almost straight out of university, and he always seemed to enjoy climbing the greasy pole to senior accounting executive. Neither of us love the hours, or the colleagues, or the schmoozing, or really even the work ethic of parts of his firm, but since Thom gave up hope of getting something for which he could use his English degree, he’s found a surprising clarity in numbers and a joy in managing them, corralling them into columns with sense and a purpose, turning symbols into someone’s future (and not their bankruptcy). He likes helping people, and although this slippery career ladder has meant more money and tougher work, it’s also meant the clients he’s dealing with have leapt from emerging businesses with everything to learn and everything to lose, to multinationals who have the cunning of a business-school fox and the morality to match. It’s still challenging work but in all the wrong ways, Thom says, and there are some days where all Thom wants to do is talk about where we’ll live when he retires, which going by his ex-colleagues will be in his mid-forties. We won’t be worrying about which child gets to go to university and which has to take an apprenticeship at the local blacksmith. We’re lucky – we have a car in London, a nice but tiny flat for just the two of us (rented), and we have a summer holiday and weekends away a few times a year. But we don’t have an Aston Martin, and we don’t go to those underwater hotels in Dubai, which is the absurd lifestyle I can see some people expect when they learn where Thom works and what he does. Instead Thom is always saving for something, insisting on Our Security in a manner that suggests he knows something incredibly grim about the future that I don’t, but I know that the security he’s building doesn’t make up for how little he enjoys work now. It breaks my heart to see him, sometimes.
But he arrived home on fine form this evening, happy that he’d managed to sneak advising a small start-up businesswoman into his busy schedule, so I thought it was my chance to begin my delicate cracking of the tough wedding nut.
Me: Thom, there’s something else I wanted to talk about, if you don’t mind talking about the wedding right now. When I told Jim about our engagement, he said he’d talk to some of his contacts at the big houses round here, and two have offered discounts. They’re really lovely and while their initial costs don’t include food they are really beautiful, and the corkage fee at Redhood Farm is waaaaaay smaller than the other places I’ve looked at, and they bring champagne for the bridal party on the morning of the ceremony and can do it all within their buildings, and will organise the food from an external chef when you tell them what kind of food-mood you want …
Thom: Food … mood ?
Me: Yes, food-mood, it’s huge right now – and the photos at Wingfield Manor from previous weddings that I’ve seen on the websites are really amazing, and I think your mum and dad would love the gardens, and even you would approve of this place, really Thom, it’s so nice. And although neither of them is exactly in London the trains are frequent and quick and there are loads of nice affordable places for people to stay nearby.
Thom: Kiki, it’s fine. Let’s do it. That’s how these things work, isn’t it?
Me: [rare silence]
Thom: And no, that’s not a joke. Let’s get this thing locked down.
So that’s that. We’re going next weekend to have a look at them both, and then we’ll write the lucky venue a big fat cheque and I can stop fishing hairs out of the plughole (because my stress levels will decline and my hair will stop falling out, not because my hygiene standards will collapse).
November 23rd
Eve took me out tonight to a late night opening at the V&A, to make up for being away during the venue-hunt. In fact, I’ve not seen her since Susie’s barbecue, although we’ve spoken a few times. I feel like she’s somehow angry at me,
But he arrived home on fine form this evening, happy that he’d managed to sneak advising a small start-up businesswoman into his busy schedule, so I thought it was my chance to begin my delicate cracking of the tough wedding nut.
Me: Thom, there’s something else I wanted to talk about, if you don’t mind talking about the wedding right now. When I told Jim about our engagement, he said he’d talk to some of his contacts at the big houses round here, and two have offered discounts. They’re really lovely and while their initial costs don’t include food they are really beautiful, and the corkage fee at Redhood Farm is waaaaaay smaller than the other places I’ve looked at, and they bring champagne for the bridal party on the morning of the ceremony and can do it all within their buildings, and will organise the food from an external chef when you tell them what kind of food-mood you want …
Thom: Food … mood ?
Me: Yes, food-mood, it’s huge right now – and the photos at Wingfield Manor from previous weddings that I’ve seen on the websites are really amazing, and I think your mum and dad would love the gardens, and even you would approve of this place, really Thom, it’s so nice. And although neither of them is exactly in London the trains are frequent and quick and there are loads of nice affordable places for people to stay nearby.
Thom: Kiki, it’s fine. Let’s do it. That’s how these things work, isn’t it?
Me: [rare silence]
Thom: And no, that’s not a joke. Let’s get this thing locked down.
So that’s that. We’re going next weekend to have a look at them both, and then we’ll write the lucky venue a big fat cheque and I can stop fishing hairs out of the plughole (because my stress levels will decline and my hair will stop falling out, not because my hygiene standards will collapse).
November 23rd
Eve took me out tonight to a late night opening at the V&A, to make up for being away during the venue-hunt. In fact, I’ve not seen her since Susie’s barbecue, although we’ve spoken a few times. I feel like she’s somehow angry at me,
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