Bad Brides

by Rebecca Chance

  ‘Dearie me,’ he commented in his sing-song tenor voice. ‘I had no idea I was taking on an elf-themed wedding. Shall I see if Cate Blanchett will stick her pointy ears back on and officiate at the ceremony?’

  Milly bridled indignantly and Eva jumped in to keep the peace, reaching out to refill the glasses of rosé from the wine cooler on the wooden table between Milly and Ludo. They were ensconced in a cosy niche on the rooftop terrace of the Century Club, five storeys above Shaftesbury Avenue and a world away from the bustling workers and tourists who cluttered the pavements like slow-moving cattle badly in need of herding. The sun filtered through the draped white canvas overhead that billowed gently like sails in the breeze; only a few golden rays angled through the chinks between the fabric, striking the floor and tables here and there like divine illumination. The terrace was wide and generous. It was really an open penthouse, the whole top floor of the building, with a bar to one side, big tables in the centre, and a series of fashionably low and saggy leather sofas grouped around the edges.

  The tables were for public dining, business meetings whose participants were very happy to have snippets of their conversations about shows they were pitching or films they were auditioning for be overheard by fellow members of the private club whose membership was mainly composed of actors, film and TV producers, screenwriters and dissolute novelists. The sofas were for more intimate, discreet encounters, like planning a wedding whose details needed to be kept hush-hush so that magazines could compete to buy the exclusive photographs and spend paragraphs listing all the delicious minutiae: the flowers, the canapés, the bride’s hair and make-up, the invitations . . .

  ‘I know you were joking about the elf theme, Ludo,’ Eva said in her soft voice, ‘but actually that’s a really good perception off what Milly wants. She and Tarquin do both have that other-worldly Cate Blanchett look, you know? And they share very strong ethical principles, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’ve brought the latest portfolio of our jewellery line to show you the kind of sustainable styling we do . . .’

  ‘Oh, I did my research,’ Ludo said, waving his hand in a queenly gesture of dismissal at the portfolio that Eva was bending to retrieve from her large, hand-sewn, faux-leather satchel; Milly would never have dreamt of lugging the heavy bound book around herself.

  ‘I’m familiar with your ethos,’ he continued. ‘Believe me, bleeding hearts and hippie vegan bicycles aren’t exactly my usual vernacular. But I’m aware that this whole beardy-weirdy, eco-folk trend is terribly fashionable at the moment, which is why I agreed to meet you and see if I could find a way to, erm, polish off the rougher, hand-crafted edges and give you a Ludo Montgomerie wedding. We all have to move with the times, don’t we?’ His eyes brightened. ‘And I love your fiancé!’ he said directly to Milly. ‘You’re a terribly lucky girl! He’s positively gorgeous. Frankly, the visuals of the two of you are the main reason I said I’d have this chat. Will he be joining us?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘He’s on tour,’ Milly said. ‘But he’s totally okay with any decisions I make.’

  ‘Like ninety-five per cent of couples I deal with,’ Ludo sighed, picking up his glass and settling back in the sofa, preparing to console himself with wine in the absence of the handsome Tarquin. ‘Do you know that French expression – entre deux amants il y a toujours l’un qui baise et l’autre qui tend la joue?’

  Eva, her forehead corrugating with concentration, followed along: like Milly, she had gone to an expensive girls’ private school, but unlike Milly, she had been a swot. Though the science and geography teaching at St Paulina’s had been very sketchy, the more acute pupils had had a thorough grounding in more ladylike subjects, which included French.

  ‘Oh, that’s very . . . depressing,’ she blurted out. ‘If I understood it right?’

  Ludo smiled complacently.

  ‘In love,’ he translated, ‘there’s always one person who kisses and the other who lets themselves be kissed. Literally “gives them their cheek”. As it were.’ He tittered in amusement. ‘Cynical, but that’s the French for you, isn’t it? Cynical, and just a little soap-dodging, bless them. Well, in weddings there’s one who does all the arranging and the other one who just turns up. I barely ever see the grooms, just the brides and their mothers.’

  He grimaced.

  ‘The gays are the big exception, of course – the lesbians are obsessed with details, but at least they agree. Nothing worse than two queens squabbling over whether they’re having peonies or forsythias in the flower arrangements! But, I just did Wayne Burns’ marriage,’ he added, naming the top English footballer who had come out a couple of years before, ‘and that was much more pleasant. His partner used to be a luxury concierge and he has much higher taste levels than the average WAG, I can tell you! Did you see the Hello! cover? I must say, they really did me proud, those two. It was the chic-est footballer’s wedding ever.’

  ‘I did see them,’ Milly said brightly: she loved any association with celebrity. ‘I want a Hello! cover too. You can get that for me, right? I mean, that’s an absolute must.’

  ‘Hmm, hmm . . .’ Ludo put down his glass and steepled his long, elegantly manicured and be-ringed fingers together. ‘A little birdie told me that we were after Style Bride for this, no less? If that’s the case, you can forget about Hello!, dear. Style Bride’ll want a total exclusive.’

  ‘Do you think you can manage that?’ Milly’s eyes were huge now, and as luminous as if they had been lit from within. She was clasping her hands together, like Ludo, but her grasp was prayerful rather than contemplative. ‘Oh my God, I would die to get that cover! I’d do anything!’

  Ludo snorted a little laugh out of his nostrils.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you would, dear,’ he commented, looking Milly up and down. ‘Actors – I know just what you’re like! Well, the supreme editor you need to impress at Style is of course Her Majesty Queen Victoria, Editrix Supreme, and she’s certainly not averse to the lady-loving side of things . . .’

  ‘Really?’ Milly was agog with this juicy piece of gossip.

  Ludo nodded gleefully.

  ‘But you’ve got no chance of a little casting-couch advantage there, my dear,’ he said chattily. ‘Victoria’s boringly faithful to her girlfriend, by all accounts. Lesbians! They really are a different breed.’

  ‘Oh, Milly wouldn’t dream of anything like that. She’s madly in love with Tarquin and he just adores her,’ Eva stammered, her words tumbling over each other and crashing to a halt as Ludo and Milly turned identical expressions of surprise, laced lightly with disdain, upon her.

  ‘Ludo was joking,’ Milly said, reaching over to pat Eva’s hand. ‘Honestly. Eva’s really nice,’ she explained to Ludo.

  ‘How absolutely charming for her,’ Ludo said smoothly. ‘Well, revenons à nos moutons, shall we? Let us return to our sheep, as the French say. I really do need some notes for this wedding beyond elf ears and trailing white nighties, which, frankly, I can tell you, will not be a plus point for Style Bride . . .’

  Milly swallowed down her resentment at the mocking tone and elf ears comment: Ludo’s reference to the Wayne Burns marriage, combined with his nonchalant familiarity with Victoria Glossop, the famed and feared editor-in-chief of the Style magazine empire, had put her on alert. She didn’t want to lose the chance to have Ludo Montgomerie, wedding planner to the stars, oversee her own ceremony.

  ‘Well, Eva and I were watching Pride and Prejudice the other night,’ she started, ‘and we both thought it would be perfect for me and Tark to sort of base ourselves on that—’

  ‘The Greer Garson/Laurence Olivier one?’ Ludo sighed. ‘Gorge! But you know those costumes weren’t at all historically correct! Or Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth? I love the white linen shirt idea for Tarquin, with his slender build – so much better for clothes, Colin can skew a leetle stocky . . .’

  Milly frowned.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said frankly, but with no embarr
assment: one of the many advantages of an expensive private education was that its beneficiaries were so cushioned by privilege that they were totally comfortable admitting ignorance on any subject. ‘I meant the film with Keira Knightley, of course! That bit at the end when Matthew McFadyen comes towards her in the meadow with his greatcoat billowing out at sunrise . . .’

  ‘Oh lawks!’ Ludo rolled his eyes. ‘So ahistoric! He looked like the 1970s crashing straight into a boyband . . . but hmm, I do rather see what you mean there. What was ludicrous for Mr Darcy would actually be rather wonderful on Tarquin – and you certainly have the figure for Regency, dear,’ he added, casting an approving glance at Milly’s almost completely flat chest. Her lack of breasts was crucial for a leading lady; any overly visible curves were considered vulgar, much more suitable for the cheery maid parts than the refined aristocrats whom British ingénues were so often called upon to play.

  ‘Daisies and wild flowers!’ Milly rhapsodized eagerly, having finally had some approval from Ludo of what she was aiming for. ‘English country-style, with cider and lemonade in jam jars! Maybe a butterfly greenhouse? Or release butterflies over us when we say our vows? Much more original than doves, right? But I want it to be super-chic! Like an Italian film! Think about Keira Knightley’s wedding – she had a Chanel strapless frock with matching shoes, but it was really simple, like a prom dress, and just a little flower garland thingy in her hair, and the shoes were flats, and then they drove away in a Renault Clio, so it was really shabby-chic simple, but really chic – Karl Lagerfeld was there and he said it was perfect! We can’t do France, because Keira did that already, but maybe Italy? We could get lots of Cinquecento cars instead of Renaults . . .’

  ‘And breathe!’ Ludo commanded, waving his hands in front of her face to stop the breathless flow. ‘Right! So—’ he reached for his glass and drank some more wine, ‘it has to be English and Italian, super-chic but country-style, shabby-chic but smart enough for Karl Lagerfeld to attend . . .’

  ‘Yes, exactly. Perfect!’ Milly rose to her feet, as light as a feather, and picked up her cigarettes and lighter from the coffee table. ‘I’m so glad you get what I’m after. I’m going to have a fag on the smoking terrace – talk about the details with Eva, she’s really going to be your liaison for all the day-to-day stuff. She’s the designer and she knows exactly what my brand needs. You can run everything through her.’

  Refilling her glass and picking that up too, she wafted away in a cloud of pale pink, the layers of her Alice + Olivia silk georgette dress rippling around her narrow frame, the metallic fabric of her flat Charlotte Olympia sandals glistening subtly as she went; heads turned, acquaintances waved to her, and Milly smiled at them all as she floated away and up the stairs to the open smoking terrace.

  ‘I wish I could have a fag on the terrace, and I don’t mean a cigarette,’ Ludo muttered sardonically. ‘She didn’t quite get that I was joking, did she?’

  ‘Um, no,’ Eva admitted. ‘She doesn’t really get it when people tease her.’

  ‘You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of spoilt young madams who think they can order me around as if I were a flunkey,’ Ludo said, perfectly poised. ‘Really, vast amounts of them over the years. The moment they realize that I’m utterly prepared to turn my back and walk away is when they start apologizing profusely and knuckling under. I can pick and choose who I work with, believe me. You’ve seen my recent client list.’

  ‘Oh, please – Milly and Tarquin really want you to organize their wedding!’ Eva said swiftly. ‘Please. I think I can clarify what she’s trying to say . . .’

  ‘I do not do lemonade in jam jars!’ Ludo sniffed.

  ‘No, of course not – but maybe a Lemon Drop cocktail made with organic Meyer lemons served in recycled Venetian glasses?’ Eva suggested. ‘I honestly think the butterflies could be an amazing idea, too. I’m doing a butterfly range for the next Milly and Me collection, we could look at the colours for those . . . I thought Milly could have her hair all dotted with little butterfly pins, and I love your Regency idea. You could dress Tarquin in a frock coat, he’d look wonderful . . .’

  ‘Hmm,’ Ludo said, and went very quiet for a whole minute and a half. Eva started to say something after thirty seconds had elapsed, but he held up an imperious hand and she fell instantly silent, something he noticed with a nod of approval.

  ‘Linen,’ he pronounced eventually.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Eva asked nervously.

  ‘Linen! And cotton!’ Ludo announced, staring up at the canvas sun-curtains overhead. ‘White draperies billowing everywhere! Yards and yards of lovely crisp white cotton, like sheets in the wind – scented, we’ll get some old ladies to starch and iron them all and spray them with lavender and thyme . . . fresh, fresh, fresh! Young, clean, new, a modern look. Wild flowers planted in the centre of the tables. Poppies and cornflowers. I’ll even consider the butterflies, but no promises on that. Of course, this would all be ghastly for a bride and groom a day over twenty-five or with visible signs of wear and tear, if you know what I mean? Your friend Milly’s very lucky that she looks like a Christmas-tree angel,’ he added firmly. ‘And that she’s marrying a grown-up version of Little Lord Fauntleroy.’

  ‘Oh phew!’ Eva almost sagged in relief. ‘I’m so glad you’ll do it. Milly’d set her heart on you planning the wedding, and I love the white linen idea.’

  ‘Covering the tables, blowing in the breeze . . . starch and fresh flowers, Sicilian lemons, geranium and citronella oils burning in torches . . .’ Ludo rhapsodized. ‘I’m going to attempt something really difficult, taste-wise. You know what’s hardest? Simplicity! It’s so easy to slip into parody. And yet I have a very good feeling about this. Beach chic in the Italian countryside. A Tuscan landscape – that stunning Chianti countryside, green hillsides, lines of cypresses, vineyards stretching away down the hill, everything alfresco, maybe a prosecco fountain with people dipping little cut-glass antique punch glasses in, those very old-fashioned ones that nobody uses any more – when you said Venetian glass, I had an epiphany, I could see it all.’

  His voice trailed off. Eva waited to see if he was going to say anything else, but he just sipped some rosé and smiled at her encouragingly, so she ventured to ask, ‘don’t they need to get married in the Town Hall if they want to do it in Italy?’

  ‘No, dear,’ Ludo said dismissively. ‘Legally it has to be a civil wedding conducted by the mayor, but it can be anywhere you like nowadays. I have the perfect location in mind, but I’m not going to say another word yet until I have it nailed down. Oh, I see it all. Even the little Italian ladies behind the scenes, ironing all my lovely linen.’

  ‘Could we organize a religious blessing as well?’ Eva asked. ‘Tarquin’s family’s Catholic, so I know they’d appreciate that. Could you maybe find an Italian priest?’

  Ludo smiled complacently.

  ‘Oh, no problem there,’ he said. ‘I know just the man for the job. Father Liam Wiles – he’s charming, believe me. Tarquin’s family will be more than happy with him.’

  ‘So, is everything sorted?’ Milly was back, her step so light they hadn’t seen her approach, beaming seraphically above them and trailing a smell of Marlboro Ultra Lights. ‘I can see you two’ve put your heads together and got all your ducks in a row, right? I’m so excited!’

  ‘I have to talk to Jodie Raeburn about the timing,’ Ludo said, not deigning to respond directly to his client’s wittering. ‘I definitely need to know her deadline for the Style Bride cover and launch. I imagine we’d need to have the ceremony by the end of May at the latest.’

  Victoria Glossop was Style’s New York-based editor-in-chief, but Jodie Raeburn, the editor of Style UK, was directly responsible for editing Style Bride, and her approval would be crucial when pitching for the coveted cover of the magazine and the title of Style Bride of the Year.

  ‘Oh, whenever!’ Milly said enthusiastically. ‘Whenever! I don’t care if I’m standing in the cold shivering my
tits off as long as the photos are fabulous and I get to be on the cover of Style Bride!’

  ‘Well, that’s the attitude I like to see,’ Ludo commented with the most approval that he had given to anything Milly had said so far.

  ‘And—’ Emboldened by this, Milly perched girlishly on the arm of the sofa beside him, spread her pink skirts around her and bestowed on him a pearly, perfect smile, tossing back her golden locks. ‘I was rather hoping that you’d be nice to us about the whole question of your fee? I mean, we are a very promotable and photogenic couple, and then there’s the whole Style Bride possibility. After all, if that comes off we’ll be absolutely all over the papers, which is great publicity for you – really help to build your business.’

  Ludo’s smile had deepened as she went on, becoming so openly satirical that Milly faltered to a halt, no longer able to look at him as she made her pitch for a discount. When she had wound down, he waited a long three beats before he said, very gently: ‘My dear, you’re aware of my two biggest-profile weddings last year? Wayne and Andy Burns, Melody Dale and James Delancey? Or, as I like to call them, Wonder Woman and Dr Who?’

  These were the roles for which the two actors were respectively known best.

  ‘Of course, you know Melody and James, don’t you?’ Ludo continued. ‘You were in Much Ado About Nothing with her – lovely girl. Such a natural beauty now she’s had all that awful plastic surgery reversed. And you were in Dr Who with James. But despite all that, you weren’t at the wedding, though, were you, dear? No, I didn’t think so. It was very exclusive. Would you like to speculate on the reduction I made in my fees for either of those two couples? Hmn?’

  He tilted his head, still smiling at Milly as he landed this series of killer blows.

  ‘Not. A. Penny,’ he continued. ‘I wouldn’t have reduced my fees if I’d done Prince Hugo’s wedding to Chloe Rose, let me tell you. I don’t do that for anyone, and certainly not you! Believe me—’ He stood up gracefully, smoothed down the folds of his royal blue shantung silk harem trousers, and gathered up his Hugo Boss bag and iPhone. ‘If I wouldn’t give a discount to Wonder Woman and Dr Who, I certainly won’t do it for you!’