a senior executive, you know.

Me: Of course, that’s true. So why do senior executives get so much?

Della: Because they all work so bloody hard.

Me: But what is that work? What do they do? Why couldn’t other people do it? Hasn’t there been a study to show traders are no better at trading than a rolled dice? What do they add?

Della: Oh, Kiki, that’s a bit of a socialist, naïve view of things. We can’t just run the country on nurses and teachers, you know?

Me: Can’t we? Can’t we? What’s the intrinsic worth of the City jobs? What do they do for us? If the company set up just to employ those people didn’t exist, who would employ them? It’s like ouro … orrob … oroboro … shit. Maybe not that. But their employable skills are in an incredibly narrow band, aren’t they? [trying to hold up fingers close together, to indicate narrowness] They don’t make tables, do they, or build houses? [I’m faintly aware of Thom tapping my arm] Do they? Or do you? Does your bank build a house? [Thom drags my chair away, with me on it, and swaps it with his, leaving me next to a smart looking woman in her forties]

New lady: She’s bloody awful, isn’t she? I had to sit next to her last year, and she spent two hours telling me that public sector teachers are a drain on the country.

Me: [sobering up] Sorry, I’m Kiki.

New lady: Liz.

Me: What do you do, Liz?

New lady: I’m a teacher.

After that, I had a gay old time, sitting with Liz and chatting about our work and families. But I felt Della and her husband glare scornfully at me for the rest of the night, before Thom got me home and gave me quite the talking-to.

If that’s what you want to call it.

December 15th

Bad days. Tony invited me into his office today just to remind me how much we’d spent on Jacki’s book, how much that represented of our annual budget, how much space our Sales team had had to beg for in the supermarkets, and how, basically, the first book I’d ever officially been given for Polka Dot would be the deciding factor in whether any of us got a bonus this year. ‘So you’d better make sure this Perfect Wedding is pretty perfect, yes?’ If I didn’t think that thought about four hundred times a day anyway, I would have brought it to Tony’s attention that no one at Polka Dot had received a bonus in the four years I’d been working there. But thank you for the added pressure. I sulked back to my desk and tried to go over the publicity plan with Alice.

Then his mother arrived.

I could hear her coming from the other side of the building, clattering up the stairwell, banging her oversized golf umbrella against everyone and everything she could, calling out, ‘Anthony! Anthony!’ like her forty-seven-year-old son was a runaway pup. She knew exactly where he’d be, and eventually made her way into his office after knocking piles of books over and pushing paper off any surface she could reach. The door slammed, but we could still make out every word she barked at him.

Pamela: Anthony, what the devil is this I hear about a bloody wedding book? What kind of trash is this?

Aha.

Tony opened his office door.

Tony: [nervously] Kiki! Would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?

Pamela, apparently, is disgusted that we’re publishing the book of a soap actress, convinced that we’re essentially becoming Heat magazine because we’ve got a celebrity telling us her wedding plans. I’m unsure what the difference is between this book and any of the other celebrity stuff we’ve done in the past – could it be that people may actually have heard of this celebrity? – but Tony had told his mother that I’d bought this book, that he hadn’t been happy about this but I’d argued him round and it was on my head. Pamela looked me up and down and gave a snort.

Pamela: I hope you know what you’re doing, young lady.

Tony gave me a beseeching look. I toyed for a moment with the idea of pleading innocence, of explaining the unlikelihood of me being able to buy so much as a dictionary for the office, let alone a red-hot celebrity wedding book, and turning a mystified face to Tony for an explanation. But I also knew in the long run that yes, Tony would take the credit from Pamela if this book went right while I would take the blame if it went wrong, but Tony would not be able to defer my promotion again, once I took his side on this.

Me: I think we’ve got a great chance with this title, Pamela – the market’s there, the product’s good and the costings add up.

I suddenly thought: Shit, if she actually asks me about the costings I’m going to have to faint or something, as I hadn’t seen a single figure on this; but she just looked me up and down again and shooed me out of the office. Phew.

Thom didn’t have a good day either. After last week’s PowerPoint debacle, the pig-men came back as predicted but Thom’s boss, Rowland, has also made it clear that he’s not in his good books. Thom suddenly has to put all the figures past him, and – horror of horrors – has to ‘come and see him’ each night before he goes home. There is no more humiliating discipline at that level, and none more difficult. Thom must time it perfectly – too early and he’s a soft-handed workshy, too late and he’s made his boss sit and wait for Thom to decide to go home, and probably ruined a perfectly good booking at the Ivy. He’s really struggling with this, so it’s probably not entirely my fault that our conversation tonight went:

Me: How was your day?

Thom: Don’t ask. Please, tell me about yours. Distract me from the horrors of the corporate crunch.

Me: [delighted to be asked] Well! Jacki’s cakes were finally ready to be photographed today, and they were … amazing. There was one classic wedding cake with a giant silver crown on top, and one bombe glacé entirely covered with gold leaf, and forty tiers of cupcakes that were individually iced with Jacki and Leon’s initials, and a six-foot wall of cake pops that made up a giant portrait of Jacki and Leon. Now, while I think it’s got impact, I priced up the wall of cake pops and I think that, aesthetically, it might be a bit … de trop.

Thom: For CHRIST’s sake, Kiki, can’t you think of ANYTHING else? We aren’t. Made. Of money. Can you please understand this? I don’t want golden cake walls or a fountain of liquid sugar. This isn’t bloody Willy Wonka, it’s our wedding. Why are you so determined to make a joke of this whole thing?

Me: Wow. That joke really backfired. It actually was a joke, Thom.

Thom: [staring at the table] …

Me: Maybe … I’ll just … go to bed. And think about the political situation in the wider world.

TO DO:

Take Thom out for a relaxing evening

Ask Norman if what Tony said about our bonuses is true

See if I can get The Dress tax-free in the US and ship back with someone over there for a holiday (Alice)

Rings – vintage to match engagement ring?

December 16th

At the wedding shop today for the final snaps before Jacki’s wedding. I was cramming my notebook in my handbag when Reception rang to say my taxi was there, which was something of a surprise since I’d been planning to take the tube. Getting down to the street I found a black cab waiting with its door open – and getting in, I found bloody Pedro in the back, flicking through an issue of Wallpaper like he hadn’t chewed me up and spat me out last time we’d met. He didn’t look up but said, ‘I thought you’d like a lift.’ We rode in silence through the streets until we got to Pudding Lane, where Pedro leapt out of the cab and into the shop. I saw a cab pull up behind us, full of his assistants and equipment, and watched as Zoe got out and came over, saw my sad face peering through the cab window and put her head on one side, saying, ‘Did someone leave you with the fare?’ I was still so wiped out after Thom’s overreaction last night that even these few moments with Pedro left me dumbfounded, so I got out and let poor Zoe deal with it. I heard my phone go, and fishing it out thought that I had a message from Jacki – delayed? Most unlike her – but saw it was actually from Judy the Intern. ‘Did u no bout Carol n Norman? WOW!’ What the …? Does anyone not

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