The Wedding Girl. Home · The Wedding Girl Author: Madeleine Wickham the Wedding · Read more · The Wedding. Read more · The Wedding · Read more. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. The usually reliable Wickham ( Shopaholic series author Sophie Kinsella's alter ego) falters with this overplotted and. Engaged to Simon - who is good-looking, wealthy and adores her - she is about to have the biggest and most elaborate wedding imaginable, all masterminded.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Portuguese|
|Genre:||Academic & Education|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Registration Required]|
The Wedding Girl. Файл формата pdf; размером ,60 КБ. Добавлен пользователем ritcy, дата добавления неизвестна; Отредактирован Get Free Read & Download Files The Wedding Girl By Madeleine Wickham PDF. THE WEDDING GIRL BY MADELEINE WICKHAM. Download: The Wedding. (c) - page 1 of 8 - Get Download The Wedding Girl And The Gatecrasher Bjhvoxq By Madeleine Wickham EBOOK EPUB KINDLE PDF.
A few glanced up towards the steps of the registry office to see what all the fuss was about, and tacitly acknowledged that the young couple on the steps did make a very striking pair.
Her spiky, white-blond hair was growing hot in the afternoon sun; the hired veil was scratchy against her neck, the nylon lace on her dress felt uncomfortably damp wherever it touched her body. But still she felt light-hearted and full of a euphoric energy.
She had only arrived in Oxford three weeks ago. School had finished in July — and while all her friends had planned trips to Ibiza and Spain and Amsterdam, Milly had been packed off to a secretarial college in Oxford.
When, suddenly, the older one addressed her, she felt her heart leap with excitement. At the pit of her stomach was a feeling of anticipation which increased as the afternoon wore on: a sexual frisson heightened by the fact that there were two of them and they were both beautiful. Rupert was lithe and golden like a young lion; his hair a shining blond halo; his teeth gleaming white against his smooth brown face.
In fact, this way was almost better: this way, she had the pair of them to herself. And then Allan had asked her to marry him. And now they were married. Allan first, his hand quick and deft, then Milly, attempting to produce a grown-up signature for the occasion.
Allan had given Milly a tiny grin and kissed her again. Her mouth still tingled slightly from the touch of him; her wedding finger still felt self-conscious in its gold-plated ring.
It had been almost impossible to persuade Allan and Rupert that she should hire a wedding dress for the occasion: now she was wearing it, she wanted to prolong the moment for ever. She moved slightly closer to Allan, clinging to his elbow, feeling the roughness of his suit against her bare arm.
A sharp summer breeze had begun to ripple through her hair, tugging at her veil and cooling the back of her neck. An old theatre programme was being blown along the dry empty gutter; on the other side of the street the tourists were starting to melt away. It landed on the pavement, at the feet of a dark-haired boy of about sixteen, who bent and picked it up.
He began to look at it carefully, as though examining some strange artefact. She felt suddenly aggrieved a little foolish, standing bare-headed, in her ill-fitting nylon wedding dress.
The boy shrugged. Then she looked up and blushed. Thank you very much. He nodded at her and before Milly could say anything else, walked off.
Milly looked at him. His face was glowing; he seemed more beautiful than ever before. In the following days, Milly spent every spare moment with Rupert and Allan. At the weekends they drove out into the countryside, laying sumptuous picnics out on checked rugs. The next day, Allan took her to the station, helped her stash her luggage on a rack, and dried her tears with a silk handkerchief. Milly never saw him again.
These, however, were currently lost under the welter of bright clothes, CDs, magazines and make-up piled high on every available surface.
In the corner a handsome mahogany wardrobe was almost entirely masked by a huge white cotton dress carrier; on the bureau was a hat box; on the floor by the bed was a suitcase half full of clothes for a warm-weather honeymoon.
Milly, who had come up some time earlier to finish packing, leaned back comfortably in her bedroom chair, glanced at the clock, and took a bite of toffee apple. In her lap was a glossy magazine, open at the problem pages. It was always the same. Tell the truth. Be honest. Like some sort of secular catechism, to be learned by rote and repeated without thought. Her eyes flicked to the second problem. I earn much more money than my boyfriend. Some problem.
She turned over the page to the homestyle section, and peered at an array of expensive waste-paper baskets. Idly, Milly raised her eyes from her magazine and looked around her bedroom.
But on Saturday she would be leaving and never coming back. She would be setting up her own home. Starting afresh.
As a grown-up, bona fide, married woman. You were supposed to be clearing this lot up! She closed her magazine and put it on the floor, then, on second thoughts, kicked it under the bed. A pair of well-cut black trousers hung to one side, along with a charcoal grey tailored skirt, a chocolate trouser suit and an array of crisp white shirts. All the clothes she would have to throw out before Saturday.
She put on the black trousers and one of the white shirts, and reached for the cashmere sweater Simon had given her as a Christmas present. She looked at herself severely in the mirror, brushed her hair — now buttery blond and shoulder-length — till it shone, and stepped into a pair of expensive black loafers.
Sighing, Milly closed her wardrobe door, stepped over a pile of underwear on the floor, and picked up her bag.
She sprayed herself with scent, closed the bedroom door firmly behind her and began to walk down the stairs. Olivia Havill was standing by the chest of drawers, her jewellery box open. You only make your marriage vows once! Not those silly little things. And, darling, do remember to ask Canon Lytton about the rose petals.
His dark hair sprang up energetically from his wide forehead and he smelt discreetly of aftershave.
That will piss me off. His neck was tense and his eyes fixed determinedly ahead. He reminded her of a young bulldog ready for a scrap. As they neared the corner he reached in his pocket and bleeped his car open. She cast her mind quickly back to the Daily Telegraph. Books lined the walls, books covered every surface, and teetered in dusty piles on the floor.
Canon Lytton himself resembled a sheet of old paper. His thin, powdery skin seemed in danger of tearing at any moment; whenever he laughed or frowned his face creased into a thousand lines. At the moment — as he had been during most of the session — he was frowning.
His bushy white eyebrows were knitted together, his eyes narrowed in concentration and his bony hand, clutched around an undrunk cup of tea, was waving dangerously about in the air. Trust is the key. Trust is the rock. She glanced at Simon.
He was leaning forward, as though ready to interrupt. But Canon Lytton was not the sort of speaker to brook interruptions. Each time Simon had taken a breath to say something, the clergyman had raised the volume of his voice and turned away, leaving Simon stranded in frustrated but deferential silence.
He would have liked to take issue with much of what Canon Lytton was saying, she could tell. Her gaze slid idly over to the glass-fronted bookcase to her left. There she was, reflected in the glass. Smart and shiny; grown-up and groomed. She felt pleased with her appearance. She also did an unpacking post as opposed to a packing one.
The PDF not only is expertly designed, but also directly solicits brand partnerships and was sent to marketers under the guise of a possible sponsorship.
Bryan Pedersen, an advertising executive who saw the deck himself, balked at the suggestion that Fuchs was unaware of the contents. Fuchs herself is the director of brand partnerships at Goop, so she is likely aware of how such deals work. He said it was actually Evans, a social-media marketer who has done work for Michael Kors and Audi, who put the deck together and suggested reaching out to brands.
Grossman told Evans about his plans for the scavenger hunt, and Evans, knowing which brands Fuchs regularly works with, helped mastermind the partnerships. Almost all the ones that did were companies that Fuchs already had a good working relationship with, like FlyWheel, which put on a free, private class, and the clothing designer Love Shack Fancy, which sent Fuchs some free dresses. Glamsquad, an on-demand beauty service, provided free hair and makeup styling.
The only major new partnership to develop from the proposal came after Evans got in touch with Flytographer; they provided three photographers for free.
Grossman also received a hefty discount on the Jade Trau jewelry he gave Fuchs, but Fuchs has been friends with Trau for a long time and regularly receives discounts on her designs. Grossman said that he understands why some people might criticize his plan, but that he just wanted to make Fuchs happy. Grossman, who works in finance and is generally more private on social media, said he was happy to step outside his usual box if it made her smile.
Celebrities, reality stars, and other influencers already monetize their weddings , their pregnancies , and their breakups ; an engagement is par for the course. The more influencers are fabricating scenarios for brands to be part of, the less influential they become.
What is that price that makes it worth it?