onto my new seat, I have one eye on him, and one eye on Bonnie. She is playing happily, so I concentrate most of my attention on the man. Is he trying to watch Bonnie play? He’s now revealed that he is carrying a packet of baby wipes. It’s very odd. I cautiously start to move towards my daughter, just in case.
But then he stands up and faces the bench. Using the wet wipes he cleans the bird poo and any other dirt off the slats. Scrubbing hard in places, polishing others. It is meticulous work. By the time he has finished, it is gleaming like the day it was painted. Satisfied, he sits on it and looks out at the park. I can see a million thoughts passing behind his eyes. I wonder what they are. Eventually, he stands up slowly and walks away; somehow, a little less upset than he was before. What an extraordinary show to witness.
I head straight over to the bench. A silver plaque is attached to the middle of it that I hadn’t noticed before.
Verity, loving daughter and sister. Gone too soon, forever missed and loved. Your spirit will always live in these gardens. 1989–1996
I sit on the bench and look over at Bonnie. Could the man be Verity’s father? I try to imagine losing Bonnie. Wondering how I would feel if all I had left were my memories and a bench.
I need to work harder at those memories.
Beth
Some days I get to work and spend the first thirty minutes looking at pictures of Tommy. I’ve got a box of disposable nipple pads in my drawer because every time I think about him my boobs leak. And I think about him a lot. Is organising weddings really the job that should take me away from my tiny baby? I mean, if I was a nurse, or an astronaut, or about to discover the cure for cancer then sure, get back to work and save the world. But I organise unnecessarily expensive weddings for extremely rich people. I’m selling a product I don’t necessarily believe in. Painting a picture of marriage as an idealistic partnership that begins with a party and stays just as joyous for years to come. But that isn’t the experience that I have had.
Hey Boss, had an email from a woman who has a budget of £5,000 but wants an entirely vegan wedding for 65 people. What do you think? No leather, organic fabrics, the whole shebang. What shall I tell her?
My assistant, ‘Risky’ (youngest of three, her parents let her siblings name her) emails me, despite sitting less than three metres away. She doesn’t remember a time when people didn’t have computers to communicate on their behalf. It’s like she forgets she can just talk to me. Sometimes, she even sends me an email, hears it ping into my inbox, watches me read it, then asks me what I think. It’s really extraordinary. I email back. I’m not the one who’s going to tell the future it’s wrong.
Tell her she can have whatever she wants. I’ll meet with her after ROD
ROD is the code we use for Lauren Pearce and Gavin Riley’s wedding. We tell them it stands for ‘Riley Order of Day’. But actually we call it ‘ROD’ because when we first got the job Risky said, ‘I’d love Gavin Riley to hot rod me.’ It made me laugh so much we named the project after it. It makes us chuckle, but if anyone realised what it really stood for they would probably get all offended. There isn’t much of a sense of humour in the serious world of celebrity. A lot of the time it’s like we are organising a political dinner. Lauren Pearce is so famous she thinks the government is bugging her phone. I’ve been sent more NDAs for this wedding than Trump’s cabinet give to their female staff.
Risky is beside herself about the entire wedding. She follows Lauren’s every move. She says she is her favourite ‘influencer’. If Lauren posts about a face cream, Risky buys it. If Lauren posts about anxiety, Risky eats a CBD gummy. This morning I had to sit through around forty seconds of Lauren pouting into the camera on her Instagram Stories. She was talking about some granola brand she has every morning. She did the whole thing with fake bunny ears and a twitchy bunny nose. There were also some love hearts floating across her face. She said this granola has helped her stay full until lunch time, and all the other advertising rhetoric breakfast brands rely on. I know it’s a lie, because I spent three months testing menus with Lauren and she doesn’t even eat breakfast.
I like Lauren though, I think. I mean, it’s not like I get much out of her. Considering her Instagram feed is largely posts about happiness, self-confidence and being grateful, she’s quite unassuming in person. I’ve not really had much alone time with her – her mother Mayra is usually with us. I get the impression their relationship is a little tense. I’ve worked with a lot of brides, and generally mothers are supporting figures who are just excited for their daughter’s big day. I’m sure Mayra is excited for Lauren, but she is very bossy. Some days it feels like it’s her wedding that I am organising. She’s the kind of woman I can imagine slapping me in the face if I forget to tell her she looks nice.
‘I’m getting that granola. It’s got dark chocolate in it, and that can boost your mood,’ Risky says, obviously back on Instagram and abandoning all work.
‘But don’t you think she’s only saying it’s good because she’s getting paid to say it’s good?’
‘No boss, Lauren only posts about products she believes in. That’s her promise to us.’
‘“Us”?’
‘Her fans.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I reply, pleased there is a clause in Risky’s contract that essentially says she isn’t allowed to lose her shit around celebrity clients. Risky has met Lauren twice, and both times this extremely effervescent, connected, confident and cool young woman has turned into a mute. She thinks Lauren is the Jesus of the social networks.
‘She understands mental health,’ Risky tells me often. ‘Her anxiety isn’t taboo. It’s inspiring. We have to talk about mental health more.’
‘Well, you are certainly flying the flag for that,’ I’d say, to which she looks proud of herself. She talks about her anxiety like it’s her pet cat. Something she needs to handle with care or it will scratch her eyes out. Something that is always tapping on her shoulder when she is trying to sleep. Something she has to keep under careful observation until it dies.
I don’t know what sounds worse, anxiety or marriage. I am glad I only suffer from one of them.
‘It’s OK for her to monetise her Instagram feed,’ Risky says, now applying some bright pink lipstick. ‘Why should she give so much of herself to us for nothing? And at least she isn’t just living off her rich husband. She’s paying her own way, I respect that. She’s a businesswoman really, showing us all that we shouldn’t be taken for granted.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s one way to look at it,’ I say, putting on some mango-flavoured lip balm. Some of our chats make me feel so old. It’s strange to think of myself as a grown-up, but around Risky I feel positively ancient. When I was a teenager we had posters of celebrities we liked on our bedroom walls. They felt like untouchable gods. Now these people expose every inch of their lives on Instagram and reply to their fans. If Madonna had replied to a message I sent her in the Nineties, I might have imploded. I’m not sure how healthy all this direct access to famous people is, for either them or their fans. Risky is obsessed.
‘Well, I am grateful for her brand partnerships, because this wedding is going to cost more than North West’s fourth
