We walk into her small but perfectly formed flat. The whole apartment has a 1920s feel to it, with art deco furniture and antique-glass mirrors that reflect the afternoon light about the sitting room. The girl has exquisite taste. She leans over a dusty-pink buttoned chaise longue and picks up a couple of antique glasses, before plucking a bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket.
‘Who’s joining me?’ she asks.
‘I am,’ says Simon. ‘But we’d better get a move on. Your cab is coming in half an hour.’
‘I like cutting things fine,’ she smiles, taking a sip from her flute. ‘Anyway there’s no great shakes at the registry, it is only Nick and two of our mates. The family are coming to the dinner.’
‘That doesn’t mean you are not going to be at your most fabulous best!’ says Simon, flapping the dress out from underneath its cover.
‘Oh, Simon,’ she says. ‘I mustn’t cry, I’ve just done all my make-up. But that really is amazing. It is more beautiful than I could ever imagine.’ She hands us both a glass of champagne.
‘Let’s get you into it, then,’ he smiles.
‘God,’ she says, as she drops her dressing-gown in the sitting room to reveal a very elegant set of underwear. ‘It is stunning. What am I going to do with it afterwards?’
‘Just don’t ask me to dye it for you,’ says Simon, undoing the zip. ‘The last dress I dyed was a bloody disaster. It was supposed to be dyed burgundy and it took ages and ages to come back. Eventually I got a call saying there was a parcel in reception for me and this small bag was there. I felt nauseous. I opened the bag and inside was what looked like a piece of coat lining that had been boiled in beetroot for hours. All the dressing had gone in the material, and the zip hadn’t dyed because it was plastic and the tread was a different colour. It was a disaster.’
‘That sounds rubbish,’ she says, stepping into the dress.
‘Some girls take the bodice off and wear it with jeans,’ he says.
‘Really?’
‘But just don’t send it back to me in a plastic bag,’ he says, coming around to the back of the dress. ‘There is nothing more depressing than spending all this time and love on a dress, steaming it and pressing it and tweaking it, only for it to be returned in a plastic bag the next day, like used goods.’
‘I promise to look after it,’ she says, leaning forward for him to do the zip.
‘For God’s sake, what has happened to your breasts?’ Simon steps back in mock horror and starts to laugh. ‘Normally brides lose weight before their wedding.’
‘Yes, well,’ smiles Esther.
‘I bank on at least a few pounds – I made the dress a bit smaller on purpose. Last week I had a girl who had huge knockers that I’d spent weeks working out how to cantilever into position, only for her to lose two stone at the last minute, and mostly off her boobs. There was nothing left. I had to remake the whole dress overnight and pad it out where the boobs had been. It was like having to rebuild a house from the very foundations.’ He makes a heaving, straining noise as he tries to pull the seams together at the back. ‘Christ, can you squeeze those boobs down? What the hell has happened to you? OK,’ he says, putting his foot on the sofa for extra leverage. ‘On the count of three, you squash the breasts and breathe in and I’ll tug.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask.
‘Come and help me at the back.’ I come round and grab the top of the zip. ‘OK – one – two – three! And push and heave and—’ He pulls at the zip and it slides slowly to the top. His hands go scarlet with the strain. ‘There!’ Esther turns around. ‘Oh,’ he says. We both stare at her enormous chest, which through lack of room in the dress has subsequently poured over the top. Esther turns to look at herself in the mirror. She still looks stunning, if a little short of breath. ‘Are you OK in that?’ asks Simon.
‘Yup,’ she replies, trying hard to inhale. ‘I think I might be a little bit pregnant.’
‘Oh,’ says Simon, running his hands over the top of his now very shiny head. ‘Congratulations?’
‘Thanks,’ she says, smiling slightly.
‘Huge congratulations,’ I say, giving her a tight hug. Her bosoms practically cup my chin as I lean in to kiss her.
‘You must be thrilled,’ adds Simon, recovering slightly.
‘I am shocked,’ replies Esther. ‘I didn’t really want to spend my wedding sober.’ She takes a sip of champagne with all the enthusiasm of a man in a desert. ‘Oh well.’
‘I have sewn in the little blue ribbon at the bottom there for luck,’ he says, squatting down and turning up the hem. ‘And I have finally put the label in as well. I didn’t want to tempt providence before and have the thing sent back, now did I?’
Simon is full of couture superstitions. Never tack the dress in red or green thread, otherwise there will be a fight or someone will be jealous. He always spits on his dresses as they leave the studio so that they don’t come back. He says if he drops his pins he’ll be busy, and if he drops his scissors someone is out to stab him in the back. He is old school and as a result his clothes are beautifully made and fabulous to look at.
‘OK then,’ smiles Esther, slipping on her pale satin shoes and adjusting her shoulder-length veil. ‘How do I look?’
Both Simon and I step back to admire her in the fading summer sun which pours though the large sash window in the sitting room. She looks stunning. Radiant, glowing, happy and absolutely gorgeous: just as a bride should. She picks up the small bunch of lily of the valley that’s been sitting in a glass of water in the kitchen.
‘Darling, where did you get that?’ asks Simon, eyeing the flowers.
‘Tash got them for me,’ she smiles, giving the bouquet a large sniff. ‘She’s been nurturing them in her greenhouse for months. They are so out of season, I know, but I love them.’
‘Clever her,’ says Simon.
‘So . . .’ Esther pauses by her front door. ‘Wish me luck.’
Thursday a.m.
ESTHER AND NICK’S wedding went without a hitch. Well, apart from the obvious. And I think it was probably one of the most moving weddings I have been to and indeed organized.
She was driven to Chelsea in one of those ridiculous Karma cabs – bejewelled Ambassador cars decked out in kitsch sequins and mirrors and models of Ganesh – which since she was travelling on her own was done entirely for her own entertainment. And when she arrived, there were only the chief bridesmaid, the best man and Nick and me there to meet her. The ceremony was short, sweet and totally devoid of any pomp or circumstance. Normally, I find a registry-office wedding depressing. The councillor seems more suited to signing planning-permission or skip certificates than engendering any feeling of romance into the proceedings. However, this one was endearing in its simplicity. I think maybe sometimes I get fed up with all the show and fuss about what is essentially just two people getting together. It was delightfully refreshing to have the whole thing over and done with in fifteen minutes. And then we were all in black cabs back up to West London for the party.
The small art gallery just off Kensal Rise looked fantastic. For a bloke who is usually only interested in gelling his hair and sex-texting girls, Jez seemed to have applied himself with remarkable conscientiousness. Not only had he followed Bernard’s instructions to the letter, but he had also pulled it all together just in time. The look on Esther and Nick’s faces as they pulled up outside the venue and took in the giant flares and the twists of rosemary and lavender all over the pavement said it all. They were so pleased and excited they couldn’t stop smiling. Inside, the usually white room had been lined with midnight-blue velvet and the whole ceiling glittered with twinkling stars. There was one long dark table down the side of the room, out of which silver birch trees covered in tiny pink roses appeared to be growing. They too were covered in tiny lights and sparkles. Everyone had been told to wear white, which they had all done, and it looked fantastic. In fact, the only sods that stood out were Simon, Jez and I, but then we were working, no
t partying along with the rest of them. I was trying to keep an eye on Philippe, the extremely high-maintenance chef who was serving up black cod Nobu style using the facilities in the church hall next door. It was obviously not an ideal piece of organization on our part to have the waiters walking up and down the street outside carrying dishes, but there was no other way. At least they weren’t having as terrible a time as Nigel had a few weeks ago when they fused the bride’s father’s entire house; every circuit tripped and no one could find the master switch. Eventually dinner for 250 was prepared by tapping the next-door neighbour’s electricity. They were extremely generous about it, especially considering they hadn’t been invited.
So I was on Philippe duty, making sure he had all that he needed. This wasn’t a Lilac Olive gig, in fact it was done by one of Nigel’s competitors, Perfect Parties, run by a right old sleazeball called Piers. Piers is fortunately too chic to attend any of the parties he caters and sometimes organizes – he usually sends along some Sloane sidekick with a diminutive chin and a tongue seemingly too big for his mouth. Neither Bernard nor I can abide Piers or anything he touches; the only problem is that he does have some of the most sublime chefs in town. Philippe was trained at Nobu, hence his black-cod special, and he has been a personal chef for a couple of high-maintenance movie stars. But he got bored of his food growing cold on the table, as they preferred a line of cocaine to a sliver of tuna sashimi. The last straw for him came when he made a tuna carpaccio with rocket leaves sprinkled on top for the couple he was looking after and the wife turned to the husband and said, ‘Oh, that looks lovely. Shall we share?’ And Philippe had another three courses prepared in the kitchen. So now he works for Piers and cooks food that hopefully gets eaten.
Jez was on drinks. He was looking after two barmen and four waiters who were handing around champagne-and-hibiscus-flower cocktails, as well as vodka mojitos, and apple fizz for the teetotal members of the party. Once the group sat down, these guys began to hand around the wine and champagne.
However, it was Simon’s job that was the most tense. He was keeping an eye on Esther and the dress. He had a needle and thread at the ready should his stitching give way under the strain of keeping her bosoms in order. And all was fine for most of the evening. It survived the drinks, the dinner, the speeches and the first dance. But it was the moment when the bride really got cracking to some Beyoncé track that there was a scary ripping sound from one of the shoulders. Quick as a flash, Simon downed his glass of champagne in one gulp and had Esther in the toilets, sewing her back into her dress.
‘One of the worst moments of my life was when a bride ripped her frock coming out of the car as she arrived at the church,’ he said afterwards. ‘It was shocking. She ripped it right the way down the back as she pulled herself out. The sound was terrible. And I had to rush over and stitch her up in the graveyard, while everyone sat there waiting in the church.’
Esther went back into the party, only for the whole thing to happen all over again about half an hour later. This time, despite Simon’s protestations, she ditched the dress and borrowed Nick’s white linen jacket, which she wore over nothing but her underwear, and went on to dance the night away. As did everyone else. A DJ mate of theirs had flown over from Pasha to play, and he kept everyone rocking until about four a.m., when we had to shut the place down, so it could return to gallery status by morning.
Having finally hit my mattress at about five thirty a.m., I am feeling a little ropy for my seven-thirty breakfast meeting with Giles’s fiancée Heather at the Wolseley. I stumble through the door just after half past seven and can’t believe how busy the place is. I have had numerous power breakfasts here, but never so goddamn early as this. I glance around the room, taking in the crisp tablecloths, the efficient service, the glossy atmosphere and equally glossy clientele. There’s a table of men in suits going through pages and pages of figures. To the left is a tall, lean chap leafing through the pink pages of the FT while making short shrift of a full English breakfast. I ask at the desk for Heather and a waiter takes me over to the far corner, where a slim girl with cropped blonde hair, dressed entirely in black despite it being summer, is sitting. She is sporting red lipstick and drinking a glass of hot lemon and water while furiously typing away on her BlackBerry. In front of her rests a silver basket containing several warm, untouched croissants.
‘Heather?’ I hesitate to sit down.
‘Yup, that’s me,’ she says briskly.
‘I’m—’
‘I know,’ she says, glancing swiftly at the huge clock above my head. ‘You’re ten minutes late, so we’ve only got twenty minutes. So we should get going – right?’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘So – winter wedding, right –’ She is off like an express train. Telling me what she likes – red, candles, tea lights. What she doesn’t like – anything twee that has silver bells on it. They were thinking Christmas Eve, but my chat with Giles apparently put them off. ‘I’ve got cash,’ she says, her head wobbling from side to side. ‘We don’t both do eighteen-hour days in the City and go in on Saturdays for our health, now do we?’ Her phone goes. ‘Heather!’ she barks. ‘Are they floating? Count me in 2 per cent now. Bye.’ She hangs up and draws breath. ‘So now we are thinking of, you know, the week before, right? What do you think?’
‘Do you mind if I order a cup of coffee?’ I ask, rubbing the growing frown on my forehead as I try desperately to concentrate on what she is saying rather than the rapid movement of her red lips.
‘Oh,’ she says, slightly taken aback. She looks at me in a way that suggests coffee and indeed sleep are for wimps. She is clearly a Margaret Thatcher, four-hours-a-night girl and she is ready to grab the day and indeed anyone by the bollocks. As I sit opposite her I feel the testosterone seep out of my system and I can’t help feeling that our roles should be reversed. She is wheeling, dealing, buying and selling million of pounds’ worth of stock, while I am about to get my pretty file out and talk dresses and drinks and nice little canapés. ‘Do you want a skinny or a full-fat latte?’ she asks, looking me up and down, trying to work out how many calories a man of my girth is allowed.
‘A double espresso,’ I reply.
‘Oh, you’re a real addict,’ she sniffs, going back to her BlackBerry.
‘It comes with the job,’ I say, joining in her very busy game.
‘Really?’ she replies, not the least bit interested. ‘Now obviously both Giles and I are very busy, so this is where you come in. How many meetings do we have to do?’ She has her diary up on her screen.
‘We don’t have to do any if you don’t want to.’
‘Really?’ She smiles. ‘Well then, let’s not. What’s the point of meeting in the flesh when we can do it all on email? You can just send me over all your ideas and I can just tick the boxes of whatever you do. Hello?’ She picks up her phone again. I manage to catch the eye of a passing waiter and order a double shot. She hangs up. ‘So where were we? Oh yes, no meetings – that’s great. Just keep me in the loop, right? I want something stylish, you know, that people are going to be impressed by, that sort of thing, and I want to look good.’
‘Have you thought about what sort of dress?’ I ask.
‘Sorry?’ She looks up from her BlackBerry.
‘The dress?’
‘Oh, I was thinking white.’ She nods.
‘Good.’ I nod too. ‘From anywhere in particular?’
‘Where do people get them from?’ she asks.
‘Vera Wang?’
‘There then.’ She taps away. ‘Can you get them online?’
‘You are normally required to do a couple of fittings.’ She looks at me as if that is the most boring and annoying idea she has ever heard. ‘I would offer to go myself, but you know . . .’ I look at my body and then hers. She barely manages a smile. She gets up from the table, pops her BlackBerry in her pocket and holds on to her phone, like an addicted smoker might clutch a packet of cigarettes.
‘So I’ll be in touch, right,’ she nods, holding out her hand. I shake her mobile and off she goes. She marches between the tables and before she is out into the street she is on another call. Jesus, I think as I tear one of her discarded croissants in half, I wonder if she will find the time to walk down the aisle.
‘Your coffee, sir,’ says the waiter, delivering my espresso.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, shovelling in the other half of the croissant.
I am in the office by eight thirty and I’m secretly hoping that I might be able to sneak in a quick snooze under my desk before anyone else comes in. But I’m surprised by Bernard whistling a merry tune while trying to order up bouquets of flowers.
‘Morning!’ He waves across the office. ‘I’m on hold for my credit card details. Do you think it is OK to give chefs flowers? All the other things like hampers, champagne and chocolates they get themselves. So flowers are OK?’ I doubt that flowers are high on a chef’s agenda when it comes to gifts, but he seems so delighted with his plan I don’t want to put him off. ‘I did think of Jo Malone smelly stuff,’ he shares. ‘But I didn’t want them to think that I was coming on to them!’
‘I’m sure Nigel’s broken half of them in already.’
‘You think?’ Bernard holds that thought for longer than is decent and is fortunately interrupted by the florist on the line. ‘Oh sorry, my number is—’
A few minutes later, Bernard is sitting at Camilla’s desk, his feet on a pile of magazines, flashing a plaid scarlet knee-length Turnbull and Asser sock, holding forth on the marvellousness of Nigel and his chefs.
‘They are artists,’ he declares. ‘I couldn’t believe how they rescued that cake. They made pillars out of cardboard and iced them and sliced off all the melted sugar icing and re-iced the whole thing. It looks amazing. Like new. It took them three hours, which is about a third of the time the bastards took to make it in the first place. And they did it for nothing. So kind of them. So kind.’
‘Who knew that Nigel had a decent bone in his body?’
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