The Wedding Diaries

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.

Thom: Then it’s yours.

Me: But how much is it?

Man at stall: To you two? £400.

Thom was grinning at me, but something in my stomach had shrunk from that figure. Yes, it was lovely, but it was also only £400. Weren’t engagement rings the one thing that you’d wear forever and ever? I pulled him a little bit away from the stall.

Me: Shall we look at some shops in town?

Thom: But you love this! [laughing] Do you think it’s too much?

Me: [queasily] It’s just … aren’t engagement rings supposed to cost one month’s wages? It’s got to be an extra-special piece of jewellery, to show how much … your husband … loves … you …

Thom: If that’s what you really want, Kiki. [turning to vendor] Sorry mate. Looks like I was wrong.

It turned out that Thom had snuck over to the market a few days before, spotted the ring and, knowing I’d love it, asked the guy to keep it for me. Thom told me all about how special he knew I’d find it, with its own personal history and a unique story that no ring in a jewellery shop would ever have, of how it was originally made for a young wife by her new husband, with stones to signify passion and constancy for their life ahead. Unfortunately, he didn’t tell me this until he’d turned off the light after finally coming up at midnight; he’d driven us home without talking and had been watching the TV in a terrible silence, until I’d lost my nerve and slunk off to bed alone. I’m writing this now in the bathroom by the shaving light, wondering whether my dearly beloved is tempted to call off the whole thing. Oh God. What have I done?

TO DO:

Dress – still needed?

Venue – as above?

Honeymoon – see if Susie is available to accompany me on the solo holiday I may need to get used to, in my new single life

September’s Classic Wedding!

Everybody was asked to the fêtes of the marriage. Garlands and triumphal arches were hung across the road to welcome the young bride. The great St Michael’s Fountain ran with uncommonly sour wine, while that in the Artillery Place frothed with beer. The great waters played; and poles were put up in the park and gardens for the happy peasantry, which they might climb at their leisure, carrying off watches, silver forks, prize sausages hung with pink ribbon, etc. at the top.

Vanity Fair

William Makepeace Thackeray

September 2nd

Thank bloody God. Thom went back to the market the next morning and bought the ring without telling me. I hadn’t said one word to him since we’d left the market the day before (besides a whispered but heartfelt apology when I finally got into bed with him after writing this last night) and felt nauseous all the next day – what a horrible way to behave! When he came home last night with a poorly hidden smile and a tiny parcel of ring, I was full of promises and apologies, leaping at him like an overexcited puppy.

When I wore the ring to work today, Alice was in raptures over it, and even Norman raised an approving eyebrow. Carol could only muster, ‘Couldn’t afford a new one?’ which earned a guffaw from Norman. He might not give two figs about your weekend plans or the small talk of an office, but I have my suspicions that he may actually be human after all.

Tony gave me Jacki Jones’s email address so I could get in touch with her to start planning the book. Her agent is also her fiancé so I’m to avoid letting him know anything about the book, which, I have to say, is probably just about the worst business sense I’ve ever heard. Still, her wedding has been set for April next year, and the book will be rushed out to hit the shelves three weeks afterwards. Tony’s promised me a definite promotion if this book works out. Not only a whole new job title (not Editorial Assistant – oh no – now I would be Assistant Editor. Woop!) but more money too (which in publishing terms probably means only enough money that I can switch from ‘takeaway’ to ‘eat in’ at the café at the corner, but still). And if I ever want to make it out of Polka Dot’s hallowed doors and into the world of the big hitters, I need something like this under my belt.

TO DO:

Find out what we need to do for ceremony and reception

Guest book and photo albums?

Ceremony music – piano?

Wedding cake – classic cake? Something different?

Ultimately treat someone else’s wedding as a great deal more important to me than my own

September 4th

Right, time to think about the engagement party. With some brief research (three bridal magazines and asking around the office) the trend seems to be for garden parties and gift lists. I think we’ll just try the Queen’s Arms: it’s close to us and Susie, and it’s nearish enough to the tube that people can roll around after work without too much labour. We’ll try for next Friday, and allow a few rounds to be bought if the Moneybags Crew turns up from Thom’s work. Thom can tell his lot, I’ll tell mine, and we can flip a coin for anyone who falls into both or neither camp.

September 8th

Dress day! What joy, what raptures! Who would have known that white floor-length dresses are the most flattering thing ever? Well, maybe Elizabeth Taylor. I thought it best to hedge my bets by booking us into an affordable place, as well as a more expensive option. We thought we’d work our way up, so started just off Oxford Street at the cheap place. And when I say cheap, I mean the wedding dresses are a bit less than £1,000. £1,000! Hahahahahhahaha! £1000! The absolute most I have ever spent on a single piece of clothing is £210, on a beautiful Jigsaw dress that was the most stunning thing I’d ever seen but in practice made me look like a gammon with the string left on. The ‘Cheap Dresses’ were even more lovely than that, and I was hugely surprised by trying on – and loving – the most Bridey McBriderson dresses, strapless and flouncy and lacy and glittering, like big white cakes. Oh, they made me so happy (them, or the champagne they gave us. One or the other). I felt like a royal-iced angel, and wanted more than anything for the walls to drop away to reveal Busby Berkeley dancers that would high kick and lift me around and around in a bridal wonderland. Maybe that was the champagne. I came out in one dress like a tulle snowball.

Susie: Oh, to have and to hold.

Me: For richer, or for poorer?

Susie: I’m sickness for how in health you look.

Me: Death will not part me from this dress.

We were sniggering so much by then that the nice lady encouraged me to maybe take off the dress, so I did just that, waving goodbye to the beauty as we headed off with light, giddy hearts to the Pricey Shop, sure that we’d already seen our winners and only anxious over convincing Thom that his salary honestly could stretch to £950 for a dress I’d sport for ten hours. But then … Oh, then. The Pricey Shop wasn’t just full of the most beautiful dresses, but the most beautiful everything. The carpet. The chairs. The changing rooms. Even the women in white gloves who helped me in and out of each dress. They only laughed politely when I asked if I could move in with them there. I, however, sighed piteously when, after three dresses, Susie said she didn’t have much time left in town – Pete had something on in the evening so she had to get back to get the Twins in bed.

Susie: I’m sorry, Kiki, but he did ask me yesterday, and I have been out all afternoon.

Me: All afternoon? Bloody hell, move over Emmeline Pankhurst.

Susie: Don’t, Kiki.

Me: What?

Susie: Don’t give me a hard time. He needs some time to himself too – while we’ve been gadding about like bridal pixies, he’s been slaving over a hot desk. Give the poor lad a break.

Me: [swallowing rage, sitting down next to her and slinging an arm around] Of course. I’m only sad that we don’t have time for the post-wedding-dress-try-on paintballing I had booked.

Assistant: Excuse me, madam, we have one more that may be what you’re looking for.

Susie: Ah, the old ‘one more thing’ trick. Worked for Columbo.

Me: I don’t think that’s the same trick as Columbo’s.

Susie: Your mum doesn’t think that’s the same trick as Columbo’s.

Me: That doesn’t work either.

Susie: Shhhh. Look. They’re bringing it.

Then … The Dress. It was Perfection in the form of Fabric, like music you only hear in your dreams, like food you remember from your childhood; familiar yet foreign. A simple white asymmetric sheath dress, with an organza overlay gathered at one hip in a large flower, and a matching silk tulle veil with a satin trim. I’m trying to not weep as I write this, but it was so beautiful. When Susie saw me in it, even she said, ‘Wow. If it had been a toss-up between that dress and the Twins, Pete and I might have a house with fewer crayon scribbles right now.’ The only fly in this Ointment of Delight is the price. £2,300.

I haven’t quite mentioned the price to Thom yet.

TO DO:

Sell kidney (or even better – see if Thom needs both of his) for wedding dress

If that fails, see if can barter one of the Twins instead

September 13th

God, I feel sorry for Thom sometimes. How does he bear working there? He told me, laughing, that when he’d been inviting people from his office, the reactions varied from ‘Where’s your list?’ to a baffled ‘What kind of venue is it?’ I despair. It’s A PUB. You might have heard of them? What a strange bunch they truly are. So we shall just wait and see which of them shows up, but in the meantime we’ve got a yes from Suse (although Pete may be in Malaysia, lucky guy), from everyone at work, from my lovely old friend Jim, Rich and Heidi, and Nick and Rose, friends from uni. Eve says she’s got a hot date that night, but will swing by if it all falls through. I’ve dug out my gorgeous blue dress (dry clean only – number of times worn previously: one) and Sheila the Landlady has put some extra champagne on ice for us. Done.

September 15th

I finally got in touch with Jacki today. She hasn’t worked out how to put hearts underneath each of her exclamation marks, but I do slightly feel like I’ve been molested by a giant glittery bunny nonetheless. This was her final email of the day:

From: Jacki Jones

To: Carlow, Kiki

Subject: Hey!!!!!

Hi Kiki!!!

I hope you don’t think I’m loopy, but I’m totally completely excited about this project!!!; I know we can sort out all these questions you’ve got. Let’s meet up!!! You’re such a gem to be helping me (I think I’ll have loads of questions) and I’m sure we can make this book as brilliant as the wedding itself!!!! Bring a list of everything you’ve been asking me and we’ll find an answer for all of it!!:

I’m free tomorrow 10–12 – do you want to come to Leon’s office?! How exciting!!!!

See you then,

J xxxxxxxx : )

I’m sure this will all be fine.

: (

September 16th

Today’s meeting went well, but I take it all back. It wasn’t a fluffy glitter bunny; it was a fluffy glitter bunny ROBOT. Jacki is the most amazing machine – which is no great surprise, given her swift and inexorable rise from catalogue model to TV soap actress nobody to household name. She is efficient and professional, and incredibly, unbelievably fond of (shudder) All Things Girly. But she’s lovely. It’s just that conversation with her is slightly unnerving, like your washing machine suddenly insisting you deserve a pedicure.

TO DO:

Actually start looking at some ceremony and reception options

Check whether Jacki has her own staff for this wedding, or whether Polka Dot are expected to plan it for her as part of our ‘publishing’ deal

Start thinking about guest list

Discuss with Dad while Mum isn’t about who we absolutely have to invite

Get Thom to ask Alan and Aileen who needs to be asked from the Sharpe branch

Do I have to invite the whole office? Does Thom?

Florist – visit local florist on high street, get rough estimates