The Wedding Diaries (23 page)

Five minutes later, Nick, bless his cotton socks, sent this reply:

From: Nick Lord

To: Rose Gold, Kiki Carlow, Bunny Gladwell, Fleur Riley, Mummy Gold, Greta Moore, Helen Hudson

Subject: Re: Action plan!

Hey all.

If it helps at all, I can move our scheduled 17.00 earlier.

It was almost – almost – enough to stop me writing back to her, but I was drowning in work, in my own wedding plans and the undeniable fact that weddings seemed to turn everyone mad. And she was being a hysterical idiot. Is someone going to have a stopwatch on the day? Can the happy couple only socialise from 2100 hours? I couldn’t quite bring myself to condone this lunacy by being her dancing monkey, even if it was her wedding day. I sent her email to Susie and Thom; Susie wrote back, furious, saying, ‘She’s a MONSTER. Is it too late to say you can’t go? Tell her Mum needs us. For your dress or something.’ Thom said, ‘Oh good God. But think of it this way: the enormous good karma from doing this will cancel out all those times you used up the hot water in our flat.’

Something about Rose’s behaviour nudged both Thom and me: for Thom, it was a reminder that, on the grand scale of things, his bride wasn’t a complete loon yet. And for me, it was that Thom felt exasperation about this kind of behaviour, just as I did. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t come back and bite me. I wrote Rose the nicest email I could, explaining that (slight porkpie) Saturday morning was when we’d scheduled my mum to come to the final dress fitting, and it was really hard to get these things organised with everyone as I’m sure she knew, so I’d be round at noon to do absolutely anything I could to help. I said I knew that whatever time I arrived, it would be a great day, and that I was really looking forward to it (big juicy porkpies). And yes, I know I’m also being a fiend. Just not as much as her. It was either that or kill her.

She wrote back shortly afterwards:

From: Rose Gold

To: Kiki Carlow

Subject: Re: Action plan!

Kiki, I totally appreciate that your mum wants you to go, but it means you can’t get your hair done.

I’m trying not to have a tantrum about this, but do you think you actually want to do this? It feels like you just can’t be bothered to make any effort,
particularly after my Hen (Helen told me all about it later). I don’t know whether you feel that we should all be paying attention to you because you’re getting married this year, but I’m getting married too! This is supposed to be the biggest day of my life! I so want to share this day with someone who actually cares about me, and I feel you just don’t want to share in my happiness. I am always going to remember this day and I don’t want to always be reminded of your lack of support or interest. I know that you have a wedding to plan too (believe me!) but you’re MY bridesmaid. It’s actually a really big responsibility, and it would be great if you could show even the tiniest bit of excitement.

Thanks, R

Oh, Rose. I think Helen has broken you.

TO DO:

Check the Nose wedding list again and see if any weapons on there. Otherwise, wrap up a tranquilliser dart and hand it to Nick, with a label saying, ‘You may need this.’

May 10th

My favourite pair of authors was in today: Ann Tate and Charlie Greer, chefs who met in the kitchen of her restaurant and were married six months later. They produce books together now, little windows into a world where everything is tasty and lickable. They’ve both got meat on their bones, too, from all the hog-roasting and ginger-syruping, but they have that creamy plumpness associated with pre-Raphaelite portraits rather than a chicken-skin-and-idleness diet. I love them so much (or at least want to take them home and chain them to my kitchen) but they are awfully nice too, breaking every cliché about successful chefs; they’re polite, calm and thoughtful, and while Ann swears blind she can only maintain her calm because she makes Charlie do all the work, Charlie will explain regretfully that his good moods are only possible since Ann does everything for him. And it’s not, despite my sugar-high as I write this, simply because they always bring a delicious cake into the office when they visit. I like seeing them because they really do enjoy one another’s company. Today they brought in a coffee and walnut cake, in three shades of buttercream-cake-walnut, and one flavour (or two slices, whatever) of deliciousness.

Whenever we publish one of their books (their new one is called
Pat-A-Cake
and has a pastel photo of them working together on a gorgeous cherry gateau on the front) Alice calls round all her contacts and places them well: while there’s none of that filthy fighting and occasionally bribery that comes with the big celebrity guns, the bookers always seem genuinely pleased to have them as guests. Ann and Charlie bake for everyone they visit (including the crews for each show) and make no demands of anyone but some tea and plates for their treats. Have I said before?
Sometimes
, I love my job.

They came in today with a proposal for a whole new series of books, in a completely new field: Crime. They’ve written the first three chapters of a detective thriller, featuring a pair of amateur chefs called Steve Mortar and Emily Pestle, who solve the crimes using their particular kitchen skills; calculating when the murder took place by studying the rate at which the body had been slow-roasted in a hot room, etc. It’s undeniably tongue-in-cheek, but very well done.

TO DO:

Put a pestle and mortar on wedding list?

Eat more of Ann and Charlie’s cake

May 13th

The Twins’ birthday today. After work, Thom and I took round a pile of books and enough Lego to build an aircraft hangar, and we all ate more ice cream and jelly than seems sensible. I’m wobbling as I write this (but not as much as Suse, although I’d lose an eye if I made that joke to her face).

It was probably a foolish idea to eat quite so much, as it’s the Nose wedding tomorrow. The bridesmaids’ dresses Rose and Helen chose for us are – as is always the touching tradition – both ugly and unflattering, and mine is staring at me from its dress bag in the corner of the bedroom. Susie came round after the Twins had gone to bed to laugh at it, saying between breathless teary laughter, ‘But … you look … like a
cube
!’ I said, ‘Really? You really want to do this? At seven months pregnant, you want to talk about body shape?’ She took off her shoe and threw it at my head.

But I am ready to bear witness, toast, and jive like it’s going out of fashion. As long as Rose trusts me to do my own hair like I do every
single day of my life, it should all go pretty smoothly.

May 14th

Well, that was … strange. Nick and Rose’s wedding was beautiful, but also … I don’t know. Something
not
perfect? Is that possible? I realised I’d been a bit mean, and headed over to Rose’s house for my military briefing at 9am, prepared to explain that Mum had cancelled our imaginary appointment. When I got there, Rose was sitting with tear marks down her face and a slightly woozy look in her eyes. Greta was there in her equally unflattering dress, and gave me a hug when she saw me, explaining that Rose’s mother had crushed a pill into Rose’s drink to calm her down a bit. She’d be fine for the ceremony, but just wouldn’t offer much sparkling bridal repartee for a couple of hours.

Her father had hired a Silver Phantom to ferry them around, while the bridesmaids (me and Greta giggling, Bunny and Fleur, plus Helen, with a very serious and dignified expression) and mother of the bride had two huge black Mercedes. The journey was tense, as Helen clearly had yet to forgive me, but when we got to the church, I saw how beautiful it was, picture postcard perfect; and as Rose climbed out of the car she really did look lovely, albeit just like
every other bride ever
in a strapless white full-skirted gown. After the service (when I was allowed a brief wave at Thom, in the pews) the wedding party all got back in our big wedding-party cars to a huge country house a few miles down the road, where we were greeted with banks of pink roses and lilies and trays of champagne. It was clearly an expensive wedding, full of money and thought, but somehow … Somehow, something. Or nothing. Was there anything missing? Not quite, as the Noses really do love one another and I could not imagine anyone better for him than Rose, and yet … also … a bit. It was so lovely, and they even had the gift table that I dream of but I know Thom would
die
rather than permit, full of Martha Stewart-esque gift parcels; they had lovely, safe, crowd-pleasing food; a first dance tune that was fine (hilariously, also ‘I’ve Had the Time of my Life’), which they swayed awkwardly to in the tradition of all couples ever (why does that first dance always make couples look like they loathe one another? Everyone seems to believe they shouldn’t be seen to be speaking to one another during the dance, so all conversation is conducted from behind gritted teeth, making the whole thing appear like they’re having a furious row); the photos took forever and were full of those same boring ‘OK, and can the groom turn slightly more towards the bride … yup … and can the bride lift her chin a bit … yup, OK, a bit closer to the groom … yup … great … and can the bride put one hand on the groom’s arm … a little higher … lovely. That’s lovely. And one with the groom down on one knee? Niiiiiiiiiice’ wedding shoot platitudes as at Annie’s wedding. I had a good time, I really did – Thom gets on well with the Nose crowd and it was so nice to see Bunny and Fleur again, and Greta and I danced for hours, and we at least had unlimited drink at our table, which meant even Thom ended up on the dance floor, twirling me round and dipping some of our party (‘Is
that
what you call it?’ I said in my best innuendo voice when we saw one another briefly). But when we poured ourselves into the taxi at the end of the night, I had a sudden terrifying thought: was that fabulous wedding …
boring
?

May 15th

It keeps going round and round in my head: is our wedding going to be like that? I’ve spent hours poring over confetti choices and ribbon catalogues, wedding candles and wedding biscuits, fireworks and keepsakes and bubbles and place card holders. But does order and preparation produce perfection? Or is perfection what we witnessed there? Did we just feel like extras at the event exactly because the wedding had been directed to within an inch of its life?

So we had some actual fun today to make up for the Nose wedding. Thom’s more stressed than ever as he’s having to deal with the redundancies of some of his colleagues, so his workload is even greater than normal, but Jim made our day with a lovely BBQ at the park for his birthday. About thirty of us came, all bringing beers and bread and meat and cheese, and Jim had brought a ball and it ended up in a rowdy football game with all thirty of us wrestling and tripping one another over and obstructing the opposition in a revolting manner, while Rich’s increasingly pregnant girlfriend Heidi refereed from the sidelines. In a brief half-time break for spoonfuls of melted frozen gateau and more beer, I talked to Zoe and her boyfriend Zac, now the best of buddies with Jim since Christmas.

Zoe: Kiki, it’s really nice to see you away from the Pedro-cloud.

Zac: Can you believe that guy? I thought my boss was a dick but Pedro takes it to a whole other douchebag level.

Me: Sadly, I find it all too easy to believe Pedro. In the world of celebrity, he is but small fry on the Total Dick scale. But it’s so nice to see you too, Zoe. Thom and I were actually wondering if you guys would come to our wedding, too? It’s in August – if you fancy it, I’ll send you the details.

Zoe: Hey! That sounds good; we’d love it. Thank you.

Zac: Did Zoe tell you, we got engaged a year ago? But Pedro won’t give Zo the time off.

Zoe: Zac!

Zac: What?
You
don’t work for him, do you, Kiki? Are you going to tell him I was complaining?

Me: Is that true, Zoe? I
think
that may be illegal.

Zoe: We’ll get round it. Don’t worry, either of you. Look how much your faces are worrying! Stop worrying. If you love someone, you have to let them find a way to plan the wedding without worrying about their prick of a boss. That’s what my grandmother always used to say.

Christ. Pedro’s even more of a scumbag than I thought. But it’s the field Zoe wants to work in, so she can’t leave without him blackening her name (as he’s done with previous assistants). And Zac’s family are all in New York, so a wedding couldn’t be done on a spur-of-the-moment Saturday morning. Plus, Pedro’s working hours are so long and so erratic that she could never rely on happening to have the day off at the time they’d booked their wedding. Christ, he’s a horror.

But the whole picnic today was brilliant. It was the perfect antidote to Nick and Rose, and Thom and I returned home with scuffed knees and a great beery buzz. Joys.

TO DO:

Check Redhood Farm providing menus

Book meeting with their wedding co-ordinator to co-ordinate each phase of the day

Confirm photography spots in the grounds

Check spots for musicians

Check lighting in the dance area

Underwear – corset? Basque?

Alcohol – find out about getting cocktail bar – staff from Queen’s Arms?

Would need:

Bar

Alcohol

Equipment

Staff

Glasses

Games?

May 20th

I’m not sure how long I can stay in publishing, let alone at Polka Dot, when I have to deal with some of our authors. Taz Taylor is a hairdresser to the stars, and only marginally less of a prick than Pedro. Until today, that is. He’s doing a book for us called
Lord of the Hair
, a mixture of gossipy stories about his clients and hair care tips and styling. He’s not my author, he’s Tony’s, but Tony was out of the office on the day that Taz was supposed to be doing signings of his book at the Dorchester Hotel. When I got into work, I could hear my phone was already ringing as I hung up my coat. It stopped as my answerphone picked it up, and three seconds later started ringing again. This time I got to it in time, and found Taz’s frazzled assistant Cara on the phone.