скачать книгу бесплатно
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.
