The Wedding Diaries Read Online Free

Sure. We’ve earned it.
    TO DO:
    Relax. This stuff basically organises itself.
    August 28th
    Christ. Who knew you had to make an appointment just to try a dress on? Alice asked me where I’d booked, then had to explain it to me two or three times before I’d believe her. Not to be measured, not to be fitted, just to pull on a dress to see if you like it. Jesus. I’ve now made appointments at two wedding dress shops nearby for early September. Susie’s booked Pete to be at home for once so she can leave Lily and Edward with him, and we’ll have lunch and cocktails either side of the fittings. Is it wrong to feel like I’m doing charity work when I manage to take Susie out without the children? Giving her a window back into Living as an Independent Adult? Anyway, I’m led to believe the dress will be the trickiest bit of this whole wedding; Mum has demanded photos of everything I try on. I wonder if she bothered with all this for Dad? Or did she find a dress in her local shop, get a matching hat and let the pub know there might be more of them than usual for lunch? I rather think he might have encouraged the latter.
    TO DO:
    Honeymoon – get guidebook for Indonesia
    Think about ceremony and reception
    Food – don’t forget a veg option
    Buy some more bridal magazines
    Hen night?
    August 29th
    For the sake of posterity, I shall explain who some of the people in this wedding are.
Me: Bride. Full name Katherine Joan Carlow. Editorial Assistant at Polka Dot Books. Likes: almost all food, books, picnics, Elle Deco , Thom Sharpe. Dislikes: capers, oppression by the patriarchy, being made to watch snooker into the small hours.
Thom: Groom, Thomas William Sharpe. Accountant at corporate accountancy grindstone. Likes: twentieth-century literature, Kiki Carlow, snooker. Dislikes: most of his colleagues, anchovies, spending over £10 on three wedding magazines.
Susie: Sister of the bride, bridesmaid. Mother of the Twins, wife of Pete (a man whose passport has more stamps than a child’s tantrum, and whose children have been known to confuse him with a delivery man, such is the frequency with which he arrives bearing a large parcel for them). Former leading light in radio production, now a stay-at-home mum. Incorrigible.
Rich: Best Man. Thom’s oldest friend, boyfriend of lovely Heidi, computer programmer and expert pizza maker. Always welcome at our house. Especially when bearing homemade pizza.
Eve: Eve. Mmm.
    I met Eve on the first day of secondary school, on the bus from the local streets of our little primary school in Finchley to the big scary comp from which we would spend the next six years dreaming of escape. She was tiny – a blonde sparrow, with thick lenses in the plastic frames of her glasses and an own-brand rucksack worn on both shoulders like a hiker. The space next to her was the only seat available, so Susie (chaperoning her baby sister) signalled me into it while she stood in the aisle, chatting to her own classmates and occasionally involving me in their conversations. Gathering confidence under the protection of my glamorous older sister I deigned to talk to this speccy mouse, and following Susie’s lead, was as friendly as could be. We ended up sitting next to each other in every lesson for the next two years, until one September, Eve arrived back at school with contact lenses, breasts, and a sharp blonde bob. The ensuing attention resulted in the school authorities declaring us a bad influence on one another – ha! – and we were reduced to only hanging out every weekend, the bus to and from school and two hours on the phone each evening. We stopped being friends at the very end of the Upper Sixth, when Tim O’Connell, the crush I’d laboured under for a year and a half, finally got sick of Eve pushing her new cleavage at him and snogged her. We didn’t speak for months. This was the start of a pattern: we’d visit each other at university, I’d let slip about a guy I liked, then I’d find Eve