Sam Binnie - The Wedding Diaries

Thom: Food … mood ?

Me: Yes, food-mood, it’s huge right now – and the photos at Wingfield Manor from previous weddings that I’ve seen on the websites are really amazing, and I think your mum and dad would love the gardens, and even you would approve of this place, really Thom, it’s so nice. And although neither of them is exactly in London the trains are frequent and quick and there are loads of nice affordable places for people to stay nearby.

Thom: Kiki, it’s fine. Let’s do it. That’s how these things work, isn’t it?

Me: [rare silence]

Thom: And no, that’s not a joke. Let’s get this thing locked down.

So that’s that. We’re going next weekend to have a look at them both, and then we’ll write the lucky venue a big fat cheque and I can stop fishing hairs out of the plughole (because my stress levels will decline and my hair will stop falling out, not because my hygiene standards will collapse).

November 23rd

Eve took me out tonight to a late night opening at the V&A, to make up for being away during the venue-hunt. In fact, I’ve not seen her since Susie’s barbecue, although we’ve spoken a few times. I feel like she’s somehow angry at me, but I don’t know why, and I don’t know why her nameless displeasure makes me feel guilty. I’m always scrabbling to make amends for something I haven’t done.

Eve: How’s the search been going?

Me: I think we’ve found our winner. Thom’s coming this weekend to give the two finalists the once-over, then the deposit’s paid and we’re in.

Eve: That seems painless.

Me: Ugh. The number of places I’ve seen where I’ve been addressed simply as ‘Bride’. ‘Which one of you is Bride ?’ It’s not painless. It’ll scar me for years.

Eve: That sounds dreadful . Shall I tell you about some of the cases of homeless women and children I’ve been trying to get funding for this week? You could show them what a tough time really is.

Me: Ah, but if you’d been with me and not on one of your do-gooding missions away, I wouldn’t be making these horrific claims on your sympathy.

Eve: OK. You’re right, Kiki. You’ve taught me a valuable lesson I’ll never forget.

Me: You’re welcome.

We found our way to the ceramics rooms, and Eve linked arms with me.

Eve: Can we still do this even when you’re married?

Me: I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Thom.

Eve: You joke, Kiki. I’ve seen it happen.

Me: You’ve seen a lot of things happen. I try not to think about all the things you’ve seen happen. Please let’s not make predictions about my life based on the things you’ve witnessed in your job.

Eve: [makes wise face at me] You never know, Kiki, you never know.

I know you can’t ever know, she’s right, but when you’re planning your wedding it feels nicer to at least pretend that your fiancé couldn’t potentially be a control freak lunatic. I have no way of knowing the future, but it’s classic Eve to make that the note on which she ends a discussion on my nuptials.

We spent the rest of our visit in the shop, wishing we could fill our homes with the prints, books and jewellery. While I chose a card for Dad’s birthday tomorrow, Eve (of course) singled out the most beautiful object from the whole shop: a simple plate with a fish design, which I instantly lusted after once she’d picked it up. That dame has great taste.

November 27th

There has got to be a catch to all of this. First unlikely event: Thom didn’t have to work this weekend. We visited both venues today, and Thom absolutely loved Redhood Farm. We got up at the crack of dawn to manage them both properly in one day, and arrived at Wingfield Manor as the light was fading in and the mist rolled over the land. It was really lovely, light and pretty inside but something about the décor made me feel like I should be marrying in an off-the-shoulder meringue while my sister weeps blue eyeshadow down her cheeks. Put it this way: I would have gone crazy for it when I was seven. But after a few more hours in the car (it turns out it is way too easy to get lost in Suffolk) Redhood Farm was – like the dress – what I’d always been looking for without realising that I’d been looking for anything at all. It was charming and scrappy, full of colour and life and thoughtfulness, but professional and lacking in any of those dangerous witty little signs some wedding venues offer that make me want to abolish marriage altogether (‘Make Way for the Mr & Mrs!’). It was aesthetically and emotionally everything I wanted for the day; laid-back, casual, gorgeous and unique. I knew we’d all feel comfortable here, every one of our friends and family, and Thom felt the same. The only thing he said, after taking me off to one side while the manager tried her best to look like she wasn’t listening in, was, ‘Are you sure this is the one you want? It’s a lot of money, and I want this to be right for us. Is this really what you want to spend this money on?’ I hugged him and said there was definitely no finer venue for us, and he smiled a bit. But to give him full credit, he didn’t even cry when he – second unlikely event – wrote the deposit cheque for £2,000, just signed his name (I did check) and handed it over with a friendly nod. I’m so happy. This is going to BLOW EVERYONE’S TINY WEDDING MINDS (or something more fitting for gentle virginal white).

And on top of all that, it’s Polka Dot’s sales conference tomorrow. Fun times ahoy.

TO DO:

Block book accommodation locally – work out how many rooms we’ll need

Make sure nicest rooms are reserved for Rowland & Fenella (Thom’s boss and the wife)

Ceremony music – string quartet playing some Billy Joel?

Start taking skin vitamins

November 30th

Holy moly! I know Sales teams are notoriously tough but I was not expecting that.

For a company of thirty people (only ten of which are full-time), our ‘sales conference’ is really only a white wall, a projector and some presentations in a room over the Stuck Pig pub on the corner. It’s normally fairly high-spirited, as the people who don’t usually work in an office together break out of their cabin-fever and socialise with distant colleagues. Plus we had fresh blood in the form of Judy the Intern, keeping us on our toes as we all tried to behave like proper publishers. The bar staff come up every thirty minutes or so to top up our drinks, so by 3.30 it’s usually pretty ugly, but this year the drinks had been flowing faster than usual and the Sales team really had it in for our books. They’re a cynical bunch, hardened by years on the road without colleagues and convinced they are the lifeblood of Polka Dot, and they refuse to pull their punches when talking about our titles. It’s probably the only chance they’ll have to blow off some steam about books they may find are not their cups of tea – and normally nobody minds, since it does seem like quite a thankless task to explain to a bookshop owner how much they need the 500th incarnation of Angel Hamsters or I’ll Eat my Greens if You Don’t Lock Me in the Shed Again, Mummy – but there was something in the air this year which made them much meaner than anything I’d seen before. Simon, self-proclaimed ‘sales genius’ and completely hammered, was declaiming to the room about some of the garbage he had to sell (never nice for an editor to hear; they clamp their lips and pretend they’re thinking of something else), reeling off nasty joke after nasty joke about Jacki until I was digging my fingernails into my palms – just ignore him and he’ll shut up – when he suddenly laid into AutobiogRaffy . Laborious as the publishing of a niche memoir may be, that book is Carol’s baby and Simon really went to town on it, listing all the ways in which it was going to bomb. Carol’s face was getting redder and redder, but she didn’t say a word, just walked to the corner of the room, helped herself to a biscuit then busied herself tidying the books on the table at which Simon was perched.