If you have to use a venue’s preferred list of suppliers you are also limited to the taste of the people in charge. A lot of historical venues have suppliers and caterers who deal mainly with corporate clients, so their stock and range is quite tired and limited. When you are organizing a high-end wedding, the guests expect high-end wine and often all you have to choose from is a list of plonk. The end result is that you have to outsource your upmarket sauce and then you have to pay an extra corkage or handling charge on top. The whole thing is a complete bloody rip-off. So whenever possible I try and steer my clients, particularly those who don’t have money to burn, away from the particularly money-grabbing historical venues.
But both Bill and Clara agree that using the hotel’s staff and caterers is exactly what they are after. They want the Claridge’s feel and they want the Claridge’s look.
‘It’s the detail of the wedding that we want you for,’ says Clara. ‘The little touches that make the whole thing that much more special.’
‘Great,’ I smile, taking a large sip of my champagne. Bernard will be delighted to hear this. After all, detail is his speciality. He’s a man who once antiqued a whole house with moss because the client didn’t think the place looked old enough. ‘What sort of stuff did you have in mind?’ I ask.
Clara shifts excitedly in her seat. This is clearly the question she has been dying for me to ask all afternoon. Out comes the file again and with a moistened index finger she begins to leaf through pages and pages of ideas, from how to tie sugared-almond favours to what floral designs she wants to have on the back of her reception chairs. Quite a few of her ideas will need to be cleared by the hotel. But there is no point in telling her that now. She is having far too much fun, and who am I to spoil it? Bill looks a little shell-shocked by the deluge of detail that’s coming his way. His large brown eyes are beginning to glaze over and he is starting to pick fluff off his right trouser leg. Poor bloke. I bet when he went down on one knee and popped the question, he didn’t expect this amount of fuss. I also suspect that the reason he has agreed to hire a wedding planner is to try and steer clear of all this sort of stuff.
‘I want the wedding to look very Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ babbles Clara. ‘Which is my favourite film, so very twenties and elegant. Are you cool with an Audrey Hepburn feel to everything, right down to the bridesmaids?’
‘Well, then you’d better disinvite your sister,’ jokes Bill.
‘Why?’ Clara’s head spins around with worrying speed to stare at her husband-to-be.
‘Well, you know,’ he replies, his voice beginning to fade somewhat as he sees the recklessness of his comment. But he makes it all the same. ‘She’s the size of Jabba the Hutt.’ Silly boy.
‘Well, your mother looks like Jabba the fucking Hutt,’ spits Clara. ‘At least my sister can go on a diet – which she will do,’ she says, looking at me as if I care what any member of her family looks like. ‘While your mother can’t change a thing.’
‘So, Audrey Hepburn,’ I say breezily, trying to diffuse the seething tension that has broken out between the two of them. ‘So quite traditional then?’
‘Possibly,’ hedges Clara, probably fearing that she’s not sounding terribly hip. Judging by her bag, style clearly matters to her.
‘It sounds lovely,’ I enthuse. ‘Any idea what sort of flowers or colours you might be after?’
I normally throw this sort of question in right at the end of the meeting, along with more obscure ideas. It comes as part of my ‘things to think about or remember’ speech, because obviously I have organized over sixty weddings and the client has normally only ever been to a few, and this one is usually the first they have attended as bride and groom. So I generally finish with a pep talk about details – how do they want their tables laid? How do they want their napkins folded? Do they want placemats? Do they want coffee cups on the table at the beginning – because the caterers will always try and persuade them of that? Do they want covers on the chairs? Flowers on the end of the pews? The idea is to make them think about everything, so that when the bride and I meet again, usually without the husband-to-be, we can start to hammer out some details. Although Clara, it seems, has been thinking about nothing but the details since Bill’s knee touched the floor.
She continues poring through her file, pulling out feature after photo of exactly what she is after. She must have spent a fortune in the past month on glossy magazines. As I sit there, listening and nodding away, I can feel my hangover creeping up the back of my neck, giving me a thumping great headache. I start to frown hard, trying to concentrate. I look across at Bill, who is slowly sliding down in his chair. There really are only so many photographs of fancies a bloke can look at without losing the will to live.
‘That all looks fascinating and is something to bear in mind for our next meeting,’ I say, stepping in.
‘Oh,’ says Clara, somewhat shocked at being interrupted.
‘Next time,’ I say, patting the top of the scarily full file. There is clearly so much more she has to say. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ I smile, lying with total conviction, which has rather worryingly become one of my strengths since I started this job. Lying and drinking are two talents that I now have down to a tee. Oh, and surviving on three hours’ sleep over a sustained period of time, which is another job requirement, particularly when working abroad.
‘So.’ I inhale, before cutting to the chase. ‘How many guests are you thinking of inviting?’
‘Two hundred,’ says Bill.
‘Two hundred and fifty,’ says Clara at exactly the same time.
‘Are you inviting two hundred and fifty in the hope of two hundred coming?’ I suggest. ‘Or did you have something a little larger in mind?’
‘We want two hundred and fifty,’ insists Clara.
‘Do we have that many friends?’ asks Bill.
‘I do,’ she replies.
‘Good,’ I say, rubbing my hands together. These two really need to sit down and actually have a conversation about what they want, I think, otherwise I am going to be used as a punch bag. ‘Something for you to go away and think about as well. Add it to the list. And what sort of budget were you thinking of?’
Clara looks at Bill and Bill looks at Clara. ‘One hundred and sixty,’ they both say at the same time. At least they agree on something.
‘Is that flexible?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Bill.
‘Yes,’ says Clara at the same time.
‘Another thing for the list,’ I smile. ‘Oh, and one last question. Who’s paying?’
Wedding planning is supposedly about keeping the bride happy, but more often than not it is all about satisfying the wants and whims of the person footing the bill. The amount of times I have sat through a meeting with the bride and her mother, only for the bride to leave the room and the mother to take me to one side and say, ‘This is my wedding and don’t you forget it.’ To which my response is to tap the side of my nose and reply, ‘Say no more, Madam, say no more.’
If the parents are paying, then the parents have a say. And more often than not the mother is living some kind of bridal fantasy herself. Giving her daughter the wedding she never had the money to have, or was never allowed to have. If the father is involved then there is a tendency for the nuptials to be turned into a corporate hospitality event, with him inviting clients and contacts, people he wants to show off to or people he needs to entertain. I remember witnessing a loud and lippy shouting match between a bride and her mother over the guest list. The parents were paying for the wedding and wanted to invite some of their friends and their families, people the bride had grown up with. The bride insisted she didn’t want the friends’ children as they had nothing in common and she hadn’t seen them for fifteen years. She stamped her foot and declared that if they were invited then she wouldn’t come to the wedding. The mother hit the roof. She cried and screamed and then shouted at her daughter at the top of her voice, ‘You are ruining what was supp
osed to be the best day of my life!’ To which the daughter yelled back, ‘I thought it was supposed to be the best day of my bloody life!’ It took all my UN negotiating skills for a whole week to get the two sides to speak to each other again. But eventually the wedding was a huge success. The bride won out in the end and her mother forgave her.
But normally in that sort of situation I would advise a little compromise. Or perhaps I’d give the mother a job to do – taking care of the flowers or the marquee or bridesmaids – something to make her feel important while she carries on signing the cheques.
‘My parents are paying half,’ says Clara.
‘And we are putting up the rest,’ adds Bill.
‘Excellent,’ I say, thinking anything but. ‘And will your mother be coming to the meetings?’
‘You try and keep her away!’ laughs Clara. I nod. It just gets better and better.
‘I am her only daughter and she’s been looking forward to this for years,’ she says.
I drain my glass and contemplate gently passing this couple on to Bernard. He specializes in high maintenance and he’s so good with the mothers. I heard him talking to one of them at a reception the other day. ‘Don’t tell me you’re Alexandra’s mother!’ he exclaimed as he handed her a glass of champagne. ‘But darling, where are your chins?’ She of course hooted with laughter, took a sip of champagne and said he was the most charming man she’d ever met. I am beginning to think these two might be better looked after by him.
‘Well that all sounds great,’ I say, getting out of my chair and leaning over to shake Bill’s hand. Clara offers one of her cheeks without getting up. I am definitely handing them over to Bernard. ‘Lovely to have met you both,’ I smile tightly.
‘So when is the next meeting?’ asks Clara, taking out her iPhone and tapping away.
‘Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow?’ I say. ‘I think we should try and sort something out then. In the meantime I’ll get my assistant to check on availability here.’
We exchange a few more pleasantries; Bill pats my back a few times, like he’s handing Clara over to me – passing the buck, so to speak. I smile and nod some more and hot-foot it out of there, blinking in the golden sunlight of a balmy June evening.
It feels good to be outside. People are smiling, a group of pretty girls with bare legs and open-toed shoes giggle past on their way into Claridge’s bar. I stretch and breathe in the warm air. Christ, I need another drink. I am just contemplating who I should call and which pub I might grace with my presence when my mobile goes. It’s Bernard.
‘Have you heard the gossip?’ he asks, cutting straight to the chase. Oh shit, I think. My heart beats a little faster and my hands begin to sweat. My secret is out. The bridesmaid will be furious. I have got so many excuses to make.
‘Um, no?’ I bluff, buying myself an extra few seconds. ‘What?’
‘Dean Martin beat the shit out of Frank Sinatra and now Frank’s in hospital!’
‘What?’
‘Last night,’ he continues. ‘He deserved it,’ he sniggers. ‘He was the worst fucking impersonator we’ve ever had. “My Way”? Bloody no way.’ At which point he starts to laugh.
Monday a.m.
WHEN BERNARD COMES into the office just after nine, he is still full of the battle of the crooners. Sitting behind his immaculate green baize desk, which is devoid of clutter and sports only a brace of Mont Blanc pens, a blotting pad and a gold Rolodex plump with neatly written contact cards, he holds forth on the subject for the next hour at least. Camilla thinks it’s a scream. She comes in and plonks her not-so-slim hips down in the leather armchair in front of Bernard’s desk and sips her skinny latte, all ears.
‘Oh – my – God!’ she exclaims through her glossed lips. ‘So he like hit Frank Sinatra and everything?’
‘It was a proper punch on the nose, darling,’ smiles Bernard. He’s a man who loves a bit of violence, if only from the sidelines. ‘Apparently there was blood everywhere! Splattered all over the walls of the B&B. The harridan in charge was furious – she had to get her Cif out at four in the morning.’
‘Do you think he broke it?’ asks Camilla, hunched over her paper cup, cradling it in both hands.
‘It was flat as a supermodel’s breasts,’ says Bernard, arching an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got to have the whole thing reconstructed from scratch.’
‘That’s got to hurt,’ suggests Camilla, feeling her own rather delicate nose. ‘My friend Esther had hers done the other day and said it was agony. It wasn’t because she had a crap nose; in fact hers was rather pretty. But she was knocked unconscious by a ski lift after too much gluhwein in Val d’Isère.’
‘Really?’ Bernard wrinkles his own rather long hooter in sympathy.
‘I know,’ she agrees. ‘Cost thousands to fix.’
‘Does anyone actually know why Dean beat the shit out of Frank?’ I ask, joining in.
‘The usual reason,’ declares Bernard.
‘What’s that?’ asks Camilla.
‘A girl,’ replies Bernard. ‘You know the one,’ he says, looking at me. ‘That waitress.’
‘The sexy one?’
‘Well, so everyone thinks,’ shrugs Bernard. ‘She does nothing for me, with her cheap short legs, but no one ever gets beyond the breasts and the pout.’
‘Emily?’ I say.
‘That’s the one,’ he agrees. ‘Apparently they were playing drinking games in the B&B, Dean had stolen a bottle of Bourbon—’
‘Where from?’ I ask.
‘The hotel bar,’ he replies.
‘Cheeky sod.’
‘And apparently she was playing one off against the other,’ says Bernard, in a gently appalled tone of voice. ‘I think Dean thought he was in with a chance, as did Frank, and swords were drawn at about four a.m.’
‘Must be the first time Dean has beaten Frank at anything,’ I say.
‘You think?’ says Bernard. ‘I’m a Dean man myself.’
‘Frank every time, for me,’ I say.
‘Do you know, I had a friend who sat opposite Frank Sinatra all night at a party in Hollywood a few years back now? He said it was terrible. So frustrating. He could hear the voice all night long, but he never got to see the eyes. There was some bloody flower arrangement blocking the view. Can you imagine how goddamn irritating that must have been?’
‘Not a party you organized,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He nods. ‘Nothing I hate more than fucking flowers blocking the view and inhibiting conversation. Who wants to stare at bloody roses all night? The florist should have been fired!’
My phone goes on my desk on the other side of the room. Our office is the whole of the first floor of an elegant Georgian house not far from some of Knightsbridge’s more upmarket shops and watering holes, a stone’s throw from Chanel and Bibendum. Bernard wanted to create a sort of luxury drawing room, where brides-to-be would be able to relax and discuss their forthcoming nuptials between fitting in a spot of lunch and a touch of shopping. And for those who are coming up from the country for the meeting and want to kill a couple of birds with one stone, we also have one of the capital’s foremost wedding-list shops just down the road.
The office is divided in half by white panelled double doors. They remain open most of the time, with Bernard and his large immaculate desk in one section and Jez, Camilla and me in the other. Both sides of the office boast stunning chandeliers and most of the furniture is genuine Georgian antique, which Bernard picked up from various markets and auctions around the country.
Over on our side of the office Camilla holds fort at the front. Brunette and curvy, she is supposed to be the first face of the company, meeting and greeting and offering up cups of coffee or tea in fine Royal Worcester china. There is a selection of surprising nursery-type biscuits on offer, but Jez has usually swiped all the Bourbons by midday. There’s a large fat flowered sofa to the right of Camilla’s desk, and a table laid with the latest bridal magazines
. I am to the left of Camilla. My desk is not quite so streamlined as Bernard’s, to put it mildly. I am much more of a paper man. In fact, there are piles of it everywhere. It makes Bernard itch to come anywhere near it. I have a view out into the street below, and more often than not of the soles of Jez’s feet. He is prone to putting his feet up on the desk whenever he is texting, which is most of the time. Bernard, because he has an extremely soft spot for his errant nephew, lets him get away with it. The only proviso is, as soon as clients come into the office he has to sit properly at his desk.
I slip in behind my desk and pick up the phone.
‘Good morning!’ comes the pseudo-husky voice of a girl trying to sound sexy. ‘It’s me.’
‘Caroline,’ I say as breezily as I can. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘All the better for hearing your voice,’ she purrs.
‘Tell me what can I do for you.’ I exhale slightly, picking up my pen. Camilla looks across from her desk and raises her large dark eyebrows.
Caroline is famous in the office for her constant calling. I organized her wedding over three years ago now and every week, sometimes more, she manages to find some reason to call me. I call her my stalker bride, which I suppose is a little unfair as I do enjoy her company, but I just wish she would leave me alone. And she is not the only one. It happens quite often after I have organized a wedding for someone that they keep on calling way after the whole thing is over. You can kind of see why it happens. I have been their confidant, their friend, their ally throughout one of the most stressful and extraordinary times of their lives. We have shared a lot. I have spoken to them anything up to ten times a day, particularly towards the end. I have listened to them talk about their families, their lives and whether they want lily of the valley as a bouquet, or a dome of roses. And I have cared. The problem is that they get married, go on honeymoon, and when they come back things have moved on. I am on to the next bride, giving her all my attention, and often they find it a little difficult. They mostly call up a few weeks afterwards. I always have a drink with them, a glass of champagne, so we can talk about the wedding and look at the photos. I tell them how pretty they looked and we usually get some sort of closure.
Wedding Babylon Page 4