the next three days making mock-inquiries into how she could write from France/Germany/Japan, until the Telegraph did a five-star write-up and suddenly this was a home she could never dream of leaving. Unfortunately, the positivity didn’t last: when her expected review got bumped from a magazine, she called me at 2am, screaming: ‘I’m going to KILL MYSELF and it’s going to be YOUR FAUUUUUUULT!’ I listened for a while, then said, ‘Sorry, who’s calling please?’ She was so taken aback that she halted her wails and her social conditioning kicked in. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s Mary. Who’s this?’ I briefly considered putting on an accent and claiming it was Ingrid, and who was this, but I told her it was Kiki, and asked was there something I could do? Her pace had been lost now, her stride broken, and she couldn’t work herself back up again. She ended up talking for an hour and a half about how her grandmother had recently died and she wasn’t coping well with everything. I listened to her until she started to nod off, and said we could talk more the next day. She hasn’t mentioned it since.
November’s Classic Wedding!
Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his ‘I will’ firmly and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even these words seemed to choke me. The dear Sisters were so kind. Please God, I shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have taken upon me.
Dracula
Bram Stoker
Delights! Today was Jacki’s first photo shoot for the book, and it was beautiful weather. We met at a studio in Chiswick with a gigantic garden, where the prop trunks and outfits were being unloaded from three giant trucks. It didn’t matter much though, as Jacki’s team were STILL working on her hair and makeup two hours after our official start time. By 12.30 we were all finally ready and in the studio: me, Jacki, Pedro the photographer, his team, her team, and the caterers. We had fifty-six dresses, thirty veils, forty-nine pairs of shoes and a whole case of tiaras, stockings, gloves, fascinators, wraps, boleros, boas, fans, parasols, pearls and diamonds, not to mention the props for the shoot: flowers, bunting, bird cages, fairy lights, lanterns, flags, wreaths, signs, puppies, topiaries, vases, tealights, place names, chairs, tables, sofas, marquees, tents, tiered cakes, cupcakes, invitations, save-the-date cards, tissue paper bells and balls, favours, pompoms and chickens. OK, fine, not chickens.
Pedro is a tiny, glamorous monster. He can’t say a nice word to anyone who isn’t famous or important (but is utterly charming to those who are) and treats Jacki like a trained monkey, but he takes the most beautiful photos in the world. I was making notes after lunch in the one corner of the studios that wasn’t covered in lace and glitter, and he saw me.
Pedro: Katy?
Me: No.
Pedro: [apparently unaware I’d spoken] I’m tired, I need a little coke. Go and sort me out, would you? [seeing my face and getting all the wrong ideas] Ask my assistant for money, if that’s your problem. [sneers, walks off]
Me: [wishing I had the courage to shout after him, instead of muttering] I’m not your fucking … drug dealer.
I was beyond furious, both with being put in this position and with the idea that I might be killed in the Colombian drug warfare I was reasonably sure occurred anywhere near any Class-A drugs ever, and thought of Thom having to go to our wedding alone because I’d been mown down in a W4 gun battle. I got so angry I marched straight up to Pedro and tapped his assistant gently on the shoulder before asking her if I could have a quiet word. Pedro gave me another smirk as she led me into the corridor, where I had probably the most embarrassing conversation of my life.
Me: Zoe. I really like my job, and there’s so much variation and adventure and … colour … and Polka Dot Books are so honoured to be working with Pedro on this project, but … sometimes the job demands hit a wall, you know?
Zoe: Kiki, I’m really sorry. Has he propositioned you?
Me: No! No! Hahahahahahaha! No! He hasn’t. He asked me to get him …
Zoe: Oh God, not a prostitute?
Me: No! Why, do you have to get him prostitutes? Don’t answer that. Actually – maybe they’ll help. He asked me to get him … some coke.
Zoe: Oh God. Kiki. This is awkward.
Me: Tell me about it. Where the hell am I going to get drugs in Chiswick at noon on a Tuesday?
Zoe: [not sure if I’m joking, clearly] No, Kiki. He means a coke. A drink. That’s it. A coke. He’s clean as a whistle drug-wise these days. He just likes being a total and complete prick instead. He’s done this gag to a few assistants in the past. He thinks it’s really funny.
Me: I’m fairly sure I’m about to die now.
Zoe, may heaven rain down blessings upon her for all eternity, grinned at me and mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as Pedro at that moment, so I walked to the corner shop and bought six cans of Coke with my Polka Dot credit card. There’s something unbelievably forlorn about putting four quid on your corporate credit card, but I was damned if Pedro would have anything from me bar my extremely efficient but ice-cold presence at his bloody photo shoot. I left them on his table and ensured I kept as far away from him as possible for the rest of the day – a feat not made easy by the fact that I had to also remain within earshot of Jacki at all times. This led me to spend almost an hour hiding behind a pillar in one room, until Pedro shouted, ‘Can someone get rid of that bloody hairdo behind the post!’ and I walked out of the room without looking back, wondering if Thom could marry me in prison once I’ve murdered a celebrity photographer.
I stayed until 4pm when they’d switched to doing dress shots indoors: they’ll continue for the next two days there. I convinced Jacki that she didn’t need me there for tomorrow at least, and I’d be back on Wednesday if she really wanted.
Don’t tell me this job ain’t glamorous.
TO DO:
Photographers are clearly nightmares – find out if we can take our own wedding photos (hold camera at arms’ length and beam up into it)
Find out if I can get The Dress cheaper online
Find a wedding cake maker
November 12th
Jim’s come through like a star. He called last night to say he’s had luck with two of the houses he’s gigged at. Wingfield Manor and Redhood Farm are willing to give us 20% discounts, meaning it would only be around £6,000 at either place. Now I need to frame this for Thom to make it sound as attractive and necessary as possible, and we will all be laughing (not least on our wedding day, surrounded by honeysuckle and rose sprays on the terrace of a beautiful old house while I pray no one’s got drunk and attempted to throw an antique sofa in the lake, or whatever). Wingfield Manor is out of London a bit, towards Reading, but seems like a really charming old Brideshead Rejuvenated manor house; while Redhood Farm, while it looks utterly delicious from its pictures, is all the way out by Ipswich. Ipswich! That’s
basically Denmark.
Poor Thom has to work
