BRIDAL WAVE: It All Started With A Proposal In Paris…

Digital Editor Jessica Vincehas reached peak wedding age. After regularly being a guest, she’s now taking the plunge herself and walking down the aisle. So will she be a city bride or a rustic bride? Will she wear pink fairy wings or a phallic hat on her hen do? All will be revealed in Grazia’s new blog, Bridal Wave...

Considering I’ve been with my boyfriend, err, fiancé, for almost a decade, it’s quite the achievement that his proposal was an utter surprise. “I’ll DEFINITELY know when he’s about to do it”, I’d say. But Byron proved me wrong thanks to meticulous planning, the help of a nifty friend and a tiny touch of bribery...

It all happened in Paris, my favourite city. (Disclaimer: if you’re adverse to cheesiness, look away now). I was travelling there for work, for the final stint of Fashion Week, and as I boarded the Eurostar, little did I know Byron was on the train just behind with a diamond sparkler in his suitcase.

The day in question started at the dreamiest of shows, Chanel (I know, I know, he really thought this one through). The Grand Palais had been transformed into a French Brasserie, but rather than sampling the world’s chicest croissants, it was my job to jostle to the front row and plead with the likes of Florence Welch for an interview, while simultaneously instagramming/tweeting/periscoping the hell out ofevery glorious moment.

By the time I was back at the hotel, my blistered feet were throbbing and I had a wad of interviews to write up. So when my colleague Katherine text to say she’d bagged a ticket to Paris and could I meet at her hotel that evening, I didn’t think twice. ‘Of course!’ I replied, anticipating a night of pomme frites and singing along to Taylor Swift. I didn’t have a monkeys that it was part of the grander scheme.

When the taxi arrived at St James Paris, I hmph’ed with envy that Katherine had landed such a gorgeous hotel. There were gates! Turrets! A fountain in the driveway! She wasn’t picking up her phone – potentially my first clue – but I didn’t think much of it and, to be entirely honest, I was grateful to get started on the vino.

After twenty minutes waiting at the bar and still no word from Katherine, a slightly ruffled waiter told me “your friend is ready upstairs”. I’d rather wait for her to come down, I said, but “non, non, you must come NOW”. Unperturbed by the beads of sweat popping up on his brow, I followed him towards the lift.

One floor up, the waiter led me to an open door and nodded for me to go inside. Candles were flickering and the carpet was covered in rose petals. Oh cripes, was Katherine trying to seduce me?!

Umm, no. As I entered the suite, there was no Katherine at all. Instead, it was Byron, suited and booted, surrounded by red roses, holding a bottle of champagne… and still I didn’t twig. My mind was busy trying to make sense of what my eyes were seeing and I came to the conclusion that he’d come to Paris to surprise me. How sweet!

It was only when he opened his mouth that the penny dropped. “Jessica [pause] Naomi [pause] Vince”. He could barely get the words out. By the time he was on his knee holding the ring, I was jumping up and down like a fool.

Of course, I said yesssss! And went a bit Gollum over the ring. Then I wanted to know EVERY detail of how he’d pulled it off. He'd been concocting the plan for weeks, organising for Katherine to contact me and pretend to be in Paris (she’d been in the UK the whole time, the minx!). He slipped the waiter a few Euros to play along and crucially, snuck over my favourite red dress and heels so I could ditch my T-shirt and flats for a celebratory night on the town.

Byron had arranged a Frenchy driver to pick us up in a Citroen 2CV to whisk, or rather chug, us around the sights of Paris, from the Eiffel Tower to the Lourve, before we went for a delicious dinner at Chez Toinette, a cosy bistro a few minutes from the Moulin Rouge (I did warn you that this was a mushy one).

So here I am, taking up the mantle of Grazia Daily’s wedding blogger. I’ve got no idea if I’ll go for a duvet-sized dress and haven’t got the foggiest how to do a seating plan breathes into paper bag, but I do know I want a big party where everyone gets drunk and does dad dancing.

Now, must I really blather out more justification for what is essentially an excuse to talk about weddings? No? Good. So let’s begin.

Follow Jess' journey into wedding'dom here and tweet ideas to her at @Jessie_Vee >>