of hands there is. I’ve seen it a hundred times, Kiki, people get swept away by a nice staircase or a draped ceiling, and their numbers and plans go out the window. I’m not going to have you signing up to some townhouse rip-off just because the lady spoke nicely to you.
Battle-ready, we aimed for three of my shortlisted venues today, and there was a definite fleeting thought at their prices that if this is a business they can sustain, something is seriously wrong with the world. Who has that kind of money? (Besides Alice and her family.) And why aren’t they spending more of it on C-list celebrity autobiographies and cookery books that are tenuous tie-ins from successful but un-cooking-related television series? (See Polka Dot’s The Duchess’s Diet, with some poor model done up like a Downton Abbey extra.)
First stop today was Fairley House, a Georgian townhouse just off Hampstead Heath, its chequered path shaded by two elegant plum trees. The house looked beautiful from the outside, but was actually quite dark and poky inside. I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach – how to tell them it wasn’t right, without offending them or convincing them that I simply couldn’t afford it. After five minutes and a swift tour of the space, Alice looked disappointed.
Alice: Thank you so much, but this really isn’t what she’s looking for.
Me: [shocked] Alice.
Alice: It’s too small for us, the lighting’s wrong and the flow-through from dining room to ballroom isn’t ideal.
And that was it. ‘Alice!’ I said out of the side of my mouth, trying to smile coolly at the staff as we walked out. ‘You can’t just tell them that.’ She turned and took my elbows. ‘Kiki, this is their business. It’s not their first born. You need to focus.’ It’s then that I realised that Alice was right, and I was lucky to have her. Sorry, Thom.
She was equally relentless with the other two places. One had mould in one corner of the main hall (Me: ‘It’s … vintagey?’ Alice: [hissing] ‘It’s a bloody airborne toxic event’) and the other was decorated like a gentlemen’s club, circa 1905 (Alice: ‘Still, better than a gentlemen’s club circa 2005’). We were still without a venue at the end of our day, but Alice had some great leads for me; places in less salubrious areas of London, but central enough that I would still pay a reassuringly eye-watering fee.
October 7th
Rose rang me today, of Nick and Rose (the Noses as we think of them), due to marry in May. I do like them so much, even if they do have more money these days than seems sensible for anyone who is not a national public service. But they are actually very sweet, and I’ve known Nick for years, back when he was one of my university housemates with big City plans. Rose turned him from potentially a fairly revolting Banker Playboy into a middlingly revolting City Worker (slightly lower down the revulsion ladder) and although they still do things like buy new plasma flat-screens for every room because Sony have released a new generation model, they are funny and very thoughtful for Rich Folk. After small talk, Rose seemed to want to say something else to me.
Rose: Kiki?
Me: Yes, Rose? [thinking, Please don’t ask about that time Nick and I kissed when we were nineteen. For everyone’s sake]
Rose: [deep breath] I’d like you to be my bridesmaid. Well, one of my bridesmaids. What do you say?
I didn’t say that I was deeply surprised and slightly perplexed, both by the offer and the manner in which it had been ordered of me. I screwed up my face, knowing she couldn’t see me, and said I would be honoured. She’s so lovely, but I genuinely cannot fathom why she would want me to be her bridesmaid. It is kind of her, though.
TO DO:
Subtly investigate whether Rose will make us wear the ugliest dresses she can find
October 8th
A strange moment with Carol today. She’d been having her usual conversation with charmless Simon, head of our Sales team, in which she battled to get some sales figures out of him during what he clearly saw as his brilliant one-man comedy routine. It ended, as always, with Simon’s weary sigh that ‘Some people don’t have a sense of humour,’ as Carol shook her head with tight-lipped resignation. Then Alice grabbed Carol and me for sandwiches at the café on the corner, and I thought while we were out of earshot of the office, now was the time to probe into Norman’s marital status. But when I asked if – for my wedding numbers – he had a special someone, Carol went white as a sheet and said she wasn’t hungry anymore, and we’d have to go on without her. Alice and I looked at one another, wide-eyed. Is there – Does she – Are they …? Must now definitely continue my investigation.
October 12th
I made a big pot of stew and dumplings as Mum and Dad were over at ours tonight. (Could stew be a possible wedding meal? Christ, no, not in August.) When we sat down to eat, Dad said thoughtfully, ‘You might know that we gave your sister a little bit of money after they’d married – obviously there wasn’t much expense on their wedding, bar the cider and doughnuts, but we’d like to offer you that same start, if you want it.’ I leapt up to give him a hug, and remembered that I ought to thank Mum too. Dad just nodded his head and smiled at us both, while Mum fussed with her napkin a little, unsure of what to say at this rare moment where we were all happy. Thom said how kind that was, and maybe, Kiki, we could think about putting it into our house-deposit fund, as our wedding surely wouldn’t cost a huge amount, would it? I hem-hemmed a bit, and asked as sweetly as I could how much we were talking; I knew Suse and Pete had got £3,000 seven years ago, so was enjoying the thought of some inflation working in my favour.
Bad news. Inflation is apparently not applicable within families. £3,000 might just cover the venue costs if we marry on a Tuesday in February. That house deposit is not going to be hugely swollen by this gift.
October 14th
Jim is one of my oldest friends, after Eve. Fortunately, that’s exactly when I met him: after Eve did, meaning that she’d already had her claws into him and he’d developed an immunity. They are civil enough to one another, but I get the sense that they each like to pretend I’m not particularly good friends with the other one. More than anything Jim’s a kind man, one who is small on dredging up the past and big on simply being nice, and who lives a low-key yet secretly glamorous life as a session pianist. At a small bar near his studio, his response to my engagement was notably different to his ex’s:
Jim: Enough about my fascinating world of popstars and the soundproofing of recording studios. And we all know that it is fascinating. Tell me a little bit about yourself.
Me: Well, Jim. You know that fellow I’ve seen once or twice?
Jim: Thom. I’m aware of his work.
Me: It seems he wants to marry me.
Jim: Oh, well done! [sees my face] Sorry. Not well done. Well … engaged?
Me: I suppose that’ll do. Why are women congratulated on their engagement like they’ve been tracking their prey with a blow-dart for several years?
Jim: [opens mouth]
Me: Don’t. It’s too depressing to continue down that line of thought. Do you think you might come?
Jim: I’m sure I can’t think of anything I’m doing that night. Whichever night it’ll be. Do you want me to do the music?
Me: Oh, Jim, that’s so kind, but
