Why One Bride Channeled ’70s YSL Via David Bowie for Her Not-So-Small-After-All London Wedding
We’ll just invite our parents… and the best men and bridesmaids, of course. Maybe we should ask Tim as he asked us to his? What about the neighbors? Aunty June is asking if she can “just stand on the steps to see us and then she’ll leave”. Good lord, what a martyr. We’d better ask her then. Apparently, Victoria is in town for business and would love to join… for goodness’ sake, let’s just ask bloody everyone.
My fiancé and I have been planning a wedding in the Californian desert for the past year. It’s going to be a mid-century spectacular, and a collaboration between lots of our friends who work in different areas of the creative industries. As it’s a destination wedding, we knew we were also going to do a civil ceremony here in the UK first. It’s actually relatively simple for Brits to get married in America—you just need to obtain a license from the county clerk where you’re getting married, and then book a registered officiant (hello, Vegas). But I had been down this road before having married (someone else) in Italy when I was younger—and the comedy of errors that ensued that time around was the stuff of nuptial nightmares.
Leaving all the paperwork to the last minute relies on everything going right, and while the process in America may be more straightforward than the crazy bureaucratic hoops I jumped through in Italy, once bitten, twice shy. All it takes is a forgotten document, a traffic jam, a strike, or simply turning up to an appointment to find the office is closed for you to find yourself with 80 people flying into town for a marriage that won’t be happening, after all. My blood pressure quite simply can’t cope.
Most couples embarking on a wedding party abroad do the civil part a few days before the big shebang. But with the kids’ summer holidays looming and a web of different things going on at home, I thought a three-month lag between the two could be a good idea. Certainly, it would allow us plenty of time to iron out any kinks, or even disasters (this is my PTSD talking for sure). Also, there’s something kind of romantic about stringing it out, hopefully it’s going to be the last time I say “I do”, after all.
However, what was initially meant to be a quick in and out, 12-people-in-the-room situ snowballed into basically another wedding. In fact, it was the exact wedding I had imagined when I got engaged on Christmas Day, before my boyfriend shared his vision, which is, shall we say… a little more high-key.
Family dynamics have also played a part in how the celebrations came together. With some central characters unable to share air (honestly, it’s every family), having two different events meant the guest list could be split, and the arrangement has ostensibly kept everyone happy. For those unable to travel for whatever reason, it also meant they got to share in the joy. For everyone else London-based, the offer of an initial round of booze and food—this time within reach of the District Line—was understandably appealing. And so: rather than a small legal affair ahead of our Californian extravaganza, two weddings. Take my experience as a cautionary tale: if you’re marrying abroad and don’t want to fall into the same trap, tell not a soul about your appointment at the town hall.
Speaking of the town hall, for us it was always going to be Old Chelsea for the legal biz. While Marylebone is prettier, as a daughter of two mods with a Fashion History MA under my belt, the King’s Road has always held special significance. True, it might be swinging less energetically these days, but the venue remains iconic. Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski. Liam and Patsy and Liam and Nicole. Marc Bolan. Judy Garland… Definitely some good company. For the knees-up afterwards, the Cadogan Arms was the natural choice, and then there was only ever one hotel in the running: Claridge’s. With the three Cs (Chelsea, Cadogan, Claridge’s) secured, we reinvented precisely nothing, but nailed the classic London wedding.
When it came to what I’d wear, I knew one thing: it wasn’t going to be another dress. After trying on 120 in my search for a gown for my main wedding day, I wanted something more urbane. My girlfriend Sarah Corbett-Winder launched a suit brand called Kipper last year, and after wearing one of her three-piece styles over the festive period, I knew it would hit just the right note for Chelsea—I just had to persuade her to make it in white. In the end, we spent a spirited morning together fabric shopping and picked out a mid-price duchesse satin from Joel Son, just behind Edgware Road Tube. Our combined vision was 1970s YSL via David Bowie. Definitely shiny.
For my “something borrowed”, my maid of honor Camille Charrière lent me her Dior newspaper print Saddle bag, and Jessica McCormack (who designed my engagement ring and our wedding bands) loaned me a diamond and pearl choker with a shell pendant and some pearl drop earrings. Finally, a pair of pearl-encrusted platforms from Jimmy Choo completed the look: a nod to our capital’s Pearly Queens.
After going through some Katniss Everdeen-style beauty prep, I was plucked, dyed, waxed, polished, trimmed, and plumped. (Thanks must go to my skin guru Dr. Anita Sturnham, hairdresser Sophie Thomas at Josh Wood, manicurist Michelle Class, and my beloved colorist Bryony Cairns, who also did my blow dry on the day), I wanted my wedding make-up to look almost invisible. Fortunately, that just so happens to be my make-up artist Aimée Twist’s specialty.