The Wedding Diaries
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Authors: Sam Binnie
SAM BINNIE
The Wedding Diaries
For J,
Bringer of sunshine
Table of Contents
Finally, my attempt to lower your chances of future marital discord
Read on for an exclusive extract from
The Baby Diaries
out in Spring 2013
Here’s who knows about weddings: Abba. The Dixie Cups. Alfred Doolittle. All masters on the theme of matrimony, whether it’s the oaths (I do), the venue (Chapel of Love) and the punctuality (on time). But can they tell me: what happens when you ruin the proposal?
It was the final night of our long weekend in Bath, an early birthday gift from me to Thom, and I was getting suspicious. Thom had been strange with me for the previous week – silent, jumpy, and staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking – and had been in an odd mood for most of the weekend. He seemed twitchy and insistent on going out for dinner when all I wanted was to sink into our hotel bed with room service and some TV, so I put two and two together and decided that five = looking for somewhere public to break up with me. I’d had passing concerns every now and again since February, when I’d ruined a Valentine’s meal at a tapas bar by rifling through each dish looking for a ring that wasn’t there. In the taxi to the restaurant my nerves were noticeable.
Me: Are you sure this is the restaurant you want to go to?
Thom: [silence]
Me: Oh Jesus. Please can we just go home?
Thom: [silence]
Me: Look! There’s a homeless man. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather take him?
Thom: [silence]
Me: Brilliant. This is
just
how I hoped my holiday would end.
I’d whipped myself up into a frenzy by this point, dizzily chattering away as we were shown to our table. All I could see was that we were tucked into a corner, out of earshot but still in eyeshot should a court case demand it. As we settled into our chairs I realised that, having been eyeballing me for the last week, Thom now wouldn’t even look at me, and I began to panic. I started reading out the menu, describing each item in my cheeriest voice and making comments on the dishes with a joyful tone that kept sticking in my throat. Hurray! I was becoming my mother. When I summoned the courage to look at Thom again he was staring at me, apparently about to speak. At that moment someone started tapping a knife against a wine glass, and the restaurant went silent. A handsome, happy man rose to his feet.
Handsome Man: Sorry everyone, sorry. I’ll let you go back to your delicious meals in one moment. I just need your attention for a minute. This beautiful woman here [gestures to woman apparently trying to eye-laser an escape route through their table] has made me so happy over the last two years. In front of all of you here tonight, I would like to ask her: Jen, will you do me the great honour of becoming my one and only wife?
Jen: [blanching] Oh, Steve …
HM: Come on, stand up, darling! Will you join with me in holy matrimony, and finally make an honest man out of me?
Jen: I’m sorry, Steve. [picks up handbag] This isn’t going to work. [walks out]
HM: [after a long silence] Sorry everyone. Sorry. Please … [sitting down] carry on.
I turned to Thom and he was paler than poor Steve. He actually looked as if he was going to be sick. At that moment the waiter arrived to take our order, attempting to plaster over the dreadful event the entire restaurant had just witnessed. Thom blindly ordered for both of us, which was unusual but fine by me as my stomach seemed to be about to crawl out of my throat. He couldn’t break up with me now, could he? He opened his mouth to speak, his tongue dryly clicking.
Thom: Kiki, we’ve been together a while, and I’ve started thinking about where we’re going—[voice disappears]
Me: [gibbering] No! Don’t think about it! Although you did say that you wanted to go to Berlin, didn’t you? Let’s go to Berlin! That’s where we can go!
Thom: [touching my hand, looking at me] Keeks. Please will you marry me?
Me: Is that a joke?
I didn’t intend to say something so horribly unromantic, and a better story will definitely have to be devised for the grandchildren, but after I realised that he was serious and Thom realised that he wasn’t about to relive the Steve and Jen Story from the sharp end I couldn’t stop crying. Thom moved his chair next to mine and hugged me for a really long time. Every time I’d almost calmed down, he’d say something like ‘This will be brilliant’ and I’d start off again. The manager was so delighted that someone would actually have a positive experience of the restaurant that night that he sent over a bottle of champagne. When we staggered out of the restaurant arm in arm and quite definitely tipsy, I kept thinking over and over: I could get used to this.
August 16th
So this is why I’ve started this diary. It will be a lovely keepsake of the wedding as well as a handy one-stop notebook for everything that needs to be done; all of it will live here. This organisation thing will be a lark. I’ve also signed up to receive a lovely inspirational email each month; a wedding from great literature. Not bad, eh? This wedding will be the making of me.
After work, we rang Thom’s parents in Australia, who squealed down the phone at us and promised not to call my parents for at least an hour or two, giving us time to break the news. Alan and Aileen are dream in-laws-to-be: funny, thoughtful, kind and on the other side of the world, having emigrated there on retirement three years ago. Thom’s an only child, and Alan and Aileen said they knew they didn’t have to worry about him so would go and warm their bones for a while, just outside Sydney. They love it over there: the weather, the food, and their neighbours, but they say they miss us.
Mum and Dad were over the moon when they heard our news. They’ve always loved Thom (a little bit more than they love me, if my suspicions are correct) and jumped from their armchairs when Thom announced our engagement. Well, I say jumped: Mum leapt up and started kissing everyone while Dad’s face glowed, then he carefully lifted himself from his chair to pump Thom’s hand up and down and envelop me in a lovely Dad-hug. Mum was already crying, and when Dad whispered, ‘Well done, my girl – he better look after you or he’ll have me to deal with,’ I was laughing and choking up a bit too. Dad might be six foot four and solid as an old brick shed, but he’s the kindest, most gentle person you could ever wish to meet. He retired early from a very dull senior job in a law firm and, while all his cronies were perfecting their golf swing and talking about running for parliament, Dad saw a TV programme about fine-working silver, took a short course and was such a natural that he now teaches Jewellery Making at the local sixth-form and adult college. He produces such beautiful, delicate pieces, necklaces and rings and gorgeous Christmas ornaments for the Twins, all of which seem impossible until you see his long, fine fingers, and all of which go with his brilliant, lovely mind, and all of which make you wonder how he managed to spend all those years in a legal office. A girl couldn’t wish for a better dad.
Once Mum had mopped her eyes a bit, she found a dusty old bottle of pre-mixed Buck’s Fizz from some party back in 1987 and we all toasted one another.
Mum: Congratulations to you both!
Dad: We’re so proud of you two. We wish you every happiness.
Thom: Tessa, John – if we can spend one day of marriage as happy as you have always been, I’ll consider us truly blessed.
Me: I’m not particularly comfortable with public displays of emotion, but I will raise a toast to that. To my mum and dad, and the giant wedding extravaganza that will make their daughter as happy as they are!
Mum rolled her eyes a little at that but Dad chuckled, and on cue the phone rang: Thom’s mum. Leaving the mothers to discuss hats (or whatever), Thom bundled me into the car to go and see Susie, just around the corner, after swearing Mum and Dad (Mum) to secrecy for the next half-hour. Susie’s been my sister for about as long as I can remember, being two years older than me, and – if I block the time she cut all my hair off when I was four – has been my best friend for pretty much the entire time. Susie, Pete and the kids live in a lovely old terraced house, extended almost into oblivion by the previous owners, so although the front is tiny, it opens out into a huge warehouse space once you get inside. The front door is tricky to get through, though, being jammed with children’s boots and coats, Pete’s souvenirs from around the world and a huge window seat that doesn’t fit in the hallway but Susie insists is necessary, glamorous hallway furniture. She’s going through a Sunset Boulevard stage at the moment, so thinks a lilac velvet chaise longue is exactly what a terrace in North Finchley requires.
She opened the door to us in her apron (not only her apron, obviously) with hands covered in flour and her six-year-old twins Lily and Edward scampering around her.
Lily and Edward: Thom! Hurray!
Thom: Susie. Children. [picks the Twins up by their ankles and carries them off upside down to the garden]
Me: [faintly] Hi … children …
Susie: Come and have a drink.
Oh, Susie, so good with the drinks offers. After Mum’s ecstasies, I could have murdered a Band on the Run. She held up her floury hands and kicked a foot towards the fridge for me to help myself. After rummaging around for a while, I gave her my most disgusted look.
Me: You don’t have anything to drink, do you?
Susie: Ooooh … funny you should say that. I bought some vodka a few months ago—