by Jade Beer
‘Well, we want to know all the details,’ adds Lucy. ‘Leave nothing out. Dates, venue, where’s the hen do, are we all coming?’
Despite the enormity of the bullshit flowing out of me with surprising ease, there is something so lovely about what these women are doing for me. The planning that went into the surprise, all the phone calls needed to co-ordinate everyone, getting them all here half an hour before an already chronically early start to set it all up and the fact they all care enough to ask. We sit down on the low, blue foam chairs, minutes to spare before the madness of the day shift begins. Someone puts a cup of tea in my hand and one by one, every woman in the room appoints herself my chief wedding planner.
‘The first thing you need to do is confirm a venue, then everything will flow from there.’
‘Think about seasonality, it will save you a fortune on the food and flowers.’
‘Whatever you do, don’t buy one of those awful face veils. It looked a bit serial killer on our Sally, which I’m pretty sure was not the look she was going for.’
Everyone starts to share the best bits from their own wedding days; the nerves they felt walking down the aisle and the heart-soaring moment when all the scary official stuff was done and he planted the first married kiss on her lips. I don’t want it to end. We’re suddenly just a normal group of friends, planning someone’s wedding. Jean is sitting next to me and picks up my hand, leaning in so no one else can hear her.
‘You know, I never had children, and always felt such terrible sadness that I would never be planning my daughter’s wedding. I would be so honoured if you would let me help? Give me any job you like, something no one else wants to do, perhaps?’
‘Thank you, Jean. How are you with seating plans?’ Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? This is nuts, but I love it. And how marvellous that all it’s taken is this teeny little fib to make Jean feel she can confide in me. I must make more effort. Yes! I’m going to start taking a view on all the important things in life – well, in this staffroom anyway – the peri-menopause; what to do when your pubes start going grey, or how to cope with a husband whose snoring could drive you to reach for the sharpest knife in the kitchen.
We collectively decide to start a WhatsApp group called GetJenMarried and a private Pinterest board that we can all drop pictures into. Fun! Jean uses her entire morning break to start filling it with beautiful images of guest escort cards – I particularly like one where they are attached to mini bottles of fizz for each guest – and seating plans grandly displayed on easels in thick guilt frames. Love it!
* * *
By the time I head home, I’m whacked. Two babies delivered today and all the excitement of my impending nuptials has taken its toll. As I exit East Putney tube and cross Upper Richmond Road, it starts to drizzle. Thankfully, I don’t need to deviate into the kebab shop tonight. Lulu was letting herself in this afternoon and has promised to knock up her legendary – and my favourite – mac ‘n’ cheese. She’ll cover it in crispy, garlicky croutons that will go soggy from the rich creamy sauce. My belly is roaring all the way up Putney Hill until I finally make it to the mansion flats on the right at the top. A much grander description than the 1920s block deserves. The estate agent might think it ‘superbly proportioned’ but in reality it’s a breathy, uphill pain in the arse to get to, unless you want to wait for a bus full of sweary school kids. No, thanks!
Marianne’s wheelie case is blocking the front door, preventing me from pushing it open, and I have to holler her name until she finally comes to move it.
‘Alright, keep yer knickers on!’ She’s wearing so much make-up, I can only assume she’s had another marathon session on one of her favourite YouTube beauty channels.
‘Where are you going?’ She’s barely in the flat these days and seems to time her exits perfectly with when the place needs a clean or there is a big food shop to do. I’m not sure she’s contributed to the grocery bill since about August last year.
‘Just thought I’d bugger off and give you and Lulu some space while she’s here. She can have my bed if she likes? And, well, it’s a bit of a date. I’m going away with a guy I met on Tinder, who is touch-yourself hot!’
Christ, I’m not even going to ask! I’m more worried about the fact I’ll now be stripping every item of her bed linen before I can possibly suggest Lulu sleeps in there. In the three years we have shared this place together, I haven’t once seen Marianne wash her bed sheets. It only ever happens because I do it for her. Why? I suppose I just hate the thought that whatever’s festering underneath her duvet might somehow make it into my room. And looking at her now, I can see that’s more than possible.
‘Marianne, that’s my dress, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, you don’t mind, do you? Anything that’s clean is in my case and I had nothing else to put on.’
‘And how much of what’s in your case belongs to me?’
‘Yeah, a fair bit, to be honest.’ The words cackle out of her like I imagine they might if she had just successfully shoplifted three hundred quid’s worth from Topshop. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my train. Tell Lulu the cheesy pasta was pretty good, needs more pepper. I’m not sure she cooked enough for three, but I couldn’t help myself!’
As Marianne totters up the steps from our basement flat to street level in the sort of platform shoes that belong on a drag queen, I see she has hitched my dress right up, pulling it out over the top of a thick black belt so it’s much shorter than it was designed to be. By the time she gets to the top of the stairs I can see everything that exists between her legs – and God knows I’ve had enough of that for one day.
‘Marianne!’ She halts at the top and I can feel the giggle building in me at quite how ludicrous she looks for the tube ride to Victoria train station.
‘Yes, babes?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll see you in a few days.’ What’s the point?
As I turn back into the flat and close the front door, Lulu explodes into hysterics behind me.
‘I really have no idea how on earth you ended up living with someone like that, Jenny!’
She’s collapsed against the wall, tears streaming down her face.
‘Let me refresh your memory, I had no choice. The lovely girl who worked at the British Library had to pull out of signing the lease at the last minute because her parents wouldn’t stump up the cash. Marianne was the next person who called and I was desperate.’
‘Oh, come here!’ She gives me a big messy squeeze, so I’m somehow chewing on her hair and one of her earrings. We head through to the tiny kitchen and spend another ten minutes gently assassinating Marianne – the greedy cow has eaten half of what Lulu cooked – before we opt for the sofa, food on laps and a movie that neither of us is really going to watch.
‘How’s Dad, have you seen him?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Will and I went down there a few weeks ago.’ By down there, she means the pretty little Cornish cottage he and Sylvie bought early this summer. Although I can’t really attest to how pretty or not it is since I’ve yet to go.
‘And? How was she?’
‘As you’d expect. Busy stripping out every original feature in the place, giving it the sort of sanitised makeover that would make Kevin McCloud shit himself. They both asked about you a lot, though. They really want you to go and visit.’
I can tell from the unchallenging way she says this that Lulu thinks I should. It just feels so disloyal, even after all this time. I’ve made so little effort with Sylvie over the years, it will look completely disingenuous to rock up now, when the prospect of free summer holidays in Cornwall is suddenly a possibility. And, OK, if I’m being really honest, I don’t think Mum would like Sylvie. She’s cold and mechanical, the exact opposite of everything Dad loved so much about Mum. I’m happy he’s happy, but I can’t be bothered to force myself to like her too.
‘Maybe I will.’
Lulu knows I won’t, her long sigh tells me so. ‘They’re going away for C
hristmas this year, skiing.’
‘Dad? Skiing? He’s never shown the slightest interest in it.’
‘Yeah, well, she thinks they need to stay as active as possible, so this is their new thing.’ Lulu’s face is clouding. Something tells me I’m not going to like what’s coming next.
‘And it’s my turn to go to Will’s parents’ place this year so we’ll be up north. But I’m worried about you, Jenny, what will you do?’
The prospect of sharing a crappy roast chicken – because what would be the point cooking a turkey for two? – with Marianne is too tragic to consider. And anyway, she’ll be off gallivanting somewhere else in a microscopic Santa suit and no knickers, probably.
I’m not giving Lulu the quick ‘don’t worry about me’ she was hoping for and now she really looks pained.
‘I could ask Will if you can come with us? I’m sure his parents would be more than happy with that.’
I like Will a lot – he’s big on fitness, owns a couple of gyms and clearly spends hours using them. He’s in great shape, and I should know, I spent a not small amount of time admiring him from afar before they moved back up north from London. He’s not like one of those health types who comes for dinner and then ruins the evening for you with endless talk of macrobiotic nutrients, though. He drinks, he stays up late, he makes you laugh – he just makes sure he works it all off on the treadmill the next day. But do I want to spend Christmas with him, or more to the point, his family? I barely know them.
‘It’s fine, Lulu, I’ll work something out.’ It’s hard sometimes when your sister’s so sorted in life. Great job in marketing, earning good money, married to a hot guy, children surely only a matter of time away. They’ll be beautiful, too, their kids. The gene pool won’t fail them. I’m suddenly feeling a lot like the runt of the litter here.
‘Well, the offer is there. Please do say because I know it won’t be a problem.’ Lulu’s reaching for the wine bottle to fill us both back up. ‘Oh my God, the funniest thing, I almost forgot to tell you. Before you got home, the phone rang and Marianne shouted for me to get it, said she was waxing, and I didn’t want to think what part of her. Anyway, the woman asked for a Jenny and then claimed to be from a bridal shop and said she needed to confirm your next fitting for the wedding dress you loved!’
‘Oh, right. That is funny. How strange!’ This is definitely the time to fill Lulu in on the madness of the past few days but I’m worried about how it will come across now: loser, lonely sister with no one to spend Christmas with, goes into bridal boutique and pretends to be engaged. Actually tries on dresses. Worse, chooses one. No, best to dodge this, for now at least.
‘She said her name was Helen. Don’t worry, I set her straight.’
Urgh! I drain my glass in three needy gulps, then reach for another swift top-up. Lulu definitely won’t be helping me fill that Pinterest board tonight!
10
Nat
This might be the first time they’re meeting, but Nat knows Susie very well. In the month leading up to this appointment, she’s watched as Susie’s brushed her teeth first thing in the morning and been frustratingly fascinated by the way she takes her make-up off last thing at night. She’s hung out with her in hip cafés all over London, where she pretends to eat stacked burgers and drink cappuccinos decorated with cute chocolate hearts. Then there was that incredible skiing trip to Verbier at the beginning of November, where the diminutive beauty wore nothing but head-to-toe Dior. She did very little skiing but looked immense: mountain backdrop, immaculate full face of make-up, eyes drawn wide, and long caramel dip-dyed hair tossed back into winter sun that bounced off every one of her perfectly aligned teeth. Her bright red ski suit, the only bold stab of colour against all that flawless, untouched snow, the images all said, too right, I’m fabulous to her not yet cynical 573,000 followers – those who swipe up ten times a day to find out #WhatSusieSaw
Today, they’ve arranged to meet in London’s eye-wateringly expensive Eaton Square, where, in Susie’s words, it’ll be a couple of quick shots, then we can chat. That was an hour and fifteen minutes ago and Susie’s still not happy with the pics Nat is taking of her. It’s the classic. Girl, with super-long legs in over-the-knee black boots, strides purposefully past black iron railings fronting a white stucco property (like she just stepped out of it on her way to lunch with equally fabulous friends). Her ridiculous handbag (the same one every high-profile blogger was sent this month) swings from her arm so casually she’s almost forgotten it’s there. At least that’s what she wants you to believe, thinks Nat. The flirty floral dress is nicely lifting on the breeze so her audience will all get an envy-inducing flash of tanned, toned thigh.
It’s one of those biting, but bright November mornings, set against an icy-blue sky. Nat can feel the chill freezing her insides with every breath she takes as Susie walks back and forth over the same six paving stones for the thirty-fifth time.
‘You need to catch me at the precise moment my legs are at full stride, my head is back and I’ve started to laugh.’ Susie’s directions might sound straightforward but Nat is trying to balance an iPhone, the giant Starbucks she was instructed to pick up for Susie on the way here and the notebook she was hoping to use if they ever make it to the pre-arranged chat.
‘OK, that’s better, we’re getting there. But this one has to be perfect. We’re aiming for around 15,000 likes and then you can hit them up for my wedding accessories.’
‘Sorry?’ Nat is really not at all sure what Susie is suggesting she has to do, or to whom.
‘The bag designer. They have a gorgeous range of cream leather clutch bags. I want one for the ceremony and their nude calfskin heels. I think if we can get them on side, they might also stump up for my honeymoon wardrobe, but they’re a tough one to crack. They’ve been working with the same three influencers all year and I need to oust one of them somehow.’
Is this really what it has come to? This hardly – surely – does not qualify as anything like normal bridesmaid duties. Isn’t this more in the realms of a celebrity agent? Think about the day rate, Nat, think about the day rate. She’s also aware that if she does a great job for Susie, the referrals could mean lots more bookings.
Half a dozen more pic attempts, endless filter manipulation, some quick cropping and the image is uploaded. Finally, they can talk.
‘Right, let’s go back to mine and then we can go through everything I need.’ Susie hails a black cab, gets Nat to snap her bending to get into it, revealing all of both thighs this time, then slings the driver a fiver, telling him that actually, they’ll take the tube. On the ten-minute walk back to Sloane Square, Susie doesn’t talk to Nat – she’s got a global audience to update, via an Instagram Live. And nothing is too banal for discussion, as far as Nat can see. What mascara is Susie wearing? What did she feed her cat for breakfast this morning? What will she watch on YouTube tonight? Most of the comments from men are asking her out. Many of the ones from women are begging for a job working with her. Nat’s trying to make her mind up about this bride-to-be and potential high-paying client. She knows, from a few hours spent trawling her social feeds and YouTube channel, that this girl means business. And she’s doing very good business, by the looks of it, which is why her house is such a disappointing surprise.
It’s tiny and nestled in amongst dozens of identical ones on the modern housing estate they’ve arrived at in Croydon. A white PVC door opens onto a tiny hallway and corridor that are covered with plasticky, pretend wooden flooring, the sort that squeaks and gives a little too much when you walk over it. It leads into a boxy IKEA kitchen, just like the one in Nat’s flat. As Susie shows her around, which takes barely a few minutes, Nat recognises all the features of this mini film set. The all-white room from where Susie delivers her bedroom confessionals, one leg always curled suggestively out over the covers, forcing her audience to question just how naked she might be under there. The duvet, where the strategically placed plate of poached eggs and avocado
is always sat on one of the fashiony weekend supplements. Nat sees the white ceramic kitchen sink where Susie unwraps her weekly bouquets and the sofa where she curls up with Nicki Minaj, her spiteful-looking Siamese cat. Except today, the white throw has been removed and what lies underneath is a horrible brown nan sofa that looks a little discount retail outlet, circa 2007. Not very on brand, thinks Nat. Susie leads her into the biggest room in the house, her office.
‘You follow me, I assume, so you know how insanely busy I am,’ starts Susie.
‘I have looked at your feeds, yes. It all seems pretty full-on.’ Nat’s trying not to let any trace of judgement lace her words. Not to give away the sense of utter fakery that seems to be this girl’s reason for living.
‘My followers live and breathe me, so time out isn’t an option.’ Humility is not one of her obvious characteristics either, it seems. ‘There’s no digital detox coming for me at Christmas. No honeymoon that my followers won’t be invited on. That’s why I need you, Nat. I haven’t got time to plan a wedding and I don’t want to hire one of those awful planners who’ll just want to trade off my connections and reach. I can’t expect my management team to do it. They’re too busy bringing in the book deals, presenting jobs and landing me my own line of homeware products.’
‘How can you bear it? Never just being… you?’ Nat has naively assumed this might be a barrier to enjoying this way of life.
‘All these people follow me, commit to me, so they expect me to commit to them too. If I take a break, they’ll turn on me. It’s always your most loyal fans who become your trolls, every blogger knows that.’ Susie is switching on the giant Apple screen, bringing up her online diary and giving Nat a frightening glimpse into how pre-planned her life is. Every day has multiple colour-coded entries that denote when she should be posting content and to what channel.