The Wedding Diaries (19 page)

Then suddenly we were being bustled out of the door, into the cars: I was planning on getting into whichever car had space for me at the back of the parade, but Jacki called out from her grey Rolls Royce, ‘Kiki! Get in here with me. You’ll need all these details!’ Pedro – ever the charmer – hissed, ‘Don’t you fucking get in there yet and ruin this shot,’ so I pretended I had to re-tie my wedges until Zoe gave me the thumbs-up. Jacki didn’t hold my hand this time but talked the whole way, about what we were seeing, who would be there, who she hadn’t invited and whether the paparazzi would be there (No Jacki, I thought, they’ll have decided to let you and Leon enjoy your one special day with some peace and quiet). I didn’t have to hold hands with her to see how much she was shaking though, and thanking the stars for Susie’s tip from months ago, I reached into my handbag and offered the vodka miniature I’d snagged from her hen night. ‘It doesn’t really seem dignified, does it, Kiki?’ she reprimanded, unscrewing the lid and downing it in one. ‘Holy
Christ
, that feels better.’ We were at the venue now. She looked at me again, and said, ‘Thank you, Kiki. Thank you for everything.’ Then her bridesmaids were at the door, pawing at the handle to be the one who got her out, and Jacki was laughing and stepping out, smiling and waving sweetly to the paps as the cameras flashed and her fans called out to her. I sat in the car for a minute or two more, to make sure I wouldn’t clutter up any of her shots and to get a few more notes down (‘I was nervous on the way there, but every bride is!’) then stepped out into a street which was suddenly eerily deserted. The paps had gone for a sly drink/fag break and the fans had trickled away to wherever fans go when their stars aren’t there. A few stray photographers hung around to see if there were any famous latecomers to the festivities, but didn’t even bother raising their cameras when they saw me opening the car door. Charming.

Inside, I snuck in at the back, flashing the ushers my invitation and sliding into a chair beside a girl with lips so glossed they looked like they were about to run down her chin. The service, naturally, was stunning, although the readings – done by those of Jacki’s friends who possess hopes of an acting career – all seemed to be pegged at a
Hollyoaks
level of melodrama and joy. During the vows, I welled up a little: they were the simple, classic words of betrothal and oath, and something about the way Jacki said them made my eyes brim. She put such hope and faith into what she was saying, and I believed with all my heart that she would make this marriage work. Leon seemed a bit more affected by nerves, though, looking around the whole time he said his vows, laughing, taking Jacki’s hand like someone had asked him to hold an old fish for a moment. When Leon finally said ‘I do’, the glossy girl next to me started sobbing, and the girl the other side of her hissed, ‘Will you
shut up
, Karen. You’re not making this any easier for anyone.’

I missed Thom so much. I don’t even have Susie to tell all this to.

Then we were pouring like treacle across to the reception rooms. They were immaculately carpeted in white wool and every available surface was covered in glasses of champagne and tiny canapés in a hundred delicious flavours. When I caught a harassed-looking Zoe and she warned me quite how long the wedding photos were likely to take, I took a whole tray from a passing waitress and went to find Pedro and co. They were on the grand staircase, with hairdresser A and the makeup trio fussing around Jacki while the designer’s assistant made minute changes to the way the train of the dress lay perfectly casually on the stone steps. Leon kept an iron arm around Jacki’s waist, never letting go and smiling beatifically at everyone. Jacki saw me and waved, making the dresser groan as she leapt forward to correct the one millimetre the train had moved. Pedro turned around to see who Jacki was waving at, and reassured that it wasn’t anyone famous or important bellowed, ‘For
FUCK’S
sake, can we get some fucking professionalism here, people?’

Dick.

We didn’t sit down to eat until almost 7, but Jacki and Leon gave their joint speech while we were eating (Jacki said she was too nervous to wait and wanted to be able to enjoy her food) and they were so charming and funny and loving – Leon described Jacki as ‘the sun that makes my moon go round’ which, while lacking any technical accuracy, is a very sweet sentiment – and everyone seemed ready to forgive his laughter during the vows, and being forced to make small talk to semi-famous strangers for five hours. The food was exquisite, tiny slivers of duck on a bed of vermicelli followed by a juicy, flavourful stuffed roll of pork, then a giant, immaculate eight-tiered wedding cake with Jacki and Leon’s names embroidered into ribbon which wound around each tier and flowed in a giant bow from the top. It was so grand, I wanted to live in it. There were two other speeches, from Jacki’s chief bridesmaid (an old friend of hers who recounted hilarious misadventures from their teenage Ibiza holidays together) and Leon’s best man. His speech was … well, let’s say I probably wouldn’t want him to do a school assembly, but he was pretty funny, mostly. I didn’t love the stuff about Jacki’s mountains of money, but it ain’t no problem of mine, and Jacki laughed harder than anyone.

Their first dance was ‘You Look Wonderful Tonight’, and they danced wonderfully. By the second verse, Jacki was waving the crowd onto the floor and I was swept up by a dapper old man who could shake it like nobody’s business. I was the first to surrender, begging off at the fourth tune when I realised the aged groover was a great deal fitter than I was. Sweating but happy, I took a chair at the edge and watched the action for a while. Jacki was dancing like she’d done nothing but sleep in preparation for this wedding, rather than organising it and writing the book and working with producers on her love song album and heaven knows what else to maintain her career. She was whirling and laughing and jumping with her friends around her. Leon had retreated to the bar with a few pals, but kept looking over to watch her and smile.

At ten to one, I was at the bar arguing with the bartender about how to make a Band on the Run. He said it required Angostura bitters, but I was trying to tell him that I’d invented the bloody thing so it could have whatever I wanted in it. Then suddenly Jacki was next to me, saying, ‘Same as her, Julian,’ and I was suddenly getting the drink I’d requested. Jacki looked happy but exhausted, and she told me she couldn’t wait to get all of this into the book back in the office on Tuesday – she’s not even taking her month-long honeymoon in Mauritius until the book is signed off and sent to the printers on Friday. She’d already started making notes every time she nipped to the bathroom. She broke off and gave me a huge hug, and I could hear she was choking up when she said in my ear, ‘Thank you so much, Kiki. I couldn’t have done it without you.’ I heard a hiss in my ear and pulled away to see Pedro glowering over my shoulder. He leaned past me to take Jacki’s hands, and said, ‘Jacki, my love, can I have a quick word with Kiki?’ She gave us a big tired smile and blew us a kiss, then swept back to the dance floor with her gang of pals.

Pedro turned me to face him. ‘Listen to me, you silly little bitch. I’ve worked with Jacki since she started in this fucking industry, and I’m not going to have you forcing your way between us because you’re bored of that fucking backwater little publishing house. Do you understand me? You’re a worthless little nobody, and Jacki is not your meal ticket. So just fuck off out of it, yeah? That’s a good girl.’

He gave me a horrible poisonous smirk and skulked off to take more photos of beautiful people. I thought I was going to throw up, and it definitely wasn’t only the four slices of wedding cake I’d eaten. Where the Jesus Christ had this come from? Yes, I wasn’t a huge fan of Pedro, but I’d always behaved professionally and had never given any indication that I wanted even the tiniest slice of his crazy fame pie.

It was … shocking. A punch in the gut from a mugger solely after my happy buzz, to feed his dreadful, all-engulfing insecurity. But why was I his victim tonight? I suppose he caught me making Jacki smile, while he could only do the catching and not the making, that bullying shit. I was so angry, so furious that he would talk to me like that – that he would talk to anybody like that – that he would try with his words to make me feel small, and worthless—

It took me a moment for my hands to stop shaking, and I thought of everything I could do. I thought: I could pour wine into his camera case. Or convince him that Jacki had already hired me as her assistant. Or give him a reasoned, biting analysis of all the ways in which his little speech had made him much less of a person than I would ever be. Whatever sweaty little drunken pleasure he’d got from it, he wasn’t going to bloody keep it.

I scanned the room, finding him in one corner snapping some of Jacki’s more notable guests, and made my way over. ‘Pedro?’ I waited until he was looking at me, his smirk still in place. Suddenly, my blood roared in my veins. I thought back to my years of training – growing up with an older sister – lifted my foot, and kicked him as hard as I could on his shin. Before he could say anything (or kick me back), I walked away and found Jacki on the dance floor, told her how much I’d enjoyed her wedding and what an honour it was to have been here, and let her embrace me again, knowing Pedro was watching the whole time. I got a taxi home, aware the whole way back that Thom wouldn’t be there to wait up for me, and prayed I wouldn’t find the police waiting to arrest me for assault. Susie would
love
that. I thought:

Maybe … I’ll ring her. Maybe. But I still haven’t.

April 18th

Oh,
heavens
.

Monday, a day I’ve been given off after Friday’s antics. I heard Thom get in late last night – when he got into bed he hugged me, and I wrapped my arms around him, but he was asleep in moments – and was aware of him leaping back out of bed extremely early for work. I heard the front door go at 7am, then pulled a pillow over my face and went back to sleep, sad at not being able to apologise to him. At 9am, there was a soft scratching at my door. A cat burglar? When I drowsily sat up (still full of a fantastic dream about being Prime Minister of 1960s France with Damian Lewis as my Chancellor of the Exchequer) there was Thom, scrabbling to open the door with his foot while he balanced a giant tray of breakfast. All my favourite things: an
Elle Deco
with the inserts already removed, Egg Bread with a dish of cherry jam, a teapot of fresh mint tea, a tiny bowl of Coco Pops, a tall glass of fresh orange juice and an enormous ketchup-y sausage sandwich. It was delicious, and thoughtful, and for me, and I couldn’t hide the smile from my kind butler. I took his hand and said, ‘Thom, I’m so sorry,’ and tried to pull him onto the bed for a kiss, but he pulled away from me; ‘Sorry, ma’am, that wouldn’t be appropriate. Your itinerary for the day confirms that you will be collected at 10.30 this morning, and you will be required to wear Something Comfortable.’ Then he left, only returning to poke a tiny radio into the bedroom, playing Elvis Costello. This really was bliss. I managed to push a few mouthfuls of everything down and roll like a doughball into the shower, and was prepped and ready for my day at 10.30 sharp, waiting at the front door and wondering what mischief Thom could be getting us into, when there was a hoot-hoot from outside. Oh, joy on toast! It was a soft-blue Nissan Figaro, my little fantasy felt-tip sketch of a car, with Thom himself behind the wheel, peaked cap on head and creepy eighties-chauffeur shades on his face. ‘Your rented carriage, ma’am,’ he intoned, stepping out to open my door. Never one to argue with a good spoiling, I climbed in.

Me: Am I being carried off into white slavery?

Thom: And leave me to pay for my books? No fear. I mean, no fear, ma’am.

Me: You’d better be a bit careful, or there’ll be no tip for you, Jeeves.

Thom: I’m not that worried, ma’am. I’m the only one with the house keys.

Me: Touché, the Help.

I allowed him to sweep me off to our destination, which, after a long circuitous drive, turned out to be up the road at Alexandra Park. He parked up and directed me towards the trees by the lake; heading there, I could see someone on a blanket. It looked like they were flashing a light at me, but as I got closer I realised it was a pair of binoculars, and they were being held by Jim. From the way he leapt up when I was remarkably close, I could almost hear him say, ‘Oh,
shit
!’; then Thom’s guard ran off through the trees, leaving a tartan blanket and a big wicker hamper. When Thom caught up as I reached the blanket, he had removed his cap and pervert sunglasses. He knelt beside me and opened the hamper with a flourish, revealing not a Henry VIII feast of stuffed swan and badger cooked in stout (sadly), but (
maybe
even better) cushions, two glasses, a chilled bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, a pile of my favourite books and – when I looked closer – a child’s purse, clinking with coins, with a label saying ‘For Ice Creams’. We stayed there for much of the rest of the day, Thom twice doing an ice cream run but otherwise reading next to me. We occasionally hooked ankles and swung our legs together, but didn’t really talk, so happy to be happy. Once he put his arm around me, and said, ‘Kiki, I really love you. I really love you.’ I couldn’t help but let him know that the feeling was mutual, and that I truly did think he was the bee’s knees. It was the least I could do after he’d bought me two Magnums. I said, ‘Thom, this is all very nice, but wait till you see what I’ve got
you
.’

Soon afterwards he drove us home again and that’s
all you need to know about it
.

April 19th

Thom and I had a long talk before work this morning, about everything.

Thom: I’m really sorry, Keeks.

Me: Why are you sorry? This has been awful. Well, not the picnic part. Or the car. Or the breakfast. Or when you did that thing with—