Sam Binnie - The Wedding Diaries

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 Thom and I haven’t really discussed the music yet. I’m not sure if we’re going with something more … music-y – dance-y – or something.

Jim: Ouch! Maybe we should leave that discussion there, don’t you think? Well, great news for both of you, tin-eared bastards that you may be.

Oh, he’s some kind of good friend. Jim also reckons he’s done a couple of gigs at country houses in the area and will find out if mates’ rates are available for weddings there.

October 18th

Bloody hell! Investigations bear fruit: Alice confirms that Carol and Norman are, in fact, ‘an item’. But apparently they are top-secret-hush-hush, and Alice only knows because she came back into the office late last night to pick something up, and found Carol and Norman smooching against the temperamental photocopier-printer. I felt my gorge rise a little bit, but Alice said I was a prude and we should celebrate Love In All Its Forms. Not when it’s getting all over my printouts, I won’t.

October 19th

Raff Welles came into the office today. He’s an ageing comedy actor from the seventies, famous for catchphrases that may have swept the country at the time but now don’t mean anything to anyone but the most hardened vintage TV and film fans. He’s charming and softly-spoken, always dapper – he plays the role of ageing and forgotten star to perfection. But he requires a lot of reassurance. We bought his memoir (called AutobiogRaffy , which I quite like) for peanuts, in the hope we could build some retro-wave for him to ride, but our legal team is working overtime to check his dangerously risqué anecdotes (can Sid James and Raff really have had an orgy with seventeen young nurses?) and it’s turning out to be more work than we can possibly reap in sales. And Raff is in daily, requesting comfort, validation, and encouragement, that his semi-pornographic recollections of semi-forgotten actors is absolutely what the reading public has been waiting for. Our average conversation goes like this:

Raff: [pokes head around door, stage whispers] Hello! Hello all! Sorry to bother you all, working so hard!

Me: [keeps typing in the vain hope he’ll get the message this time] Hello, Raff. [silence] How are you doing?

Raff: Oh, Kiki, it’s so kind of you to ask. I thought I should pop in and help you with this book of mine – do you think we need more on X’s alcoholism/Y’s fetishism/Z’s drug abuse and sexual aberrations?

Me: [gripping knees with claw-hands under the desk to keep from shrieking] Really, Raff, your book is brilliant as it is. I think you’ve really captured the fun/darkness/cultural importance of those times, and it’s best if we all focus now on what we can do to promote the book in March.

Raff: Promotion! Goodness! Of course, you’ll need me out in front of the public again. Yes, you’re quite right, I’ll start thinking about appearances. I’m sure Wogan will want me again – he’d better do, after that party I threw him in ’78. But are you sure this book is right for today’s audience? I’m sure they can’t care about me, can they?

Me: [momentarily tempted to answer honestly] Raff, this book is going to be perfect. Your writing is fantastic and it will be the perfect gift book for anyone who’s ever watched TV. Honestly, Raff, just let us take care of this now. You’ve done a brilliant job with your book and you should be very proud.

Raff: Marvellous! Kiki, you are a wonder of the world. Thank you all! [leaves, entire room sighs with relief]

It doesn’t seem like much, but when he’s round to Polka Dot Books every afternoon I despair of him, then always remember Raff’s six marriages – ending up again and again with the One Who Didn’t Stay. I’m so happy with Thom, and I’m reasonably sure that neither industrial quantities of uppers/downers nor Hollywood producers shall come between us. And that thought makes me feel a little bit warmer towards poor Raff.

TO DO:

Get some invitation samples

Caterers – match to colour scheme? Fish if blue colour scheme, steak if pink, etc.