‘Wayne and Colleen got £2.5 million,’ declares Danni.
‘But their wedding set them back just under £5 million,’ I say. ‘She spent £85,000 on trips to New York for dress fittings.’
‘And the dress was £200,000,’ adds Bernard. ‘And Westlife were another £400,000. Old Colleen was hardly holding back, was she? All those hand-stitched pearls and private jets for all their mates. Even the venue, Villa Durazzo, is a sackful of euros these days.’
‘Look, Keith’s on over £90,000 a week, so we really don’t need the cash,’ says Keeley a little sharply. ‘I just thought it would be nice.’
‘Trust me – it will be nicer without,’ smiles Bernard. ‘We can always release some photos to the press if you want.’
‘For a spread?’ She smiles, liking the sound of that.
‘Or you could do what Claudia Schiffer did and sell off your honeymoon,’ I add. ‘Much more sensible. You do a morning in bikini and shorts and then they leave you alone for the rest of the time.’
‘Well, if Claudia’s done it,’ says Danni, ‘it must be a good idea.’
‘Mmm,’ agrees Keeley.
‘So, do you have any ideas that you’d like to share first?’ says Bernard, taking up his Mont Blanc fountain pen and smoothing down a sheet of paper on his blotting pad.
‘We were thinking abroad is nice,’ says Keeley.
‘Wayne and Colleen Lake Como abroad?’ I ask.
‘Oh no, not that abroad,’ she replies, holding her stomach.
‘Posh and Becks abroad?’ I say.
‘Yeah, David and Victoria.’ She nods. ‘Like that.’
‘So, Luttrellstown Castle, Phoenix Park?’ says Bernard, jotting it down. ‘Outside Dublin. It’s currently closed for a refurb, I’ll have to check when it opens again. How many people?’
‘How many did David and Victoria have?’ asks Danni.
‘Actually theirs was quite small,’ I say. ‘They only had two hundred and fifty.’
‘You’ve got more mates than that!’ says Danni, giving her sister a gentle shove.
‘I am sure you have,’ smiles Bernard. ‘But the question is, do you want to entertain them all? How wide do you want to spread the net?’
Bernard is a great believer in only having your nearest and dearest at the wedding. He is always saying if you want to invite the masses then you should have an engagement party and be done with it. But you’d be amazed how many people invite celebrities to their weddings over and above their real friends. Much like everyone who has ever met Elton John asks him to be godfather to their child, so anyone who has even so much as sat next to a celeb always invites them to their wedding. Bugger Uncle Jim if you can have Denise Van Outen turn up for an hour on her way to perform in Chicago. One of the worst cases Bernard and I ever witnessed of brown nosing was when we were asked to invite the US ambassador to a wedding. There was something quite odd about the couple anyway. They appeared a little mismatched. He was a rich dumb-arse American and she was some Far Eastern babe with a trick pelvis who exuded ambition. Anyway, she asked us to invite the American ambassador, to which we both agreed and asked for the man’s private address. She knew neither his name nor his address, but was insistent that we invite him. The terrible thing was that he came! He arrived with three bodyguards and stalked the room, looking very lost indeed. After about half an hour, he sidled up to me and whispered out of the side of his mouth, ‘I am terribly embarrassed. I wonder, could you remind me where I might have met the happy couple?’
‘You haven’t,’ I said.
‘What? Neither of them?’ he checked.
‘Neither of them.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That is even more embarrassing. The only reason why I came was because I thought we might have met and I didn’t want to appear rude.’
Needless to say, the poor man didn’t stay for dinner. He made his excuses. But the bride looked pleased. She had had a VIP at her wedding, even if it was only for half an hour, and that’s exactly what she’d wanted.
Inviting people you don’t know never makes for a good party. We organized an amazingly elaborate wedding for a Russian oligarch a few months ago. There were 180 guests and no budget. We were told to spend as much as we wanted. Bernard thought the evening was going to be fabulous; we had enough vodka to drown a small Greek island and enough caviar to sink the QE2. We’d gone to town on ice-sculptures – we had swans, dancers, bears everywhere – we’d had the centrepieces made by Aynsley China in Stoke, and there were flowers on the backs of the chairs as well as a £60,000 arch of flowers for the bride and groom to walk through. The Cristal flowed freely, but the conversation was dead in the water. No one knew anyone. They were all the bride’s father’s business associates, so everyone was too scared to put a foot out of line. It was not so much that they didn’t have anything to say, more – am I talking to the right person? The result was a damp squib of a party where no one let their hair down and no one enjoyed themselves. We were packing up by around midnight, having been convinced that we might have to ask the hotel if they’d mind if we went beyond three a.m. What a waste of a million pounds.
Keeley and Danni sit on the sofa drinking their various beverages, staring at the bunch of grapes, while Bernard suggests weekends for the wedding. Keeley has suggested the end of July and Bernard is persuading her otherwise.
‘The first week, like Posh and Becks, is fine,’ he says. ‘The fourth of July was their date.’
‘Around then,’ nods Keeley. ‘Should be good.’
‘Great,’ says Bernard. ‘Any other ideas? Food? What’s your favourite dinner? Your favourite meal?’
‘Oh, it’s got to be Christmas dinner with all the trimmings,’ she replies.
I look at Bernard and I can see him wince. What is it with WAGs that they all love ‘Christmas dinner with all the trimmings’ so much? Maybe it’s the only dinner they allow themselves to eat. Every time we do a footballer’s wedding, Bernard asks that question and we get the same reply.
We know the guys who did Posh and Becks and apparently she said the same. She wanted roast turkey for 250, which of course is impossible to do in a marquee without the meat tasting like a dried-out old slipper. Eventually they plumped for a spicy tomato soup served in hollowed-out pumpkins, and guinea fowl with a selection of vegetables and dauphinoise potatoes. Apparently, they both took some persuading on the guinea fowl, as neither of them knew what it was. They were very dubious at the tasting and it wasn’t until Victoria pronounced it was ‘just like chicken’ that it got the go-ahead. The desserts were David’s favourite sticky toffee pudding for the boys and summer fruits in Laurent Perrier pink champagne jelly for the girls. Except, of course, on the day the boys ate the jelly and the girls tucked into the puddings. My friend said it was as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks. He is convinced they had all been so determined to get into their size-zero frocks they hadn’t allowed themselves anything sweet for months. He says it’s the same at all the celeb weddings he does. The girls all make a beeline for the pudding and chocolate.
Chocolate is a big thing. We haven’t had a reception without it. And it is always the brides who are insistent. I guess because for the past six months it’s been verboten – the bridal equivalent of crack cocaine. But what always makes me laugh is the moment when you see the bride totally let go. She has agonized over the menu, the dress, the seating plan, the flowers, and then come the day you’ll find her in a quiet corner with her flip-flops on underneath her dress, shovelling chocolate down her throat like there’s no bloody tomorrow. It’s hilarious. I do remember one bride who just wouldn’t stop eating on her wedding day. She just sat down at the top table, opened her throat like some foie gras goose and went for it. I queried her demand for seconds of profiteroles and she whispered in my ear, ‘Listen, I’ve got the bloke. All bets are off now. Just get me another plate. I haven’t seen solids since bloody March!’
Usually the celeb wedding is not really about the food and wine. They are n
ot likely to serve 1964 Cheval Blanc to their guests because they are unlikely to know about wine. They will know their Cristal from their Veuve Clicquot, but that’s about it. It takes an older star like Michael Douglas to have a seven-course dinner at his wedding. One only hopes that Catherine had left some room in her Lacroix dress for New England clam chowder, foie gras and apple pie.
Keeley looks a little disappointed by the idea of Christmas dinner being off the menu, but Bernard consoles her by saying that it is perhaps not the best supper to be serving at the beginning of July.
‘It would sit a little heavily in the stomach,’ he says. ‘And no one wants to dance with a heavy bellyful of food.’
‘Yuk,’ agrees Keeley. ‘I get what you mean.’
‘And I presume you want dancing?’
‘And a band,’ she says. ‘How much do you think for Take That?’
‘I’m not sure,’ says Bernard. ‘Elton and Rod are a million each. Robbie is the same. You can get Girls Aloud for about half of that, but I would guess Take That are up there with Elton and Robbie.’
‘If not more,’ I add.
‘They are really very popular at the moment,’ says Danni.
‘It depends if they want to do it and can fit it in, or if they are on tour,’ says Bernard, making a note.
‘I love Take That,’ says Keeley rather wistfully.
‘Don’t we all, darling,’ says Bernard. ‘Let’s just see what we can do. Anything else?’
‘I’d like a white carriage to take us to and from the church, with four white horses with plumes,’ she enthuses.
‘Plumes are for funerals and circuses,’ says Bernard, without even bothering to look up from his pad.
‘I’m sorry?’ says Keeley.
‘You will be, darling, if you turn up at the church with a horse-drawn carriage with plumes. You’ll be a laughing stock.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. There are rules, and that’s one of them.’ Bernard smiles, but he is not budging.
‘Well.’ Keeley pauses. ‘Thank God you’re here, because the last thing I need is to be laughed at. I want a proper princess wedding, but I also want it to be tasteful.’
‘That’s great,’ agrees Bernard. ‘But I am happy for you to have a coach if you want, as it is your big day.’
‘That’s true,’ interrupts Danni, rather oversupportively.
‘But have a think about it,’ Bernard continues, ignoring her sister. ‘Animals.’ He shudders like a man who is congenitally allergic to anything with fur. ‘They are just another thing that can go wrong. I will never forget this poor bride I know who turned up two hours late for the church. The horse had bolted on the final approach and ditched the driver, and she ended up going round and round in circles on Clapham Common with about ten people trying to catch her. Sometimes you just don’t need the stress.’
‘I think horses should be avoided altogether. If you arrive in a carriage there’s always a danger you won’t make it, and if you arrive riding on one horse you end up looking like Lady Godiva,’ I say.
‘Or worse still, Trudie Styler,’ says Bernard, rolling his eyes. ‘Lord above! Who can forget her smug mug on the back of a grey horse being led around by Sting as if she was on a donkey on Blackpool beach? What was she thinking? Trailing that £20,000 Versace dress through the Wiltshire countryside on the back of a horse. Purlease!’
‘OK then!’ laughs Keeley. ‘No horses!’
‘Seriously, if you want horses, you can have them,’ says Bernard, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands in the air, pretending to be defeated.
‘No, no, you’re all right,’ she says.
‘Right then.’ He smiles. ‘We’re nearly done, I think, for today. You’ve said when and where and how many. Anything else?’
‘About the flowers . . .’ she starts.
‘We have a few select florists who we can recommend. They normally work with us on everything and are really charming,’ he replies.
‘That’s good. I was thinking red and white carnations and lots of that stuff . . . what’s it called, Danni?’ She turns to her sister.
‘Baby’s breath?’ says Danni.
‘Gypsophila?’ says Bernard.
‘The little tiny white flower,’ she suggests.
‘Gypsophila,’ Bernard repeats.
You can almost hear the tumbleweed blow through the office. Bernard looks like he might just come out in a fit of itchy scratchy hives. Baby’s breath or gypsophila is his bête noire. He says it belongs on a garage forecourt and even then it’s gone up in the world. Personally, I think if it is done in the right way and there is masses of the stuff, then you can get away with it. But to those in the know, it is the most unstylish of flowers and to be avoided at all costs.
‘Keeley,’ starts Bernard, ‘the budget for this wedding is going to be around a million, of which a good £30,000 to £40,000 is going to be spent on flowers. I think the best thing you can do is to meet some of our florists and see what they have to say. Keep an open mind and see where it takes you. You have employed a wedding planner to save you from certain pitfalls. I think you should let us do our job.’
Keeley looks like she is on the verge of tears, the poor girl. But Bernard is really only being cruel to be kind. If Keeley wants her wedding to appear in the press, then it is better for us to help her get it right, so that she doesn’t make any huge faux pas, because otherwise she will only garner pages of derision from journalists who will pore over the details with a fine tooth comb.
After all, it took the Beckhams the best part of five years to get over the terrible smirking of the style press over their wedding. The crowns, the thrones, the purple outfits they changed into later are etched on the minds of commentators. Jordan will be forever cast in pink and Peter Andre is the man in the white suit. Planning it right and getting the right look can also reap their own rewards. Colleen Rooney’s wedding was surprisingly well done. Fleet Street’s pens were poised to have a field day with the flashy vulgar bad taste on show, but they were disappointed. Colleen looked fabulous, the venue was decked out very beautifully – although there were a few too many white roses – and by the end of the day a new style queen was born.
I look across at Keeley, hoping she is not going to be the second weeping woman I am going to have to deal with today, and she puts her head down and composes herself. She’s a smart, ambitious girl and she knows this is her big moment, her chance to step out of her husband’s shadow. Get it right and style columns and publishing contracts will beckon, and there will be guest appearances aplenty.
‘No, you’re right,’ she says, running her manicured fingers through her blow dry. ‘It’s your job to know what’s right for a wedding, and that’s why Keith and I are employing you.’
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Bernard.
‘So Keith and I will have a chat about it all, and I’m due in again on Thursday, right?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you’ll have some things for me to look at then?’
‘Absolutely,’ he agrees again.
‘Excellent,’ she says, getting up from the sofa and smoothing down her tracksuit over her perfect backside. ‘Well, I look forward to that.’ She picks up her honey-coloured padded bag and hooks the gold link chain over her shoulder. ‘Come, Danni, I could murder a champagne.’
She sweetly shakes everyone’s hand in the office, including Jez, who has been hanging around like a bad smell all afternoon in the hope of seeing her leave. As the door closes behind her, Bernard lets out a loud yawn.
‘She’s a smart cookie, that girl. Did you see the way she contemplated getting pissed off about those fuckawful flowers?’
‘I thought you were a little harsh,’ I reply.
‘You’ve got to start as you mean to go on,’ he counters. ‘I am not putting my name to a wedding that has carnations and baby’s breath, no matter how big the budget. I’d never live it down.’
‘Your name and reputation
are everything,’ agrees Camilla, who lost both of hers last year dancing topless to ‘It’s Raining Men’ at the Farm Club in Verbier.
‘I have turned a WAG wedding down before,’ says Bernard. ‘The woman who insisted that the bridesmaids’ dresses should match the napkins.’
‘Was that after one meeting?’ I check.
‘She was thick, rich and opinionated – a very bad combination,’ sighs Bernard. ‘Anyone fancy a drink?’
Thankfully we manage to leave Jez and Camilla behind and head up the road for a couple of glasses. Bernard is not the sort of man to enjoy standing around in a pub nursing a large glass of warm beer, crunching nuts out of a bag. He enjoys a coaster for his drinks, and at least a saucer for his snacks. So he is limited to hotel bars or private members’ clubs for refreshment. I remember him announcing one spring that he was giving up hotel bars for Lent. It was a pathetic attempt to save money and it only lasted three days. One look inside a pub, one step on the sticky carpet, one smell of the spilt beer and BO aroma and he was sent shivering straight to the Connaught for a restorative flute and some reassuringly expensive Chinese crackers.
‘I think Keeley’s wedding will be fun,’ he declares, pursing his lips as he takes a sip of bubbles. ‘She looks like a nice girl.’
‘Jez certainly seems to think so.’ I smile, gulping my double vodka and tonic. I’m sure it is my fondness for alcohol that led me to be in this business in the first place. I think Bernard’s excuse is that he’s obsessed with luxury and he likes bossing people around – this job neatly combines the two.
‘But the sister!’ He smiles, crossing his legs and placing his hand on his smooth cheek. ‘She’s a fucking car crash!’ Bernard is obviously not allowed to swear in front of his clients and as a result he tries to get as many ‘fuck’s and ‘shit’s out of his system when he can. ‘Fuck me!’ He giggles. ‘It’s always the family that lets the WAG down in the end. I have to say it is the only reason to buy a Hello! or OK! WAG spread. I’ll have a gawp at the dress and then a good close look at the relatives. Derek and I used to spend hours going through the pages. It was a scream!’
Wedding Babylon Page 7