The Wedding Diaries (3 page)

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: ‘Mother
fucker
!’ 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?