Why One Bride Channeled ’70s YSL Via David Bowie for Her Not-So-Small-After-All London Wedding

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.

Haden and Katherine in Chelsea on the day, with the bride carrying a bouquet of Calla lillies.

Photo: Ashley Glasson

As for my three boys, my husband-to-be, (who was working as a tailor when we first met) wore a navy double-breasted mohair suit with a silk and linen tie styled by his former boss, Peter Falconer at Thom Sweeney. He completed his fit with Crockett & Jones tassel loafers. My two sons, Grey, six, and Ripley, three, matched in striped seersucker suits with short trousers and buckled white canvas shoes from Trotters. The last in the wedding party, my co-maid of honor Anne-Marie Clive, wore a bias-cut silk dress by Ghost and carried matching claret-colored dendrobium orchids.

The ceremony itself did remain intimate (just 10 guests), and we got hitched without a hitch (well, aside from the groom taking me as his “unlawfully wedded wife”, much to the registrar’s delight). After more than 10 years together, two sons, and our fair share of peaks and pits, our union is as sure a bet as I’m going to get in this life, but I spent the ceremony breathless and constantly on the verge of uncontrollable ugly tears. I was palpably shaking, which is entirely out of character. Peeking out through the double doors to see the horde waiting for us on the pavement, my heart was in my throat and I absolutely froze. But I was also so happy to see all of my best people’s faces. As much as it had been a bit of a panic to up the game from a quiet lunch in the pub with our parents, it was entirely worth it. I walked out still jittery, but confident enough to hug every person in sight.

With London’s unpredictable summer still serving us multiple seasons in a day, we decided to lean in a moodier (read, rainier) direction with the aesthetic, and held our wedding drinks downstairs in the Cadogan’s atmospheric Rose Room. Our florist Lex Hamilton arranged gothic black calla lilies and plummy hydrangeas to festoon the fireplace, and piled up stainless steel coupes loaded with shiny cherries beside flickering pillar candles. Between the three-tiered Lily Vanilli heart cake finished with more glacé cherries, and my darkest plum nails painted in Biosculpture’s Erica, we swerved any pastel summer wedding clichés.

The pub opened its doors early for us and our band—a fiddle and guitar duo playing Irish classics and Johnny Cash—had the party cresting before midday. It was quite a shock to step outside again a couple of hours later and realize that the sun had, in fact, come out for us. So, not quite as moody as predicted, but after a few flutes of English sparkling, the weather was irrelevant – and luckily I could strip down to my waistcoat.

If this all sounds too seamless to be true, that’s because it is. There are always bigger picture stories at play behind any family event, and not everything went exactly as planned. It was the first time my parents had seen one another since my first wedding 14 years ago (nail-biting initially, but everyone behaved). Neither my, nor my partner’s sibling were there, and only two of my five bridesmaids could make it (one of whom, Ashley Glasson, flew in from LA to take these wonderful pictures). My youngest son freaked out the moment the band started, and wailed inconsolably through my short thank you speech. I spent a good percentage of time during the party talking him off a ledge upstairs, bribings him with ice cream, and feeling my heartstrings pulled.

Even before the day, there were dramas. When my suit first arrived, the trousers were so tight I couldn’t sit down (I blame ice cream season), so I spent the week before the wedding criss-crossing London to see a tailor three times, only picking up the finished suit the day before the wedding. I then promptly left it at home when I left for the hotel that night. This is all just to say, weddings are dreamlike and magic, but typically with a bit of a shitshow on the side. And, understandably, no one posts photos of screaming children, divorced parents, or split trouser seams. That doesn’t mean it isn’t all going on.

We now have two and a half months until the main wedding in the desert, and last week we switched caterers. Gah. Before that there’s a honeymoon (my packing aesthetic is “Sicilian widow”... let’s hope things don’t get too White Lotus), and hen and stag dos in the US. Every part of this whole marital whirlwind has been back to front – to the point that we have become the very definition of putting the cart before the horse. But here we are, and I wouldn’t do it any other way. After this beautiful day (which rates in my top five of all time), I know I’ve got enough stamina to do it at least once more, before I hang up my white shoes for good.