Don’t tell the Boss Read online

  ‘So now that we’re up when we were supposed to be having a lie-in, do you fancy doing something?’

  ‘We could go over and see Lou.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do that this morning?’

  My best friend Lou gave birth to a wonderful little boy called Harry last year. I say wonderful: he is eighty percent of the time, but the rest of the time I wonder whether they should have called him Damien, after the boy from The Omen.

  ‘I think it might make us temporarily thankful for the lack of babies.’

  ‘That’s true. And I think there’s some cricket on, so me and Russell can watch that.’

  ‘Great, I’ll go give her a ring.’

  It’s probably for the best anyway, this whole not being pregnant thing. What with the possible promotion and Henri’s wedding and all. It will be nice to perhaps get the summer out of the way before I get pregnant. Much better on the old timing.

  It’s one thing for me to tell myself that, but it’s another to make myself believe it.

  chapter nine

  princess-on-a-shoestring

  Ask Penny!

  Dear Penny,

  My hubby-to-be (HTB) and I want to have a DJ for our reception. We can’t really afford it and so HTB suggested we make our own iPod playlist. Only he’s into death metal and I’m into really cheesy pop music (think The Saturdays). I have no idea how we’re going to make a playlist without killing each other. Any ideas?

  Pop Princess

  Dear Pop Princess,

  Being your own iPod DJ is becoming more and more popular these days. A great way to make the playlist is to put a card in with your invitations asking your guests to suggest a song that reminds them of you or your HTB. That way, each song that comes on is guaranteed to be liked by at least one person – and it’s bound to be a trip down memory lane for you both too.

  Have a fab wedding!

  Pen x x

  ‘Henri, will you calm down? All will become clear in a minute,’ I say, for what feels like the billionth time since picking her up this morning. We’re marching along Oxford Street, which is fairly empty as the shops are still locked.

  OK, so I may be bringing Henri’s anxiety on myself as I have practically abducted her and not told her where we’re going. I’ve been a bit secret squirrel. I made her book a day off work and then I picked her up in a taxi at 6.15 a.m. and we caught the early train to Waterloo. We then had all the fun of the fair by being squished like sardines on the Tube to Tottenham Court Road.

  Really, she has nothing to worry about. We’re on a mission to get her a wedding dress and that is all she needs to know. I knew if I told her in advance, it would have led to a barrage of emails.

  ‘But I just want to know where we’re going. I mean, is it Browns? Or Selfridges? This is the way to Selfridges, isn’t it?’

  The tone of hope in Henri’s voice is just like a small child when they’re asking Santa for a new bike at Christmas. I don’t want to point out that we’d need her entire budget to buy a dress from Browns. And I don’t want to burst her bubble and tell her that we’re not going to Selfridges either. I think it’s better to leave her in the dark.

  ‘Just trust me. I’m your wedding planner.’

  I’ve used that line a lot recently. It seems to be the only phrase that calms her down. ‘OK. But I don’t like not knowing.’

  ‘Your objections are noted. Look, we’re almost there.’

  Perhaps I should have bought a blindfold for Henri to wear as we’ll have to do a lot of queuing outside the shop. No, Next haven’t started doing wedding sales. We’re off to TK Maxx as they’ve started doing designer wedding dresses. I managed to sign up to a website that tips me the nod when new stock comes in and, hey, here we are at eight a.m. Only one hour to stand in a queue along with about thirty other people. Not bad at all.

  ‘TK Maxx?’ says Henri, confused.

  I can see her looking down the queue of people inspecting them. She looks as if I’ve suggested we’re going to Primark. At least everyone is dressed nicely and, good news for me, Henri hasn’t done the wrinkle nose yet.

  ‘Yes, they do designer wedding dresses and some of them are up to sixty percent off. They might be last season, but they’re really beautiful. If you want the type of show-stopping designer dress with feathers and ruffles, like I think you do, then this might be the right place.’

  Henri’s pouting. I’ve learnt this is a good sign. If she rambles on, then she’s not impressed. But by pouting, it’s her way of saying that I might be right and she’s considering the idea.

  ‘What kind of designers?’

  I almost punch the air with glee. Henri’s interest has been successfully piqued. ‘I’ve seen dresses from Dolce & Gabbana, Armani and Valentino on their website before.’

  I struggle to think of any more off the top of my head, but I can see that Henri’s pupils have started to dilate.

  ‘And they’ve all got sixty percent off?’

  ‘A lot of them,’ I say, nodding.

  ‘Well, I guess it can’t hurt to look.’

  ‘That’s what I think. Now, why don’t you queue up and I’ll go get us some coffees and Danishes.’

  ‘Not for me, thank you very much. If I’m going to try and squeeze myself into a size ten I don’t think I can afford to be eating anything like that.’

  Henri’s practically a bean pole and, to be honest, I think she’s more a size eight. I hardly think one pastry is going to make an impact. I’ll buy an extra one anyway and then, if she really doesn’t want it, at least I’ll have something to snack on as she tries on dresses.

  We’re on a bit of a roll with the wedding planning, we’ve got the venue and the local village church booked. And the church have said yes to Archie the dog being ring-bearer, and with Henri’s mum’s house being just opposite the cricket ground where the reception will be, he can be dropped off after the ceremony – before he ravishes the marquee and eats everyone’s dinner. We just need to sort out the entertainment and the catering. I know they’re pretty monumental, but it doesn’t appear to be to Henri. All she’s worried about is the dress, ergo, I thought we’d get that done next. Then maybe I won’t have my mobile beeping at inappropriate times at night when Henri’s had an anxiety dream that she’s had to walk down the aisle in just her knickers.

  By the time I’ve got back from the bakery, Henri is chatting away animatedly to two women in the queue who I think are mother and daughter. There are smiles and laughter; have I actually succeeded? Is Henri happy? I give myself a virtual pat on the back as I hand Henri her coffee.

  ‘Thanks. This is Penny, my wedding planner,’ says Henri.

  ‘Oh, your wedding planner,’ coos the girl. ‘I’d love to have had one but we just couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Penny won’t mind me saying, but she works with brides on a budget,’ says Henri, still whispering the word.

  ‘You do? Wow,’ says the girl. ‘Perhaps that’s what we should have done, eh, Mum?’

  Her mum’s eyebrows rise in a way that makes me think that their wedding planning experience hasn’t been a happy one.

  ‘Well, you can go to her blog, Princess-on-a-Shoestring, there’s loads of budget wedding tips on it.’

  ‘Oh my God, is that your blog?’ says the girl. ‘We’ve used that loads, haven’t we, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, we have. That tip about the statement flowers was brilliant. We’ve shaved about £400 off the bill.’

  ‘It’s so nice to hear that people read it.’

  ‘I read every post. I’ve got an RSS feed and everything,’ says the bride-to-be.

  ‘Wow.’

  People read my blog! In my head I’m doing a little jig. It feels like the very early days of the blog when I used to clock my stats and see that people other than me and my mum were reading it.

  ‘I’m so excited to meet you. I comment as CrazyBride,’ says the girl.

  ‘I’ve seen your comments,’ I say, excitedly
. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be famous. I can feel my cheeks tingling in embarrassment – in a good way.

  ‘Are you going to blog about these dresses too?’ says the girl.

  ‘Yes, hopefully, if Henri will be good enough to model for me.’

  I notice Henri pat her hair down and stand up a little straighter.

  ‘Can I be in a photo for your website too? Oh, I would die if I was on it.’

  I can’t believe that I’ve bumped into my number-one fangirl.

  ‘Of course, that would be amazing.’

  The sales assistant unlocks the door.

  ‘I’ll look out for you in the fitting room,’ says the bride-to-be. As we shuffle into the store after them, her mum gives my arm a squeeze and tells me to keep up the good work.

  Much to my relief, the scene that unfolds is nothing like the episode of Friends where Monica goes to a sample sale. There are only about a dozen women in the queue actually looking for dresses, once you’ve taken out the fact that most brides-to-be have got friends or mothers with them. Although there might be the odd elbow, and I might have just stamped on someone’s foot, it’s all pretty civilised.

  I end up with three gowns in my hand for Henri to try on. Henri herself was a little overwhelmed by the experience and she just clung onto the first dress she saw which, in her defence, is a beautiful dress.

  There’s something really exciting about being in the fitting room area when everyone in it is trying on wedding dresses. There are people crying with happy tears all over the place. Except in cubicle number four, where there’s a lot of squeezing and poking of flesh to desperately make a dress fit. As much as I’m rooting for the poor girl, matching front-and-back cleavage is never attractive.

  ‘Ta-daa!’ says Henri.

  Oh my. I clasp my hand to my mouth in shock. Henri has quite the dress on.

  ‘You look like a princess,’ I say, gasping.

  She does. Like an actual princess. I wonder if I can describe it in a way that makes it sound as beautiful as it looks in the flesh. It is exquisite. The dress has a strapless bodice that leads into an explosion of tulle and taffeta in a big, massive bouffant. She spins round and I can see the train that’s gathered behind it. It has a train! The dress has a gold-orange hue to it and it sets off Henri’s auburn hair brilliantly. I know you’ve probably got some sort of mental image of a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding dress, but it’s miles away from that.

  ‘I think this is the one,’ she says excitedly.

  I stand up and grab the price tag. It’s only £599, with a recommended retail price of £1,995. Even with my rubbish maths, I can work out that that equals a bargain. And whilst I’d probably have thought that Henri could have got a cheaper dress elsewhere, for a designer-label queen like her, nothing else would have done.

  ‘Try on the Armani I picked out, just in case,’ I say, just because it’s Armani and under £600. God, I love TK Maxx. I must remember to have a quick look at the shoes as we’re here. I mean, if something has sixty percent off, it doesn’t really count as being naughty, does it?

  *

  By the time we leave the shop two hours later, Henri has not only bought herself a wedding dress, the first one she tried on, but she’s also purchased three bridesmaid dresses. I did advise her against buying bridesmaid dresses without the girls trying them on first but, as she pointed out, her sister and her niece weren’t going to be in the UK until a week before the wedding, and her friend Liz would apparently wear what she was given. And with Henri and her hypnotic eye powers, I don’t doubt that.

  The bridesmaids dresses were an absolute bargain and, all in all, totting up the RRPs, Henri saved over £1,500.

  And it wasn’t only Henri that got a bargain. I bought a pair of Kurt Geiger heels for under thirty pounds. Mark will be very proud as I did desperately want a pair of Chloé wedges but, despite them being £300 cheaper than usual, they were still over a hundred. I’m not out of the doghouse quite enough yet to be splashing out on expensive designer shoes.

  Henri’s dress is so big and awkward that we treat ourselves to a taxi back to Waterloo. Well, we did just save all that cash on the dresses and shoes.

  ‘Thanks so much for that, Penny. I can’t believe what just happened. I mean, you actually made my dreams come true. When Nick told me we’d have to plan the wedding on a … you know, the first thing I thought was that I wouldn’t be able to have a wedding dress that would make everyone gasp with amazement. But you found me one, Penny. I’m going to be a princess.’

  ‘A princess on a shoestring,’ I laugh.

  ‘Exactly. Penny, you know you’re wasted in your day job, don’t you? I mean, I think you were made to be a wedding planner.’

  ‘Thanks, Henri. But you know, I really enjoy working in HR.’

  Or at least, I usually enjoy working in HR. I haven’t liked it so much lately, but that’s because I’m busting my balls trying to prove myself to Giles. But it’s my career; it’s what I do.

  ‘I know you probably do, but you’ve got a real gift for weddings. I heard you talking to that bride-to-be and her mother about the veil ideas as I was trying on the Armani.’

  I can feel my cheeks going pink with the praise. I don’t naturally like to be complimented; I’m far too British for that.

  ‘I just get ideas from when I write blogs. It’s not hard if you learn to look in the right places.’

  ‘But that’s the thing, Penny, people don’t know where to look. I mean, I’d never in a million years have known that TK Maxx did wedding dresses.’

  ‘It’s pretty new—’

  ‘But you’d heard about it. Have you not thought of setting up a wedding planning business properly, rather than just the odd wedding?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, professional wedding planners charge big fees and have their work cut out for them.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m sure you could do different packages. Maybe you could tailor it. I mean, most fancy-pants wedding planners are there to make the day run smoothly; to orchestrate the day itself. What you seem to be best at is all the stuff beforehand: negotiating the discounts and finding the budget way to do things. Maybe you don’t need to be there on the actual day. You could set it up so it runs itself like a wedding without a planner.’

  ‘Maybe.’ My mind’s whirring at the thought of running Princess-on-a-Shoestring full time. Imagine getting to see women’s face’s light up as they find their in-budget dream dress on a frequent basis. And then I think back to Mark. He hates my wedding blog. I think whenever he thinks of me and my obsession with weddings, he can’t help but think of my gambling, and who can blame him? I lost £10,000 playing bingo in order to try and buy a Vera Wang wedding dress.

  And it’s not like it’s a Dragon’s Den idea, is it? I mean, it’s not a viable money option. From £1,000 fees, I’d have to plan thirty weddings a year to make the same amount I do now. That’s potentially thirty bridezillas: imagine.

  ‘You should think about it. If you ever wanted an investment to set it up, then I’m sure I could talk to my father about it. He’s always looking for opportunities to invest in.’

  Henri hasn’t really talked much about her father before. I know she’s very close to her mother and that her parents divorced when she was young.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind. So, is your father excited about the wedding?’

  ‘I think so. Although, I’m quite scared about him coming. He likes the finer things in life and he’ll judge it based on how expensive it looks.’

  ‘Could he not have given you any money?’

  Henri shakes her head. ‘He offered to pay for the whole thing when we first announced our engagement, but I refused and told him Nick and I wanted to do it on our own. My dad keeps trying to make up for the divorce by throwing money at things. Take my lovely shoes and my designer clothes. He sends them to me regularly, even though I tell him not to because, to be honest, I’d much rather just see him for lunch instead. But he’s always out of the country o
r, if he’s in the country, then he’s too busy.’

  I don’t think I’d mind not seeing my dad as often if he sent me current season Miu Mius. But then again, given the option between not seeing my dad and the Miu Mius, I’d probably pick my dad. Or at least, I’m ninety percent sure I would.

  ‘Of course, I refused before Nick told me we were going to do it on a budget.’

  ‘Would you have taken the money if you’d known about the budget before?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But the problem is that now this wedding will be a reflection on Nick and how successful he is. I don’t want my dad to suspect that we’re not as well off as we should be.’

  We’re stuck on a bridge across the Thames, and Henri looks out of the window of the cab at it. I’m about to launch into a spiel that sometimes it’s better to get everything out in the open and to tell her my experiences of how nice it was to be truthful with Mark and both of our families, but I manage to stop myself in time. I desperately want to confide in her as I know from personal experience how much it helps in these situations. It’s all right for us addicts; we have our support group to help us through. Yet our loved ones have just as much crap to go through and who do they have to turn to? I often joke with Mark that he should set up his own ‘I-married-a-gambler’ support group.

  ‘We’ll just have to make sure that your dad doesn’t realise that it didn’t cost many magic beans then,’ I say.

  Henri smiles at me and, right there, I see the sadness in her eyes, which is the true cost of what gambling debt does.

  ‘Thanks, Penny. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  In that single moment, the crazy phone calls and the hourly emails all seem worth it. Sure, to an outsider, Henri might just have a few bridezilla overtones but, then again, I’ve yet to find a bride who doesn’t have a slight whiff of it at one point or another.

  It’s also the first time that I feel I’ve connected with Henri on a non-business level. She’s far from the self-assured, confident woman she usually is.