The Wedding Date Disaster by Kate Mathieson – Extract

Chapter 1

Benjamin McDonald is already in the boardroom.

Looking smug. Of course.

And I’m late. I hate being late. Especially today, when everything matters.

Shit, shit, shit.

Ben is in the corner chatting up a twenty-three-year-old intern. Predictable. He seems to be in his element; the girl appears fascinated by him, and so does he. He’s probably telling her some long story, and she’s getting all starry-eyed and putting her hand on his arm.

Ben’s arrival at Peacock Publishing, just four month ago, basically came with its own parade. There were excitable whispers from every cubicle, group chats, and fervent discussions over lunch. Could someone this handsome possibly be single? The checks were done: no wedding ring; Facebook profile picture was solely him on a surfboard far out in some glistening water, and he never spoke about a significant other.

Within the first month, Ben had charmed the pants off almost everyone; guys and girls were all going gaga. Women started wearing higher heels and tighter dresses, men tighter pants and showing more calf. There were no Monday hangover looks anymore, and everyone seemed to be going to the hairdresser and the gym more often than usual. It seemed like our entire team was wondering who he was interested in, and how they could slip between his sheets for a stealth shagging session.

The thing about editors is that when we see a manuscript we really like, we’re reckless about it, self-absorbed, we must have it, but all the people in the office became like that about Ben. Work wasn’t getting done. Deadlines were missed. Which only made Ben look more like a star when he pulled in James McMahon, a best-selling author, whom Peacock had been trying to sign for almost a year.

I don’t know what Ben did, but likely it involved lots of wine, beer and strip clubs, possibly chicken feathers and blood too. I expect this is how he signs most of his authors, given he’s constantly out to long lunches full of expensive wine and fancy food, likely using his smooth looks to convince people to sign with him. He oozes city salesman to me. I feel that, if I were to look behind him when he walks by, I would see an oil slick in his wake.

Other colleagues, all wrapped up in their lives, aren’t as clued up to his schmooze, and annoyingly seem to find him sweet. I file their delusions of Ben being kind under ‘I’ll Believe It When I See It’. And I have never seen it. In fact, Ben makes me break out in goosebumps in a bad way, the way you’d feel if you were swimming in a large ocean, and saw a big dark shadow beneath you. You’re hoping dolphin, dolphin, dolphin, but you just know it’s a great white shark, full of razor-pointed teeth.

There’s just something about him that always suggests everything is a competition, and you are losing, and he has the upper hand. I’ve tried a few times to chat to him, but for some reason, he doesn’t flirt with me, which is great – because I have a wonderful boyfriend, Adam – but also leaves me slightly confused. Why does he go out of his way to ignore me most of the time, only to then occasionally be a downright dick? On his first day he confused me with his secretary. Why? Because I’m a woman. Roll of eyes.

Am I the only one that can see right through him? I wonder this as I watch men and women making excuses to ‘pass’ by his office, and ask him loads of insane questions as if they were interested in his editing skills. Please. So what if he’s won the genetic lottery?

Sure, Ben is a blond Adonis, handsome in that typical Aussie guy way, with glacial blue eyes, and perfect wavy hair. He looks rather like Simon Baker circa The Mentalist – tanned, chiselled and always wearing a three-piece suit, even when the rest of us are in jeans. You know the type: super expensive, dark navy, Gucci, and he looks pretty good in it. Which he knows. He also has a square jaw made to cut through steel.

But his personality is so unattractive that it always reminds me of that Edvard Munch image – you know the painting of that man on a bridge, howling in shrill existential pain: The Scream. Or maybe that’s how I feel – screaming – whenever we are in the same room.

Like now. I stride as confidently as I can into the boardroom, where about forty people are milling around
holding coffees and complaining about being up all night. I try not to yawn. I’ve barely slept a wink too and was up at five a.m. trying to pull together The Perfect Look. Have to hold my own with this editing crowd. The beauty of them. The elegant chicness. The way they could wear a garbage bag and call it utilitarian exposé, and everyone would nod and say ‘mmmmm, wonderful’. I’m not a good dresser, never have been, never cared that much. I would rather make room in my tiny flat for more books than for
more clothes.

‘Go as you,’ my junior editor, Ruby, our best junior editor, and my favourite lunch date because of her hilarious dating stories, urged me last week, standing in front of me in high-waisted hot pink pants, and a matching almost-midriff-baring vest top. Gen Z. So full of confidence it’s inspiring.

But go as me? I just can’t. I’m happiest wearing tracksuit pants and a comfy singlet top, eating a fried chicken breast, whilst bingeing true crime or reading Jane Austen. At night, when normal people are sleeping, I’m hunched over a laptop in a darkened room at one a.m., in a sports bra, begging the creative gods to be good to me as I attempt to write my own book while eating corn chips. Tragic.

If only I were my half-sister, Lulu. Lulu who’s in charge of curating six-page spreads in British Vogue. Lulu who could be on the cover. Lulu who makes everyone melt a little around her – the prettiness! The skinniness! The haunting beauty!

‘Hey, Gemma, good luck today!’ Claire, one of the new junior editors, crosses both fingers at me and I start to smile. I’ll take all the luck I can get, especially if she’s really rooting for me … but then she turns around and says ‘Bennie! Good luck today.’

Bennie?

Ben gives her a charming smile and does that thing where he tosses his head to the side, and looks at her from beneath a perfect curl of blond hair. I’m sure her knees wither a bit. Damn, girl, don’t fall for that.

‘Thanks, you,’ he says in a smooth deep voice, and adjusts his navy blue three-piece suit, as I try not to smirk. I know that’s rude, but he clearly doesn’t know her name, and somehow, I manage to resist pointing that out.

As per usual, he manages to weasel his way out of any sticky situations with a lopsided smile and sometimes a wink (gross). Hence why I’ve nicknamed him Weasel: he just has a way of worming himself into any conversation, any book deal… Anything that is going well, you can be assured Ben (aka Weasel) is going to be there taking the glory.

Weasel surveys the room as if he were a celebrity about to make a speech, nodding a few times at people who wave at him – mostly women who suddenly have doe eyes. He seems determined to avoid me, despite the fact I’m standing two metres from him.

‘Good morning, Ben,’ I say between clenched teeth. Taking the high road, as I always do.

‘Oh, Gemma, I didn’t see you.’

Ugh. Ben. World’s worst gift to everyone.

I wait for him to respond like a normal human.

This is the part where you say good morning too…

He doesn’t.

Instead he flicks his eyes over my simple black dress. ‘Heading to a finance meeting after this?’

I stiffen. What a dick. I know what he’s doing: trying to psych me out. I take a deep breath; I don’t need to be distracted by an asshole in Armani.

Elsa Liu, CEO extraordinaire, decked head to toe in a pink Dolce suit with sky-high Jimmy Choos, arrives with her usual flourish. How does someone who owns a publishing company end up owning a Lamborghini rather than a library? She’s fantastically confident, and someone I look up to for her savviness, ambition, great taste in books and closet (except I’d have a very large library, instead of a fancy car). She looks stunning in her look-at-me pink.

I stare down at my dress, which suddenly feels like a drab black sack. This morning, I stood for an hour in my bra and undies looking around the room, because I literally had nothing to wear. After four wardrobe changes, I ended up in a simple French wool knit black dress with an asymmetrical neckline, which seemed to suit my pale English rose skin. It has been tailored to accentuate the hips I don’t have, and finishes flatteringly just below my skinny knees, and at seven a.m. it felt perfect, paired with my killer red heels (patent leather, like a double plump lipgloss). I clipped my wavy brown hair into a soft bun at the nape of my neck, in the hope of looking librarian chic. Lastly, I donned my new tortoiseshell Versace reading glasses that emphasise the soft hazel of my eyes. Fashionable, yet focused. Nerdy, yet elegant.

I shouldn’t worry about what I look like, but I do. Bad feminist? Hannah, my bestie, would have a fit. ‘God sakes, Gemma, wear an old sack if you want, don’t shave your underarm hair, show ’em your worth isn’t tied up in how you look.’

That’s Hannah, sticking it to the patriarchy one bullshit at a time. The thing is, it works for her. She’s a social worker for LGBTQI, and she is known for being fierce and passionate, challenging politicians to change their policies and leading rallies up and down George Street. No one fucks with Han and we all love that about her. Jess, her partner, loves her so much, she recently got down on one knee and proposed, and really, they bring out the best in each other. Total couple goals.

Han’s right about not worrying about what people think, I know that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about women doing whatever the hell they want. But I can’t help that little part inside of me that just wants to look really freakin’ good doing whatever the hell I want.

Usually people wear casual clothes, but today they told us to dress up, and clearly I’ve totally missed the memo. I look around the boardroom, filled with gold skirts and pink shirts and bright splashes of blue and purple, mixed with Prada loafers or designer trainers, and a sinking doubt creeps in: I’m not a cool girl. I’ve never been a cool girl. I am nerdy and a book lover, and I’ve clearly misjudged today, dressing like I worked in a bank. I feel a sense of anxiety and panic rise in my chest like a thousand tiny wasps stinging me.

Elsa strides by me in a flash of fuchsia, and beelines straight to Ben. I can’t overhear what she’s saying, but he’s smiling the way he does, slightly lopsided and charming. I try not to panic. I won’t be distracted by what seems just an innocent conversation.

Today is important and I have my eye on the prize. It isn’t at all about what I’m wearing (although now I am questioning it); it’s about who I am as an editor. I’m tenacious, and hopeful, and both of those traits got me an internship at a small publisher when I was twenty-one and no one else would hire me without experience. I worked hard, slogging it out making coffees and booking appointments, until I worked my way up to assistant, then junior editor, then editor by the time I was twenty-eight. There was a big party in my flat that night, as I got drunk and told everyone that I could now officially get my hands on the slush pile.

For the last six years, I’ve been a senior editor, but now the next step is on the table, and I want it, badly. Simply because I love books, and always had. I still turn to them when I need a rush of joy. I was hooked early; apparently, I gummied all over my father’s favourite Michael Frayn. He used to have a scotch and read it most nights when he got home from his Fleet Street newspaper job. But that was before he moved out.

‘Morning, Gemma.’ Millie Powers, our newest intern, grins at me. ‘I’m hoping you get it.’

Me too, Millie, me too.

I give her a big smile, nod thanks, and try not to let my anxiety show. Normally I’d let other people win and get the accolade, happy to stand in the shadows, but not today. This is something I’ve wanted my entire life. In fact, I want it so much I’m breaking out in a nervous sweat.

It all started a month ago, when Tony broke the news to the senior editors.

Tony, my boss and Head of Editing, was perpetually a designer-dressed grumpy-grump face, unless he was on the golf course or footy field (blissfully happy, and likely drunk), or muttering in rage about his ex-wife taking him to the cleaners. Last meeting he moaned that he only had one Porsche, not two. I cry for him at night. He’s a terrible listener, but a really good editor, knows a hot book when he sees it, and, admittedly, I do have a soft spot for him, since he gave me many chances at editing books, including Lovers Green, which won a literary award several years back.

Tony had positioned himself at the front of the room with a slight scowl on his face, before he declared ceremoniously.

‘There’s going to be a new position created in the team: Chief Editor.’

Out of the people there, most had been recently promoted as the company grew, so it was clearly between three of us: me, Gavin and Ben.

Tony continued. ‘It’s a large step up. Think VIP. And, of course, more money.’

Ben’s eyes lit up. Gavin cocked his head, as if weighing up the money versus the responsibility. He’d been a senior editor at Peacock for two years and could easily be in the running. But Ben? No way, I thought, you’ve only been here four months, I’ve been here six years. SIX. Don’t try and weasel your way in. I tried to send telepathic thoughts his way.

And I’m pretty sure he was sending some thoughts too, because he looked pointedly at me, and narrowed his eyes, with that silly little smirk he does, as if he was telling me, Watch out, Gemma, I’m hot on your tail. Didn’t I bring in more books last quarter than you? What’s happening? Dropping your game?

Tony described the new role as key in the future of the company, and said it would take a lot of time and dedication. He basically said, ‘Give me your blood, sweat and tears.’

Gavin said, ‘Well, that’s me out. My wife is already complaining that I spend too much time away from home.’

He shrugged, looking a little defeated.

‘That’s what having three kids will do to you,’ Ben said matter-of-factly.

Gavin looked crushed. My mouth dropped open. How could Tony think someone like this would be a good chief editor?

‘Gavin, your four sons are adorable,’ I tried to reassure him, and he gave me a weak smile.

Tony had continued. ‘We’re looking at breaking down the marketplace into luxury and traditional, rather than just verticals. Instead of looking after a certain genre, we want to be the first publishing house that makes the distinction for our VIP clients, that gives them the platinum level service, that understands them no matter what they write.’

I already wanted it so badly, more than I wanted most things. I’ve been reading books since I was a little girl, and first fell in love with words. Words tell stories. Stories open hearts. And who doesn’t want their hearts opened? To escape to another place for a little while? My childhood wasn’t always the easiest, but I remember curling up with a book and letting it transport me into another world where anything was possible. As soon as I opened that book, BOOM, I could be anywhere else.

In fact, it was Judy White who taught me about love, when my mother couldn’t. And Enid Blyton who taught me about magic and adventure. Books were everything to me. On the spot, right then, I would have given up my entire flat and my YSL imitation heels for that role, although I’m aware this is bribery, and generally frowned upon.

‘This is such a great idea.’ I nodded at Tony, trying to hide my total excitement.

‘What about your romcoms? Who would look after the housewives who need to escape their routine lives?’ Ben’s lip was curled in what I can only describe as the beginning of a victorious sneer, as if he had me, in his mouth, like prey.

‘Actually, Ben,’ I said breezily, ‘that’s now Amy’s niche.’ Talk about dropping your game; you don’t even know what each of the editors manage. I paused for a moment hoping he would look crestfallen, but he didn’t. ‘I look after non-fiction, though I am helping Amy out while she’s on holiday.’ Which is a very chief editor thing to do, I wanted to point out.

‘You mean Gardening for the Elderly?’ He laughed.

‘It was one of the most successful books we’ve had here, “Green”, and was shortlisted for the Wallace Stegner Prize in Environmental Humanities. But maybe that was before you started? I’d be happy to go over the history of Peacock’s success stories with you, when you have time.’ I was surprised to hear the tone in my voice, but there’s something about Ben that niggles at me.

‘Wasn’t that over two years ago?’ Ben threw back the gauntlet, challenging me to keep going, right in front of Tony. But he knew I couldn’t; it just wasn’t me.

Gavin was staring at me as though I’d just grown another head. ‘You okay?’ he whispered, as though I’d lost my mind a bit. No one had ever seen me this fired up or frustrated, and it’s because I’m great at keeping it hidden.

Han has a name for this alter ego of mine: Aunt Nelly Nicepants. She rolls her eyes at and tells me to just ‘sod the lot of them and do whatever you want’. Thing I love about Han: her confidence. She’s got this zest for life, and is like an ultra-cool devil on someone’s shoulder, whispering in their ear, Life’s short, do it. Apparently, I used to be a little devil too, but I’ve reformed. Or, as Han declares, lost my way.

I’m forever telling her I haven’t completely lost my way. Firstly, I’m English, so I’m always going to be utterly polite even if I think you’re a twat, and secondly, I’ve built my reputation based on being nice and warm and supporting people. Growing up, my mother basically personified the word anxiety. She was afraid of travel, of living, of life, of planes, of her dying, of all of us dying, of paying too much at the grocery store… Which has made me a life-long soother and pleaser of all people, especially authors and colleagues. Sometimes boyfriends too, for that matter. I can’t help it. One of the reasons I’m as successful as I am is that I’m constantly helping, supporting, smiling – a shoulder to cry on, a place to moan, a cheerleader for anyone who is scared, happy to help wherever you want or need. I still have a little spice, but if I acted like Han I’d be fired in a second.

Tony chuckled. ‘Okay, kids, I can see this has you both going. Which is great. Nothing wrong with a bit of healthy competition, but let’s keep it clean. Best man wins.’

Gavin cleared his throat awkwardly. Quickly, Tony realised his mistake ‘Best person wins. God, this political correctness shit. No offence, Gemma.’

‘No offence taken.’ I smiled warmly at Tony, even though that niggled me too. A part of me wanted to stand up and quote a cool feminist verse by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, followed by a mic drop mime, but somehow I thought it might not have the desired effect.

Ben winked at me like the sub-human he is.

I mean this utterly, and sincerely: I would pay the mafia to fix this situation. Since his arrival, every day has been excruciatingly painful whenever he’s in sight. He’s been the constant thorn in my side for the last four months. And it has been a long four months.

On his first day, he dropped off a folder that read Appointments at my desk and said, ‘Can you book these in by five?’ I looked at him quizzically, picking up the paper.

‘Sorry?’

He said, ‘Aren’t you my secretary?’

I felt a wave of fury wash over me. Why, because I’m a woman? Please. When I told him I was a senior editor, he seemed amused, and said, ‘Oh, romcoms?’

I had to bite my tongue, fake a smile and say, ‘Actually nature, food, non-fiction.’ But he’d already left the room as if he couldn’t even be bothered listening.

Did he enjoy annoying me a little too much? I could forgive a little mix-up, but then there was the time that he scheduled a ‘boys’ golf day’ without batting an eyelid around Amy or myself. And then there were the excruciating occasions he thought it was okay to arrive at my desk with his line edits because people had mentioned I was wonderful at breathing life into badly written manuscripts, and he said I probably wouldn’t mind doing his as well. I found myself trying to say no, but then I thought of those authors who were relying on Weasel – on Peacock – so I just did them, silent and seething.

Soon after that, he started sending his junior editors my way looking for ‘pointers’. I wanted to say no, but I felt guilty, like I wasn’t being a team player, and before I knew it, I had loads of other editors’ work piling up on my desk, and I’ve never left the office before eight p.m., whilst Ben swans out at four p.m., without an excuse, saying loftily he was off to drinks with a new author.

For some insane reason, I think everyone deserves second or third chances so I tried again one day when I was feeling warm and in a particularly good mood. Perhaps we’d got off on the wrong foot with that secretary debacle, or the edit requests. Maybe I’d got it wrong?

So I approached him after an editors’ meeting in the boardroom and suggested we get to know each other over a coffee, but he just said really loudly, ‘I don’t think we can date colleagues, Gemma, but thanks for the invitation.’

The entire team heard. I could feel my face turning beet red and I was so stunned I turned around so quickly that I teetered in my heels over a small bump in the carpet and knocked over a chair, which I then had to awkwardly pick up, hard to do in sky-high heels while wearing a pencil skirt. Of course, this made me really dislike him.

But in the weeks since that meeting, Gavin told me he’s overheard Tony talking about me to some of the partners. Something about me being here for so long, knowing everything intricately, unlike anyone else. Tony has also started calling me ‘sport’, which he’s never done before. People have told me it’s in the bag, but still, that doesn’t stop me worrying. I’m clear-eyed about the prospects of being the underdog, but behind Ben’s bravado lurks something that suggests he can fail too.

It’s been something the whole office has been wondering. Who will win the Grand Final of Editing. I hear people gossiping in the hallways, Team Me or Team Ben. I bet there’s even a sweep like it’s the Melbourne Cup. Because we all know, today one of us is going to be triumphant. One of us is going to be Chief.

It’s either me, or it’s Ben.

To find out what happens next, The Wedding Date Disaster is now available in ebook and paperback!

The Wedding Date Disaster: ©️ Kate Mathieson 2025













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