Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

“This is quite an elaborate metaphor you’ve got working here.”

  “But it applies, doesn’t it? My clients are screaming for the ride to be over.”

  “And mine are trying to push themselves to the head of the line, right?”

  “Yep. It’s not for the weak of heart.”

  “Or the queasy,” I added.

  Charlie laughed and I couldn’t help but join him, picturing Gwen Stern buckled into the roller coaster’s lead car, her arms waving in the air and a wedding veil flying out behind her as she and David prepared for the drop.

  “Okay, I think we’ve exhausted that metaphor,” I told him.

  “So what do you think? Would you like to see me again?”

  Even as I was answering, I hoped I was making the right choice. “Yeah, I would.”

  Charlie grinned. “Great.”

  Chapter 8

  When Lauren’s Luscious Licks first opened, I was fascinated every time a couple came into the boutique. I couldn’t wait to hear about their wedding plans, the bridesmaid’s dresses, the song they’d dance to as their guests looked on clinking champagne glasses with spoons, demanding one more kiss. I’d get so genuinely excited, so wrapped up in the anticipation, the brides could have been my sisters or my best friends. I listened raptly as they took me through the moments of their event, hanging on every detail. I let their intoxicating engagement stories fill me like helium.

  As they described their gowns in vivid detail, I could hear the rustle of the crinoline, feel the grainy texture of the raw silk against my fingertips. When they recalled the flowers, I could smell their sweet fragrance and see the prisms of light reflected from tall, slim crystal vases overflowing with sprays of lilacs, and freesia and dusty blue hydrangea. Even without the brochures, I basked in the sun of their Caribbean honeymoons imagining the powdery sand between my toes. But that was years ago and my attitude had changed since then. Now attending anyone’s wedding felt like my very own version of a busman’s holiday.

  I couldn’t put my finger on exactly when that genuine curiosity changed to benign observation. I did know that it happened around the time Robin started planning her own wedding. Or, more accurately, the morning we participated in our first running of the brides at Filene’s Basement.

  Like most people around Boston, we’d heard tales about the department store’s deeply discounted bridal blow-out. There’s no slow marching up those department store aisles, just mad dashes to grab armfuls of dresses, regardless of the size or style, in hopes of finding the perfect gown, or at least some good leverage for trading.

  Arriving a mere fifteen minutes before the doors were set to open, we thought we’d be fine. Even though we should have known better, after all most of the dresses were slashed to only a few hundred dollars, we were ill-prepared for the legions of women lined up outside the store’s entrance. When we found our place at the end of the line, there were about three hundred women ahead of us, and by the time we made it into the store, the racks were barren and barely dressed women were negotiating with one another using their stash of dresses as the currency of choice.

  Paige and Robin set off in search of other people’s unwanted leftovers, while I looked around the fluorescent lit room in awe. I watched future brides and their sisters and mothers and friends on a modern day treasure hunt, and that’s when it hit me. All the time and effort and money devoted to an ephemeral event as if it was the pinnacle of achievement – The Big Day. The Big Day commemorated the peak of a couple’s relationship. It implied that they’d reached the summit of the mountain, the highest point whereupon they could look down one side and see how far they’d come.

  But what bothered me was the other side, the side that wasn’t fraught with the obstacles a couple faced in the beginning, but instead represented the difficulty of staying on that peak, the inevitability of things going downhill from there.

  From that day on, I wasn’t in a rush to plan a big white wedding. I wanted to stay on the top of the mountain for more than just one day, to set up camp and stake out a safe level spot out for the entire duration of a relationship. I guess from that standpoint, I was in safe hands with Charlie. I couldn’t help but remember one of my mom’s more sage pieces of advice - be careful what you wish for, you might just get it.

  Robin, Paige and I ended up leaving Filene’s empty handed that day, but the sale wasn’t a complete waste. Robin decided to introduce her own seminar on how to navigate the treacherous waters of the Filene’s sale – Bargain Basement or Bridal Hell – Bribing and Bartering Strategies for Filene’s Running of the Brides.

  Paige learned from Robin’s mistake, and she was ready to give the running of the brides another shot. Eager brides were already lined up outside the doors facing Washington Street when we arrived at the ungodly hour of 6am. After careful consideration, she’d determined our optimal strategy and come up with our plan – a three woman tag team. Paige insisted that we be able to find one another in the sea of frantic brides-to-be, so we paid homage to our hometown team and wore Red Sox baseball caps and red t-shirts. Paige also said we needed to keep our energy up, so she wore a fully stocked fanny pack with bottled water, bagels and granola bars. Yes, a fanny pack. Paige is lucky we even acknowledged we knew her.

  Once we’d staked out our place among the seventy or so women who must have slept on the sidewalk the night before, Paige walked to the head of the line to feel out the competition.

  It was right then and there, on the sidewalk preparing to scurry around Filene’s basement like the crowd at Pamploma, that Robin decided to put Operation Save Paige into action.

  “She can’t come away from here with a dress,” Robin instructed me, keeping an eye on Paige’s intelligence mission. “No matter how great she looks we have to tell her to keep looking. Got it?”

  I nodded but didn’t have time to ask any questions before Paige made her way back to us.

  “The women up front got here at 1:30 this morning,” she told us. “And they brought walkie talkies. Damn.” She shook her head, disappointed she hadn’t thought of it first.

  For the next two hours we chatted with the women around us, sharing information about their upcoming weddings. I heard about ceremonies on the beaches of Cape Cod, a destination wedding in Aruba, and a good old-fashioned wedding on a small vineyard just west of the city. The brides-to-be shared every detail of their wedding planning, from the centerpieces to the first song they’d dance to with their new husbands.

  When one of the women asked Paige where she was getting her cake, she told them Lauren’s Luscious Licks. The woman grabbed the arm of her sister and bit her bottom lip before letting out a single “Wow.”

  Paige waited for me to jump in and introduce myself, but I was there to help her pick out a dress, not drum up business for the boutique. Besides, this crowd took no prisoners when it came to wedding planning. I was afraid if I said anything I’d get mobbed.

  “Are the cakes as incredible as they say?” the woman asked, a group of other brides beginning to huddle around us.

  Paige laughed and leaned in toward the women like she was about to share a coveted secret. “Even better.”

  “You are so lucky,” the woman breathed. “I heard that Lauren has to approve you as a client before she’ll even book an appointment.”

  I caught Robin stifling a chuckle.

  “I read that Lauren can refuse to make a cake if she doesn’t like what you’ve picked,” another woman added.

  One of the brides announced, “My friend told me that Lauren uses an astrologer to help you select the right cake.”

  “Okay, enough,” I finally cut in. “First of all, all you have to do is call for an appointment. It’s easy. Second of all, you can have any cake you want. And that stuff about the astrologer, that’s just plain old ridiculous.”

  The women turned on me as if I’d just told them there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.

  “Oh yeah? How do you know?” the first woman challenged.

&nb
sp; “Because I’m Lauren.”

  She snickered at me and the other women followed. “Yeah, sure you are. And I’m Vera Wang.”

  I was branded a poser by the crowd and they quickly moved away from me.

  “Imagine pretending to be Lauren Gallagher,” one of the women whispered as she walked away. “How pathetic.”

  Sure, I could have protested or pulled out my license and proved I really was Lauren Gallagher. But what was the point? These women wanted the proprietor of Lauren’s Luscious Licks to be some fairy godmother, sprinkling her pixie dust over buttercream icing like some magical spell. They thought it was like their wedding day every day at Lauren’s Luscious Licks, but what they didn’t realize was that I did four or five times a day what other women waited a lifetime for. You can’t exactly tell people that without sounding jaded and slightly annoying. So why burst their bubble? I kind of liked their version of my job better.

  As it got closer to eight o’clock, all friendly banter ended, and I swore I caught a few women stretching their hamstrings, as if they were preparing to run the Boston Marathon. The line bent around the corner, so that I couldn’t even tell where it ended.

  When the security guards unlocked the front door it was as if a starter’s gun had been fired. Women took off, and the three of us were carried along in the current of eager brides. We were in the store sixty seconds before the racks were picked clean by women with crazed looks in their eyes, like piranhas in a feeding frenzy.

  I’d managed to stuff three gowns in my arms before my rack was reduced to a mere skeleton of its former self. I clutched the dresses greedily to my chest and looked around the frenzied room for Paige and Robin. I spotted two Red Sox hats in the corner and ran over, stepping over naked women in the throes of trying on dresses as I walked.

  Did I mention there were no dressing rooms?

  “Here.” I let the gowns fall to the floor in front of Paige. “Try these.”

  Paige had already stripped down to her bike shorts and sports bra, an ensemble she’d determined ideal for optimal efficiency and minimal flesh exposure. A devious mother of the bride crept toward us on her hands and knees and slyly reached out to grab one of the gowns I’d dropped. Paige firmly planted a foot on the pile to keep it from going anywhere and the woman slithered off to prey on other unsuspecting shoppers.

  Robin helped Paige shimmy into a gown with a skirt so full it looked like she could house a family of four under its box pleats. We watched as she struggled to twirl around, the heavy skirt and trailing train just ending up twisted around her legs like a wrung mop.

  “Not very dance-friendly, is it?” she asked, frowning.

  “Once the bustle’s up it won’t be so bad,” I observed, bending down to gather the train.

  Robin rushed in to help and accidentally knocked me over onto the floor. “Sorry,” she apologized, giving me the evil eye before turning to Paige. “Don’t listen to Lauren. A bustle that big will just make your ass look fat.”

  “Maybe your right.” Paige let Robin undo the row of pebble-sized buttons running down her back and stepped out of the dress.

  Now that I’d seen Operation Save Paige in action, it was my turn to pitch in. I picked up the next selection, an ivory A-line gown with capped sleeves, and slipped it over Paige’s head.

  “That’s way too big,” Robin complained as I grabbed the excess material at the back of the dress and pulled it taught so it hugged Paige’s boobs.

  “But it’s gorgeous. Besides, what do you expect for $249 – even after alterations it’ll still cost less than it should.” Paige held up the price tag and showed Robin. “It was nineteen hundred dollars – it’s a steal.”

  “Can you say flat chested?” I asked, maneuvering Paige sideways so Robin could see her profile.

  “Lauren’s right, you look like a fourth grader,” Robin confirmed.

  “A fourth grade boy,” I added, getting into the swing of our mission.

  Paige looked down at her boobs, where were, in fact, nicely nestled underneath the bodice’s seed pearls and lace. “Really?” she asked, squeezing her elbows together until a deep hollow of cleavage formed between her boobs. “Maybe I could have pads put in.”

  I let go of the excess material and the dress dropped to the ground without even unbuttoning the back. “Moving on.”

  “It’s bartering time,” Paige told us collecting the two discarded dresses and handing them to Robin. “Go see what you can get for these.”

  I helped Paige in and out of the gowns she and Robin had picked out and managed to dismiss all of them in a matter of minutes.

  “Too uptight,” I weighed in on an empire-waisted satin gown.

  “Too Pamela Lee,” I judged the silk crepe sheath with boned bustier.

  A ballroom-skirted dress with puffy sleeves and bows was “Too Princess Diana.”

  I rejected a filmy organza gown for being “Too Stevie Nicks.”

  I discarded a full tulle ballerina dress as “Too Lara Flynn Boyle at the Golden Globes.”

  “Too Jenny Craig,” I commented on the last dress in our pile.

  “What’s that mean?” Paige asked, getting a little frustrated with me at that point.

  I puffed out her cheeks and held my arms out in a circle. “Fat.”

  I waited for Paige to say she could see right through me and our attempts to sabotage her wedding plans. There was no way a woman who was barely over a hundred pounds and just cleared five feet could look fat in anything, and especially not in a silk chiffon slip dress.

  Luckily, just then Robin returned carrying the same dresses she’d left with. “Sorry, Paige. I couldn’t trade them for anything.”

  “Oh, this is crazy.” Paige stood there in her bike shorts and sports bra watching women trade dresses left and right.

  “Let me try,” I offered, taking the dresses from Paige. “I’ll go see what I can find.”

  I walked around the large room, navigating past giddy women in strapless dresses and their adoring families of fans.

  There were still some pretty dresses being traded, but I bypassed those for a few that caught my eye. I spied the first dress being used as a rug for a group of young women with South Boston accents.

  “Can I have that?” I asked, pointing to the dress crumpled under their feet.

  “Take it,” one of the girls answered and tossed it to me. I lobbed one of mine back.

  She seemed surprised. “Wow, thanks. I would have given that nasty thing to you for nothing.”

  I managed to collect two more dresses before heading back to Paige and Robin.

  “Put this on,” I ordered and handed over the first dress I’d bartered for.

  Paige made a face, but obeyed.

  “That is totally you,” I told her once Robin had zippered it up.

  “Lauren, it’s gray,” Paige protested.

  “Chic, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t. I think it’s gray. I don’t want a gray wedding dress.”

  “It goes great with your eyes,” Robin added, seeing where I was going. “They say gray is the new black.”

  “I don’t want a black wedding dress!”

  I held up another one of my picks, a gothic black number best suited for women named Morticia. “Then I guess you won’t like this one, will you?”

  Paige shook her head.

  “Okay, you win,” I conceded. “Try this instead.”

  Paige couldn’t get out of the gray dress fast enough.

  “That’s it. That’s the one.” I nodded at Robin, who joined in my love fest for dress number three.

  “That is stunning,” she gasped, clutching her chest.

  “What are these, wings?” Paige asked, holding up two panels of fabric that hung off the entire length of the sleeves – from her armpits to her wrists.

  “Very ethereal, don’t you think?” I asked, and Robin quickly agreed.

  “Angelic in a way.”

  “Are you guys kidding me?” Paige fla
pped her arms and we watched as her wings took flight behind her.

  Robin acted surprised. “Not at all. Lauren and I love it.”

  Every dress we discarded, we traded for another equally atrocious one until we’d worn Paige down and possibly convinced her we had the worst taste of any women she’d ever known.

  “I can’t believe this,” Paige finally sat down on the floor, deflated. “There have to be over two hundred dresses here, and we can’t find one that looks halfway decent on me? Not a single one?”

  I didn’t answer. Paige had looked more than halfway decent in most of the dresses she tried on – she looked beautiful. She looked exactly like a bride was supposed to look.

  “Maybe it’s just not meant to be,” Robin consoled, taking a seat on the floor next to Paige. I was hoping she would get the true meaning hidden in Robin’s comment, that maybe Paige and Steve weren’t meant to be.

  But instead she just shook her head and smiled. “I think I know what’s going on here.”

  “You do?” Robin and I answered in unison, our eyes meeting as we tried to prepare a plausible defense.

  “Sure. But I understand.” Paige reached out and patted Robin’s knee. “It must be hard coming back here and dredging up all those memories of when you were looking for a dress.”

  Paige stood up and put an arm around my shoulders. “And I know you’re afraid that once I’m married we won’t spend as much together, but I promise that won’t happen. We’ll still have our girls’ nights.”

  I shrugged and looked down at the fraying carpet, as if embarrassed Paige had found us out instead of relieved she didn’t figure out our true motivations for selecting such horrible dresses.