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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 (#ulink_38997c23-f332-5c26-b32e-a58f4ebe16a4)
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?
