A Groom With a View (8 page)

Alongside Katharine’s master folder, ‘Iain and Katharine September Wedding’, Nick had created his own, imaginatively labelled ‘Nick and Pippa February Wedding’. I clicked on it.

Blimey, he’d been busy. Inside were sub-folders for flowers, food, entertainment, attendants, decor, favours, speeches, vows, transport, photographers, videographers, cakes – it went on and on. There was even one for bride’s dresses. I felt a prickle of resentment. In his emails, I’d noticed, there was a thread of about thirty messages between him and Imogen, another of about forty between him and Iain, and a third of about sixty between him and Callie, all entitled ‘Wedding’. I hovered over them with the mouse, then stopped myself. Even if these were emails about my wedding, they were private, they were Nick’s and it would be wrong to read them. If he wanted to tell me about them, he would. I’d snooped before, and I was going to stick to my resolve never to do so again.

It took me a couple of minutes to get on to the internet, because Nick works on a Mac and I’ve never quite got the hang of it. I thought I’d have a look at inspiredbride.com and have a good laugh at the wedding obsessives on the discussion forum. But then, instead of Nick’s usual Digital Drawing Board website, where he showcases his latest work and blogs about design ideas, a new homepage came up.

It was a blog and, typically of Nick, a sleek and elegantly designed one. The header was an image of frosty pinecones, and it was called ‘A Groom With A View’. Well, this wasn’t private, was it? It was a blog. I was allowed to read it, just like anyone else. And people were reading it. I skimmed down through the posts and they all had loads of responses – about thirty for the most recent, dwindling to four or five for the earlier ones, with the inaugural one having garnered an impressive fifty-eight. Eloise writes Guido’s blog at work and she’s happy if she gets twenty responses to a post, and he’s an actual celebrity. I clicked on the first link.

The title was ‘A Planning Man’.

Hi, blog followers (all none of you, lol) I’m Nick, and I’m a graphic designer living and working in south London. A week ago I got engaged to my gorgeous partner, Pippa. It was all a bit unexpected, to say the least. But now we’ve got just four months to plan a wedding. Not long, is it (fnar)? Since our proposal (more about that later!) I’ve realised that there’s far more to planning a wedding than I’d ever imagined. And I want to make sure we (okay, I – but that’s another one for a future post, I think) get it right. So I’m going to use this blog, along with Pinterest and the advice of the good people on Inspired Bride online (where’s the Inspired Groom site, hey?) to plan the amazing day Pippa deserves.

I hadn’t got a clue there would be such a lot to think about. But after buying a few magazines and browsing online, I’ve realised I’ve got one hell of a busy few weeks ahead of me. I hope this blog will help me keep track of it all, and I’ll be using it, along with all the other great resources out there, to look for inspiration and – like, duh, obviously – advice when I start to lose the plot! So, first off, if anyone’s reading this, what did you love about your wedding and what sucked? And what does a clueless bridegroom-to-be (God, typing that feels bollock-shrinkingly scary!) need to know?

He’d obviously linked to the post on Twitter or on the
Inspired Bride
forum or something, because there was a rash of gushy comments from people saying things like, “OMG, it’s tremaze to see a man so involved in wedding planning! Wish I could get my H2B to think beyond how many strippers he’s going to have on his stag night, rofl.” And from someone calling herself Hipster Bride, “Loving your blog, Nick! Can’t wait to see how the planning progresses, I’ve signed up for updates.” And, “You go, dude! Heather and I got married last summer and we did all the planning together. It was awesome and such a special day. Well done, I’ll look forward to future posts. Matt.”

Most recently, the quality of the comments seemed to have deteriorated a bit. There was, “Hi, I’m Damian and Im a profesional weding photographer based in Grimsby. I offer a bispoke service that will produce an unforgetable record of you’re big day for not much £. Visit my website for details and prices.” Then, “Hot cum sluts in grl-on-grl action live online NOW!”. And one that said, “You cuntin loser, grow a pare of balls & tell ur bitch to get back in the kitchen were she belogns.” And finally, “Well, hello there! Check your PMs, I’ve inboxed you. Bxx.”

Then I realised that the last few had all been posted in the last half an hour, which meant that Nick hadn’t had a chance to moderate them, which in turn meant that he was weeding out unwanted content pretty frequently. The last post, though, there was something about it that was different from the others, and something familiar about the way it made me feel. But then, I remembered, I shouldn’t really be reading any of it. I felt as if I was simultaneously spying and being spied on. Quickly, I closed the window, willing Nick’s computer to go the fuck to sleep.

I put my pizza box in the recycling bin and got under the duvet with Spanx, and lay awake until Nick and Erica came home. Then the cat jumped out of my arms and ran to say hello to them, and I pretended to be asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Wedding booking

Hi

I was given your email address by Matt Price. He mentioned that you took care of the kids’ entertainment at his and Lisa’s wedding earlier in the year, and recommended you very highly. I know it’s short notice, but is there any chance you’re free on the first Saturday in February? Our wedding is at Brocklebury Manor in Hampshire and there will probably be about twenty kids there, aged from 11 down to 2. What I had in mind was a few magic tricks and then maybe some games, just to keep them busy during the speeches and first dance. We’d need you for about two hours in total – I’m hoping that most of them will have been taken off to bed by about 8pm.

If you could let me know your availability and quote, that would be great.

Many thanks

Nick

“Oooh, that feels amazing,” Callie said, her voice muffled by the massage bed. “Mmm. I actually think I’m about to slip into a coma of bliss.”

We were lying next to each other, with two therapists simultaneously gliding hot stones over our skin. There was whale music wafting away in the background and the room smelled strongly of neroli oil. Nick had practically had to force me to take a day off work and take advantage of the ‘Ladies’ Pamper Package’ that Brocklebury Manor had thrown in for free with our wedding booking, but I was glad he had. After two weeks of working eleven-hour days, I was knackered and the wallow in the hot tub, session in the steam room and now the massage had made me feel gorgeously relaxed. I was even looking forward to the light and healthful salad lunch with unlimited fruit tea and still or sparkling water that would follow.

Callie deserved a treat too. She’d been with Nick to appointments with the photographer, the video guy, the florist and three different bands before Nick deemed one acceptable. She’d even said she would go with him to meet the registrar, but I’d declined that kind offer on the basis that people must already be starting to think that it was her Nick was marrying, not me.

And she was clearly stressed to the max about my dress, poor love. Every couple of days another email would come through from her entitled ‘Frocks’ with links to yet more one-shouldered Grecian-style satin sheaths and blush-pink tulle prom dresses. Although I always replied thanking her and saying I’d take a look and make a decision really really soon, I promised, the dress thing was beginning to freak me out a bit.

I’d spent a Thursday evening in Selfridges, watched over by scary salesladies who made me put on special white gloves before I was allowed to touch anything. I’d ventured out in my lunch hour and explored the vintage shops of Spitalfields, but they were full of hipsters and made me feel ancient, deeply uncool and a bit of a fraud, so I’d sloped shamefacedly back to the office without trying anything on. I’d even had a look on eBay, but then I was distracted by a link to a website set up by some guy who got off on taking pictures of women weeing in their wedding dresses, and it was so grim I’d closed the browser window in horror, never to return.

And every evening, the first thing Nick and Erica said to me when I stumbled through the front door after nine o’clock, before even, “How was your day, Pippa?” was, “Have you found a dress yet, Pippa?” That’s how it felt to me, anyway.

“Now, if you’d just like to turn over on to your back,” said the masseuse, and I rolled over, catching Callie’s eye and grinning happily at her as I felt the hot stones pressing into my feet.

“So, have you found a dress yet, Pippa?” said Callie.

“Oh, God, Cal, it’s a living nightmare,” I said. “I just can’t make up my mind. I tried loads of different ones when I went shopping with Katharine and none of them were right, and now I seem to have developed some sort of mental block about it. Every time I even hear the words ‘wedding dress’, I want to run away screaming.”

“Well, that’s no good, is it?” Callie said. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m meeting Katharine again in a few days for a second attempt,” I said. “But if I don’t find something then, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s not like none of the dresses I’ve seen are okay. Lots of them are okay. But it’s my wedding dress. If I’m going to spend six months’ mortgage payments on it, it needs to be some sort of transformative miracle garment that makes me look like Alexa Chung and feel like Cinderella. And I haven’t found anything that does that yet.”

“Phoebs is the same shape as you and only a bit taller,” Callie said, “and there’s a shop near home where she buys loads of things. The woman there makes dresses really quickly and they’re fab. Totally original, kind of vintage-looking but not. If you don’t find something with Katharine, maybe you could come down next weekend and see her?”

“Brilliant idea,” I said. “I’ll give you a shout afterwards and let you know how it goes.”

Then we both closed our eyes again and let the warmth and the whale music wash over us, and I forgot all about wedding dresses for a bit.

Over lunch, I told Callie about finding Nick’s blog, and the folders and folders full of wedding stuff on his computer. I didn’t mention the post from ‘B’ saying Nick had been sent a private message, although it was niggling at the back of my mind. To my surprise, she didn’t find it strange at all.

“I think it’s cool that he’s so excited about it all,” she said. “Lots of blokes just don’t care. They let the woman get on with it, and they just passively go along with whatever she decides. It’s a bit feeble, I think. And it makes the day much less fun for the bride if she feels like all the pressure’s on her and he isn’t really involved.”

I thought of Katharine’s meticulous planning of her and Iain’s wedding, all the care and time she’d lavished on every single detail, and all the sighing and eye-rolling he’d contributed. I wasn’t being like that, was I?

“Callie,” I said, “I think what Nick’s doing is amazing. Really I do. And I haven’t thanked you properly for all the time you’ve taken off work, and all the petrol you’ve used missioning to appointments with him, and all the emails you’ve sent me with dresses to look at. You’ve been brilliant. You’re the best friend ever, and you deserve some kind of chief bridesmaid of the millennium award. Thank you.” And I reached across the table and squeezed her shoulder through her towelling robe.

“It’s been such a pleasure, Pip,” she said. “Honestly, I’ve loved doing it. Nick’s one of the good guys, I love spending time with him, and all the planning stuff – it’s fun. I’m just sorry you’re missing out on lots of it. But don’t feel bad about me. I’m never going to have my own wedding, so I’m getting to plan yours instead.”

“You’re never – Callie, you mustn’t talk like that,” I said. “It’s only been two years since David moved out. You’re so beautiful and clever and funny and amazing. You’ll find someone who deserves you, I know you will. And then you’ll have a perfect, wonderful wedding, if that’s what you want, and if you let me I’ll be your chief bridesmaid too and I promise nothing will be too much trouble.”

Callie ate some of her superfood salad and took a sip of her rose and pomegranate tea. I poured some into my own cup and tried it. It smelled delicious but it didn’t taste of much, except maybe a bit of soap.

“I don’t think so, Pip,” she said. “I’m beginning to think I’m not marriage material.”

I looked at her, bemused. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and because she wasn’t wearing any makeup, I could see the scattering of freckles on her pale skin, like cinnamon over cappuccino foam. She was so beautiful and she looked, suddenly, so sad.

“Callie, lovely, I wish you would tell me what’s wrong. It’s not still David, is it? It’s something else.”

I’ve never quite understood what went wrong with Callie and David. They met when Callie was in her final year of university and David was a trainee solicitor. They were together for five years and I honestly thought that was it for Callie, she’d found the love of her life and they’d get married and have kids. He was. . . well, he was nice. A clever, sensitive, handsome, ambitious man who didn’t seem to have an unkind bone in his body and treated Callie like she was as precious and fragile as the fairy on top of a Christmas tree. And then, just when we reached the stage when our mid-twenties were threatening to turn into late twenties and our friends were beginning to get married, she dumped him. Poor David was heartbroken and Callie seemed heartbroken at first too, but she always insisted she didn’t want to talk about it, and as far as I knew she hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since.

“It’s not David.” She smiled. “I’m over David. Did you know he’s married now? He did that thing of getting engaged, like, five minutes after we split up, and now he’s got two little boys. I see him sometimes at court. We had coffee the other day.”

“Did he. . . He wasn’t seeing her while he was still with you, was he? Because if he was I’ll go after him with a rusty spoon and when I have finished with him he will have no more children.” I adopted a cod mafioso voice.

Callie laughed. “Dunno. I don’t think so. I don’t mind, anyway. He’s a lovely man but we were never really right for each other. It was silly and selfish of me to let it carry on as long as it did. I just saw us living this perfect life, you know? And I thought that was what I wanted, but it wasn’t really.”

“But what do you want, Callie?” I said. “Because I just want you to be happy.”

Callie finished her salad. “I want another go in the steam room,” she said. “And I want to try that rainbow shower thing they were going on about, and the salt crystal cave, and then I want a cup of proper coffee instead of this worthy tea, and a piece of chocolate cake as big as my head.”

And I realised she wasn’t going to tell me anything more.

“Right. We need to get an itinerary nailed down for this trip.” Guido, Tamar and I were sitting around the boardroom table, armed with double espressos from Kaffee Klatch (and a glass of still water for Tamar). It was just over a week before Guido and I were due to fly out to South Africa for a six-day recce of the locations where we’d be filming, the restaurants we’d be collaborating with and the dishes we’d be cooking.

I’d been working with Tamar to develop an initial list of recipes for the book that would accompany
Guido’s African Safari
, and we were reasonably confident that we’d got some good stuff. But I was going to be cooking in unfamiliar kitchens, with ingredients that were new to me and, worst of all, doing my own styling, with the help of a local freelancer. I was almost as excited as I was terrified.

“I’ve downloaded menus from forty restaurants,” Tamar said. “I based that selection on the ratings from
Taste
magazine,
Restaurant Business
and Tripadvisor. It looks like there’s some seriously awesome food out there, you’re in for a treat, Pippa. But we also need to track down places that don’t make it into the guides and magazines: the little food carts and market stalls and so on. I’ve got Sibongile, the stylist we’ll be using out there, working on a list. She’s also researching locations for us. You’ll be starting off in Johannesburg, obviously, but spending most of your time in the Cape winelands, which is where most of the fine dining places are. And Zack, the producer, feels very strongly that we should include at least one episode actually out on safari, cooking and eating wild ingredients.”

“Great,” Guido said. “I’m meeting him tomorrow morning at nine and we’ll get a provisional episode outline planned then. It’s six thirty-minute shows, with three to four recipes cooked in each one. Pippa, you and I will need to work on a long-list of dishes while we’re out there, then when we’re back in the office we’ll get them as close to perfect as we can before we go out to start filming. Clear?”

I nodded and drank the dregs of my espresso. I knew Guido would look after me, and I knew Tamar would be waiting at the end of a phone line or on email to help me if I got stuck, but that felt about as comforting as knowing there’s a safety net a hundred feet below when you’re about to walk a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. This was an opportunity that could seriously boost my career – but if I fucked it up, that might be it. I’d be making supermarket ready-meals for the rest of my days, assuming Guido didn’t turn nasty and sack me. There’s no pretty way to say it: I was shit scared.

At the same time, though, the idea of cooking and eating in all those amazing restaurants, meeting new people, seeing a brand new part of the world and taking on a massive new challenge was thrilling. The knot in my stomach was definitely as much about excitement as nerves. In fact, I realised guiltily, I was looking forward to the next few weeks’ work with rather more enthusiasm than to the wedding that lay beyond.

“All clear,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t betray my self-doubt.

“Good,” Guido said. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow with Zack.” Tamar gathered up her papers and left, and I was about to do the same when Guido said, “Pippa?”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I didn’t think you were capable of it,” he said. “You’re a highly talented chef. I haven’t stretched and challenged you enough in the past couple of years. This is going to be good for you, and what’s more we’ll have a blast. Right?”

“Right. Thanks, Guido,” I said. I was feeling a bit trembly inside, as if I wanted to cry, or hug him, or something. “I’ll try my best.”

“And you can’t do better than that, sweetheart,” he said, giving my shoulder a reassuring little squeeze.

All my doubt and anxiety aside, one thing was for sure: I was going to be spending six days troughing for Britain, and my wedding was just a few weeks away. This was not good. Assuming I ever found a dress, I was somehow going to have to fit into it, and ideally do so without the aid of industrial-strength control underwear. It was time, I decided, to take some pre-emptive steps.

“Eloise,” I said, “I am now going to go to the gym.”

“To the. . . Pippa, are you feeling okay? Has your body been taken over by aliens?”

I stuck my tongue out at her as I picked up my bag and left the office, but she did have a point. Since I took out my gym membership two years ago, I think I’d been once. But now I was going to need to embark on a serious exercise regimen, even if it did turn out to be too little, too late. And as I didn’t actually own any gym kit, I would have to go shopping first, which just goes to show that every cloud has a silver lining.