The Wedding Diaries (6 page)

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.