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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 (#ulink_395523a4-a1b1-5f9c-814f-c3529ffecec4)
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.
