Holidays With the Girls

Chapter 1

The good news is that my best friends and chronic groomzillas, Ged and Liam, have set a date for their wedding. The bad news? Everything else.

We’re in our shared flat in Newcastle, crowded around Liam’s laptop, peering at Pierre Pascal on the screen, one of social media’s biggest wedding planner influencers.

He has all the charm of a medieval executioner.

This is the twenty-seventh wedding planner we’ve interviewed over Zoom this week.

Ged and Liam have spent most of the last month in full-on hysterical convulsions of ugly crying – think donkey being murdered – since their original venue, a charming chateau nestled in a picturesque French village, was flooded during a freak storm and the owners were forced to cancel their wedding booking with only eight weeks’ notice.

A manic ritual of spending every waking moment manifesting a new venue, involving crystals and vision boards, commenced immediately. But tensions have grown exponentially as, one by one, their too ambitious and elaborate plans for their dream French wedding have been systematically rejected.

‘Connie.’ Ged nudges me. He clicks the mute button and covers his mouth discreetly with his fingertips. ‘I thought he’d be more…’

‘More French? More human?’ Sounding like an amateur ventriloquist, I keep my eyes trained on the screen and a wide smile on my face.

‘More Pedrosexual,’ he hisses. ‘His profile pic was definitely giving French Pedro Pascal vibes.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Pierre says on-screen, his pale, narrow face devoid of any emotion, his accent devoid of any French and his thin upper lip, disappointingly for Ged, devoid of his signature Pierre Pascal moustache.

‘You want me to create your dream Christmas wedding with a Bridgerton theme… but also with a nod to Hogwarts, specifically the magical banquets?’

Ged and Liam are nodding enthusiastically. They have already bought ten packs of floating candles that come with a remote in the shape of a battery-operated wand, ready to wave dramatically after the speeches are done.

‘And with the energy of Las Vegas, where you recently spent your bachelor party? All underpinned with the vibe of…’ Pierre pinches the bridge of his nose as he takes in a loud and deep inhale.

‘With the emotional vibe,’ cuts in Ged, unmuting us. He is a stickler for detail.

‘With the emotional vibe of the late Whitney Houston?’

‘Yes,’ says Liam. ‘Invincible yet vulnerable. We’re musicians.’ He has his hands clasped together over his heart.

I’ve never seen two people more committed to such a bad idea.

I assumed because of the cancellation that the new wedding would be a small, family affair but Ged works in the music industry and Liam is a music teacher at a huge secondary school with hundreds of staff.

I have tried to talk them into dialling it down but neither of them will budge.

This wedding has to be perfect in every way, and nothing less will do.

‘Can you do it?’ I ask Pierre, before Liam can add to the ever-growing list. ‘Can you do it in time for this Christmas?’

The wedding planner grimaces. ‘Just how flexible on dates and guest numbers can you be?’

‘We can’t.’ Liam is squeezing his hands together even more tightly.

‘My entire family is flying in from Australia. Please don’t get me started on why my parents felt the need to emigrate just because my sister was expecting twins and her husband works long hours as a vet.

’ Liam shrugs his shoulders sadly. ‘They literally put their house up for sale within minutes of the baby news being announced.’

Ged puts a comforting arm round his shoulders and fills in the missing blanks.

‘All the flights and hotels near the original venue in France are booked. We’ve tried to get refunds, but no airline is having it because it’s so close to Christmas.

And, of course, we’ve already hired a four-piece quartet to go with our Bridgerton ball gowns and powder wigs. ’

Pierre’s face falls before he recovers himself. ‘Hmmm.’ He screws his eyes, his fingers drumming against his chin. ‘I think I may have a solution.’

Thank fuck for that. At last, someone can realise this bonkers dream of theirs.

We watch his fingertips increasing in speed.

Drum. Drum. Drum.

Suddenly, he clicks his fingers and points at us.

‘Pop-up tents.’

Liam abruptly ends the call. Then he crumbles, choking as he gulps in air. ‘What the fuckety fuck is wrong with these people?’

‘Is the simple act of carrying out our vision really too much to ask? Is it?’ Ged wears a baffled expression. ‘We’ve done most of the donkey work already.’

By donkey work, he means the thinking. The concept. The ideology. I wish I knew what to say. It’s a simple case of boys meet planner, boys lose planner, boys trawl the internet for replacement planner to make original planner jealous. It’s all very petty.

‘Why can’t we just ask—’

‘NO! Not after what happened.’ Ged’s mood is visibly plummeting.

It would help if Ged and Liam explained what exactly did happen with their original wedding planner in the aftermath of the chateau cancelling and things going tits up, but they are both remaining tight-lipped about it and refusing to tell me.

A silence settles over us.

This wedding, their desire to please one another and the stress of all the guests potentially losing their money on flights and hotels is taking its toll. They are both wearing forlorn expressions.

‘So, back to the wedding – and correct me if I’m wrong.

’ They lean closer to me as I speak deliberately slowly.

Every word choice is crucial because they could snap at any second.

‘While you want your wedding to reflect you as individuals… you also want it to reflect you as a couple? A blend of timeless romance and fantasy.’

‘Finally, someone who gets it,’ says Liam, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I really thought we were going mad there for a second.’

‘I wish you were our wedding planner, Connie, babes,’ says Ged, twirling a strand of Liam’s hair. ‘At least you make us feel seen and… heard.’

Oh, no. No, no, no. I can see where this is going, and, for all of our sakes, I must nip it in the bud. I almost needed a triple bypass organising their ‘stag do’ in Vegas. It was like herding a pack of feral cats.

I frown sympathetically, tilting my head.

‘Aw, you guys. I’d love nothing more but…

as you know, I’m needed by my husband…’ I bite my lips together to stifle a faint giggle.

Now is not the time but I’m still finding being a MARRIED WOMAN a total trip.

I can barely refer to Matteo as my husband without blushing down to my toes.

Matteo, my husband.

My husband, Matteo.

He is very much the thinking woman’s crumpet and is quite perfect in every way.

It has all been so surreal. Our meet-cute on the plane to Benidorm where I fell for his brooding, dark-eyed competency with all things, while he fell hard for my inability to do anything right.

Our Vegas trip. Ged and Liam’s ‘stag do’ turned into the best week of my entire life.

And now, a few months on and we are officially (albeit due to accidentally filling out the paperwork wrong) man and wife.

And yes, while life lately has been nothing short of a wild, romantic roller coaster, I have stopped to ask myself if I’ve been too impulsive in getting married to someone I’ve spent very little actual time with.

I mean, I don’t even know Matteo’s shoe size.

Not that that is important, but while I know what his favourite sexual position is, I don’t know what his favourite film is or where he stands on the situation in the Middle East. Not that I anticipate politics ever dominating our conversation, but shouldn’t we at least know each other’s religion or whether we are cat or dog people?

And the truth is, when we’re together… I can barely think straight, which has led me to question whether this is infatuation, lust or genuine, lasting love.

How will I know? Do these feelings happen in stages?

Did we skip a few? We’re married. Actually married.

Legally wed. Hitched. The knot was tied.

The broom jumped over. The aisle was well and truly trodden…

‘For fuck’s sake, Connie. Stop zoning out like that. It’s like every time you use the “H” word you disappear off into a giddy trance. Focus. We need you to plan our wedding. We’re desperate. Will you do it?’

What? Fuck no!

I inhale sharply, my eyes widening in fear as I grip my knees tightly. ‘I, erm, I’d love to. I really would. I’d love to. Honestly, but… but my’ – don’t say it, don’t say it – ‘my other half needs me in LA for…’ Shagging purposes.

Christ, my mind is a complete blank.

Ged sighs. ‘We get it. He needs you for shagging purposes.’

Argh. ‘No. Well, yes, but he also needs me to record my debut single, remember? I have that singing career to launch? From when I sang in Vegas?’

‘Why are you talking in questions?’ Liam is a little jealous that I’ve not asked him to do backing vocals.

As are the Dollz, my former support band.

It has been a bone of contention. However, I am not in charge.

Matteo has put his foot down because he is in charge, and I am finding him and his moody, expert way of producing records for famous people incredibly… deeply… enormously sexy.

‘Can’t you do both?’ Liam says in an imploring tone. ‘Record the new songs and help us with the wedding?’

‘It’s like she’s forgotten how to multitask. Call yourself a woman.’ Ged shakes his head at me but as the more sensible one of the two, he knows it would be ludicrous to have me involved.