Page 12 of Unstitch

I suppose Anton’s tied the knot three times before, and while he’s endlessly vocal about how he’s never felt anything like how he feels about my sister, he’s an old hand at this. And Gen’s not exactly a flapper. She was never going to be bridezilla. And she does operations-type stuff for a living—she’s Alchemy’s Chief Operating Officer, after all. So this is her milieu.

Still. My real takeaway from watching the wedding and its three million related circuses take shape in the couple of weeks leading up to them is that when you have gazillions of pounds, you can make anything happen and make any problem go away.

Last-minute guest list additions or cancellations?

Pas de problème. The scary Parisian wedding planner will take care of those.

BA just cancelled an outbound flight that loads of the guests are booked on?

Whatever. Somebody will charter another private plane for those guys.

It’s fascinating and brain melting and kind of horrifying, too, but it’s certainly made my life as a bridesmaid very easy indeed.

The hardest part of my role in the celebrations, to be honest, has been dealing with my mum and dad. Though I have to hand it to my sister: there’s nothing like marrying the country’s most respected billionaire to placate the most obnoxious, judgemental parents.

They’re not awful people. They’re just… themselves. Which is Surrey born and bred, socially mobile middle-class people who care far too much about what their friends at the golf club think of them and, I’d say, far too little about their daughters stepping fully into their own potential as children of the universe.

(Yeah, they’re a lot less woo-woo than I am.)

It’s like this: Gen’s always been the straight-A student, so they’ve basked—happily and loudly—in her reflected glory. When she worked at JP Morgan, they talked about it a lot. But when she left the City to start a sex club, she instantly became She Who Shall Not Be Mentioned. They won’t talk about it with her, and they definitely don’t talk about it with their social set.

A tiny part of me gets why they are the way they are—they’re stuck in their own claustrophobic social bubble where everyone is white and ostensibly straight and works in some respectable, middle-class job. They and their friends are the exact result of everything they’ve worked so hard for, for decades now, and they’re terrified of pushing boundaries and damaging optics.

But a far larger part of me can’t fucking stand their ostrich mentality. That’s the same part who moved to the other side of the world to get some freedom from their suffocating brand of affection.

It’s all really unfair on Gen. Of the two of us, I’m the one who had it all handed to her on a platter. Gen had to be a star at absolutely everything she did, but when I turned up twelve years later, after multiple miscarriages for my poor mum, I was so desperately wanted—and so damn cute—that I was indulged and coddled beyond belief.

It was also suffocating beyond belief.

Suffice to say, we’ve both pissed our parents off no end, and, while it’s their own fault that they hold us to some weird, outdated standard of what a successful and compliant daughter looks like, I get that their disappointment in us feels as real to them as our disappointment in them feels.

They worked hard so they could educate us privately, and we’ve never wanted for anything, so I think our lack of appropriate gratitude bewilders them. Just as their inability to accept us as beautiful, fully realised human beings living their truth bewilders us.

Ugh.

Sorry.

I tend to get on a roll when it comes to slagging off my parents.

Anyway, they’re here. And they’re ecstatic. They’ll dine out on this match at the golf club for the rest of their lives. Anton, I have to say, has been so suave and sexy and attentive that they’re pretty much constantly in a semi-orgasmic state. He definitely knows how to play them.

And when Anton Wolff tells them their daughter is simply the most exquisite, talented, unique human to have ever graced the earth, they listen.

There’s only one black sheep left in the family now.

If I wasn’t already crying tears of happiness for my beautiful, amazing sister as she marries the man she loves, I’d be crying at how perfectly stunning this entire event is.

Because it really is.

It’s flawless.

They legally tied the knot yesterday at the Hôtel de Ville, or town hall, in Nice, as French law dictates. But today’s the big celebration. An enormous structure has been built on the main lawn around the side of the villa—kind of like a giant pergola—whose wooden struts are interwoven with jasmine and other unknown, but very pretty, white flowers. It provides the guests with some shade on a hot early July day in this glorious part of the world.

I follow Zach’s daughters, Stella and Nancy, down the aisle as the strains of violin music from the string quartet fill the air. They’re both wearing white broderie anglaise dresses and have little wicker baskets full of white rose petals, which they’re scattering as they go. Everyone oohs and ahhs at them. They’re so adorable, and so well behaved, it’s ridiculous.

I’m aware I look seriously good in custom Givenchy, which is what the bride and groom are wearing too. Gen’s not one of those brides who has to make sure she looks better than everyone else—she does that effortlessly. But it’s a testament to her generosity that she let me pick the design of my dress.

I opted for palest sea-foam green, which works so well with my auburn hair. My dress is crêpe-backed satin, but the satin side is next to my skin while the matte side provides the perfect lustre. It’s long and flowing, with thin straps and almost no back.

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