by Josie Silver
“Unless you were going inside?” I nod toward the shop door. She looks at it too, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, undecided. “I can wait for you, if you like?”
She looks from me to the dress again, a tiny frown tugging her brows together. “It’s stupid really. I’ve tried loads on already and none of them look right. This one just seems different somehow.” As she speaks, the customer looking at the dress gets her phone out and takes a photo of it.
“I think I will just go and have a quick look,” Laurie decides. “Have you got time to hang around?”
Because the most pressing thing on my list today is to speak with her, I say yes. I loiter, unsure what to do as she folds her umbrella down and pushes the shop door open. She looks back at me and then up at the dark skies.
“You should come inside. This rain isn’t going to stop.”
She’s right, of course. It just seems an odd thing for me of all people to be doing with her. I hold the door open for the woman who’d been looking at the wedding dress, and relief flashes through Laurie’s eyes as she steps into the shop. I follow her gingerly. It’s not what I expected. Forties swing music plays unobtrusively in the background, as if someone has their wireless on. Wireless? I’ve slipped back in time too, it would seem. The yesteryear clothes are arranged in huge old open wardrobes, and jewelry spills carelessly from drawers tugged open on dressing-table tops. It’s like walking into a wartime dressing room abandoned mid–air raid.
Laurie is over by the dress now, her fingers turning the label over to read it. I hang back as the assistant approaches her, and after a moment lifts the dummy carefully out of the window and sets it down for Laurie to take a better look. She circles slowly around it, a tiny, wistful smile on her lips. The assistant must have asked if she’d like to try it on, because she looks suddenly nervous and turns to me.
“Are you okay for time?” she asks when I make my way over.
This isn’t the kind of shop where anything is hurried, but we’re the only customers in here on this gray, wet afternoon, so I nod. “Go for it. You can hardly buy a wedding dress without trying it on, can you?”
The assistant directs Laurie toward the changing room at the back of the shop while she cautiously removes the dress from the dummy, and I wander away to look around. Italian suits fill one mahogany wardrobe, somber colors and sharp, old-school cuts. They shout Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. I turn from them and look through the hat collection, trying on a fedora for size in the mirror.
“You should probably head outside now.” The assistant smiles, slowing to straighten a gleaming pair of patent brogues. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the big day.”
I’m reminded of Laurie’s birthday years ago when the Ferris wheel attendant made the assumption that we were together. “I’m not the groom,” I say. “We’re just friends.”
“Ah.” Her expression clears, although her eyes linger on me. She’s pretty, in a bold kind of way. “She’s lucky to have a male friend willing to go dress shopping with her. Most men would run a mile.”
I shrug. “It’s not just any dress, though, is it?”
“I guess not. That one is lovely, from the twenties, I think.”
“Cool.” I get the feeling she’d like to chat, but I’m well out of my depth with wedding dresses.
“You should take the hat. It looks good on you.”
I laugh and touch the brim of the Fedora. “You reckon?”
She nods. “It says ‘man about town.’ ”
“You’re selling it well.” I grin.
“Sorry.” She smiles. “Pushy saleswomen annoy me. I’ll stop.”
“You weren’t pushy,” I say. “I think I’ll take the hat.”
“Good choice.” She moves to refold shirts, then looks up at me, hesitant. “Look, I honestly don’t do this kind of thing usually, but would you…I mean, do you fancy meeting for a drink sometime?”
I could say yes. She’s definitely attractive, and I’m single. “That’s an offer only a madman would say no to…or one who’s moving out of town tomorrow.” I smile ruefully.
She smiles too, and I hope that she’s not offended. “Pity,” she says, moving away.
“You’re leaving?”
Laurie’s voice is quiet behind me, and I turn slowly toward her, taking the Fedora off. She’s standing in front of me in the wedding dress, wide-eyed and beautiful. More beautiful than I’ve ever seen her, or anyone else. The dress has come to life around her, turning her into a barefoot wood-nymph bride. But her eyes are glistening, and I’m not sure if it’s happiness or sadness.
“You don’t look that bad, Lu.” I try for humor, because no one should cry in their wedding dress.
“You said you’re moving away.”
I am. I’m leaving for Edinburgh on the overnight train tomorrow.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure the assistant is out of earshot, the Fedora in my hands in front of me like a prop. “Let’s talk later, Lu, it’s not that big a deal, honestly. For now, you have to get this dress. You look like the fucking fairy queen,” I say.
She’s watching me with those big, vulnerable eyes of hers. “Are you lying to me, Jack?”
I shake my head. “No. If all brides looked like you, there’d be no single men left in the world.” I know that wasn’t what she was asking.
She shakes her head and turns away from me to look at the dress in the full-length mirror. I’m glad of the chance to compose myself, and perhaps she’s doing the same thing. I watch as she turns to consider it from all angles.
“It’s your dress, Laurie. It looks as if it’s been waiting for you to find it.”
She nods, because she knows it too. As she steps back inside the changing room, I resolve that I won’t ruin this day for her. I want her to have only happy memories of the day she found that dress.
Laurie
We’re in a coffee shop a few doors down. I can’t believe I’ve stumbled upon my dream dress by accident; Jack’s right, it’s as if it was waiting patiently for me. When I was standing there looking at myself I knew that Oscar would love it, and that I would love him loving it. It’s the most special dress I’ve ever seen, slim fitting with tiny capped sleeves and a scooped neckline. I imagine it’s the kind of dress Elizabeth Bennet would have worn when she married Mr. Darcy.
There’s a tag included in the box, scraps of information about its previous owners. I know it was made from parachute silk and French lace in the 1920s, and worn first by a girl called Edith, who married an American businessman. In the sixties, someone named Carole wore it for her barefoot wedding, and they held their reception in the park because they couldn’t afford a venue. There must have been others too, but now it’s mine, for a while at least. I’ve already decided that I’ll return it to the shop after our honeymoon, adding our name and wedding date to the tag. It’s a dress with a history, and though I’m its latest custodian, it’s journey doesn’t stop here.
“What’s going on, Jack?” I don’t beat around the bush when he sits down opposite me with two mugs of coffee. I realize that I’ve been caught up in the wedding plans, and in being a good friend to Sarah, and somewhere along the line I’ve relegated Jack to the subs bench.
He stirs sugar into his cup slowly. “I wanted to tell you myself.”
“So it’s true? You are leaving?”
He hands me a slim paper tube of sugar, and then a second one just in case. “I’ve got a new job,” he says.
I nod. “Where?”
“Edinburgh.”
Scotland. He’s moving away, to a different country. “Wow” is all I can think to say.
“It’s a promotion. Too good a chance to pass up,” he says. “My own evening talk show.” He sounds excited.
I realize
it’s the first time I’ve heard him sound positive in a long time, so I’m furious when my eyes well with tears.
“It’s good news, Jack, it really is. I’m thrilled for you.” I know that my face doesn’t look thrilled. I expect I look as if I’m being tortured, as if someone is drilling holes in my kneecaps beneath the table. “I don’t want you to go.” The words blurt from me.
He reaches across the table and covers my hands with his own, warm and real and soon to move miles away.
“You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had,” he says. “Don’t cry or I will.”
Around us, the cafe is bustling with office workers grabbing takeout lunches and mothers bouncing babies, and we sit among them, letting each other go. He asks me to let Sarah know because he can’t do it, and he tells me that he needs to do this, to start again somewhere where the past isn’t all around him.
“I have something for you,” he says, letting go of my hands to reach inside his coat, pushing a brown paper parcel toward me. It’s soft, and I pick open the taped edges and fold the crumpled paper back to look inside. It’s a hat, folded in half. A heather-purple tweed baker boy cap. I smooth out the paper with my fingertips, reading the familiar Chester’s stamp embossed inside it, remembering when I tried it on.
“I’ve had it for years and never really found the right time to give it to you,” he says. “It was for Christmas, really.”
I shake my head, half laughing. It’s always been like this for me and Jack. “Thank you. I’ll think of you when I wear it,” I say, aiming for decisive and hitting desolate. “You’re doing the right thing,” I tell him. “Be happy, Jack. You deserve to be. And don’t forget us—we’re only a phone call away.”
He rubs his hand across his eyes. “I could never forget about you,” he says. “But don’t worry if it’s not for a while, okay? It might be a good idea to find my feet for a bit.”
I try to smile, but it’s a struggle. I understand what he’s saying; he needs time to start over, to build his new life without us in it.
He picks up the hat and puts it on my head. “Just as perfect as I remember.” He smiles. I realize too late that he’s leaving; he’s on his feet before I’ve gathered my things together.
“No, don’t come out with me,” he says, laying his hand on my shoulder. “Finish your coffee, then go back and tell Oscar you’ve found your wedding dress.” He leans down and kisses my cheek, and I catch hold of him, an awkward half-hug because I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again. He doesn’t push me away. He sighs, his hand gentle on the back of my head, and then he says, “Love you, Lu,” as if he’s exhausted.
I watch him shoulder his way out through the cafe, and when he’s gone I take the hat off and clutch it. “Love you too,” I whisper. I sit there for a while, the hat in my hands, my wedding dress at my feet.
DECEMBER 12
Laurie
In two days’ time I’ll become Mrs. Laurel Ogilvy-Black, which is going to take a lot of getting used to after twenty-six years as Laurie James. I can’t even say it without sliding into the Queen’s English, all plummy and clipped.
Oscar left for his mum’s this afternoon and my parents are arriving here tomorrow. They’re staying with me in the flat, and then we’ll be going together to the church from here on Saturday morning. Once they arrive it’s going to be all systems go, so tonight is officially the calm before the storm. Sarah’s coming over any time now, and we’re having a mani-pedi and movie night with champagne cocktails to celebrate. I don’t have the kind of nails that grow; only women with the same kind of nails will understand. They get to the end of my finger and consider their work done, flaking and breaking. I’ve tried all of the oils, serums, and creams known to man in the run-up to the wedding, because all the bridal forums tell me it’s essential that my hands are in tip-top condition. Well, I’m forty-eight hours away from the altar and they’re as good as they’re going to get; Sarah’s going to French polish them for me.
Everything about this wedding is planned, controlled, and listed on Lucille’s spreadsheet. For someone who thinks her son is marrying beneath him, she sure has invested a lot of her time in dictating how it’s going to happen. To be honest, I realized quite early on that she was going to steamroller her way through the proceedings whether I liked it or not, so I’ve gone for the path of least resistance. By that, I mean I’ve agreed graciously to eighty percent of her decisions, and held the other twenty percent close to my chest and refused to be moved on them. My dress. My bouquet. My maid of honor. Our rings. They’re the only things that really matter to me anyway. I don’t mind which champagne is served for the toast, and though I’m not a huge fan of salmon mousse as a first course we’re having it anyway. Oscar has been grateful for my unterritorial approach; as he and his mum are so close, it would have made waves if I’d been difficult about things.
Thankfully, Sarah’s been there the whole way, allowing me to vent.
“Let me in, Lu! I’ve got no hands to knock!”
Sarah’s voice rings down the hall, and I jump up to let her in. When I open the door, I see what she means. She’s dragging a hard silver suitcase behind her, has two bags hanging off her arms and a large cardboard box in her hands. She peers at me over the top of it and puffs her bangs out of her eyes.
“Traveling light?” I laugh, taking the box from her.
“This is light for me.” She smacks my hand when I try to peek under the flap of the box. “That’s my box of surprises. Wine first?”
“No arguments here.” I shut the door with my foot before I follow her down the hall. I didn’t want a traditional hen night, it’s just not my thing, but this is perfect.
“Are we alone?” she whispers, looking for Oscar.
“Yes.”
She busts out a disco chest pump and then falls flat on her back on the sofa with her arms spread out wide and her feet in the air.
“You’re getting married in the morning, ding-dong the bells are gonna chime!” she sings out of tune.
“You’re a day early.”
“Better than a day late.” She sits up and gazes around. “Are we having a seance?”
I’ve lit scented candles everywhere to create a calm, Zen-like atmosphere. “It’s supposed to be spa-ish,” I say. “Go on, sniff.”
She smells the air. “I think my nose would work better if I had a glass of wine in my hand.”
I take the hint and head into the kitchen. “Wine…or Oscar’s mother’s champagne?” I call through.
“Oh, HRH’s champagne, please.” Sarah comes into the kitchen and perches on one of the breakfast stools. Is it disloyal that I’ve grumbled to Sarah on numerous occasions about my mother-in-law-to-be? Everyone needs to unload to someone, don’t they, and Sarah is as good as a sister. Which reminds me…I spin around and pull a small, wrapped parcel from the cupboard.
“I’m going to give you this now before we get too drunk and I forget, or before we get too drunk and I can’t do it because I’m crying big snotty tears.”
I uncage the champagne as she looks at the gift bag, her eyes narrowed.
“What is it?”
“You’ll have to open it to find out.”
She tugs the gray ribbons as I pop the cork on the bottle of Oscar’s mum’s expensive champagne. I wanted to give Sarah something really special, and after hours of fruitless internet searching I realized that I already owned the perfect thing.
“I’m nervous in case I don’t like it,” she says, making light. “You know I’m a terrible liar, you’ll know straightaway.”
I push a glass toward her and lean against the breakfast bar, facing her. “I’m pretty confident.”
She has the threadbare velvet box in her palm as she reaches for the stem of her glass and takes a sip for courage. As she goes to open it,
I reach out and lay my hand over hers.
“Before you do, I want to say something.” Shit. I didn’t need a drink to get overemotional about this after all. Tears are already pricking my eyes.
“Fucking hell,” she says, drinking a good half of her wine and topping her glass off. “Don’t start already, you’re not getting married for two days. Pace yourself, woman.”
I laugh, pulling myself together. “Okay, I’ve got this.” I drink a little more and then set my glass down.
“It’s to say thank you,” I say, looking at the box and then at Sarah. “Thank you for…I don’t know, Sar, everything. For letting me have the biggest bedroom in Delancey Street, and for always being next to me on Saturday nights out and groggy Sunday mornings, and for inventing our signature sandwich. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
Now she’s choked up. “It’s a bloody good sandwich,” she says, and then she opens the box. For a few seconds she’s uncharacteristically silent.
“This is yours,” she says quietly.
“And now it’s yours,” I say. I’ve had my wafer-thin purple agate pendant reset into rose gold and refashioned, now set on a slender bangle.
“I can’t take it, Lu. It’s too precious.”
Right. “I’m going to cry when I say this and then we’re going to get drunk and laugh, okay?”
She bites the inside of her already shaky bottom lip.
“I lost my sister a long time ago, Sar, and I miss her. Every single day, I miss her.” I wasn’t exaggerating. Big fat tears roll down my face. I know Sarah understands, because she dotes on her own younger sister. “That stone reminds me of Ginny’s eyes, and how they were like looking into my own eyes, and my grandma’s eyes. It’s part of my family, and I’m giving it to you because you’re my family too. I think of you as my sister, Sarah. Please have it, and wear it, and keep it safe.”
