The Wedding Dress

by Dani Atkins

  ‘Whoa, not so fast, Miss Reckless. What happened in the morning? What did you say when you saw him the next day? What did he say, come to that?’

  I gave a small wintry smile, and brushed a long strand of chestnut hair off my face. ‘Nothing. He said absolutely nothing.’ I hoped I sounded as unconcerned as I was trying to look. ‘I wanted to thank him, but couldn’t find him anywhere, and when I asked at Reception later that day, they told me he’d checked out first thing that morning. I didn’t see him again after that.’

  *

  A bell tinkled behind me, and I swivelled on my seat to watch my mother sail through the shop’s doorway. She’s a slight woman, half a head shorter and a whole dress size smaller than me, yet wherever she goes she creates an illusion of presence. People often say television personalities appear much smaller when you see them in real life. My mum is the exact opposite of that; her charismatic personality somehow appears to inflate her. If she ever committed a crime, every single witness would probably give an inaccurate description of her height and build.

  A subtle waft of her familiar perfume engulfed me as she swept me into a hug. It was the smell of my childhood, and was more uniquely hers than even her signature. I’ve always hated smelling it on anyone else. When I first left home for university, I was so homesick that I bought a small bottle and inhaled sneaky draughts of it, like a junkie needing a fix, until the loneliness faded. I never told her that, and to this day I don’t know why. She’d probably be delighted to find a sentimental heart beating beneath my pragmatic accountant’s one.

  ‘Am I dreadfully late?’ she asked the room in general. ‘I swear the taxi driver took me on the most implausible route from the train station to the hotel. I could have walked it quicker.’ I glanced down at her small, dainty feet in their elegant suede court shoes, and turned my face to hide my smile. I suspected that, somewhere out there, a poor cab driver was now nursing a very large headache.

  ‘We’ve not started yet. We’re still waiting for Karen.’ Rubbing Aladdin’s magic lamp couldn’t have been more effective, for virtually as soon as I spoke the words, the missing member of our party grinned at me through the shop’s plate-glass window and hurried in to join us.

  We were an unlikely quartet of women, as different both physically and psychologically as it’s possible to get. And yet when Gwendoline and I disappeared into the changing room, there was an air of impending excitement that bristled like static electricity in the air. My designer-clad mother, with her immaculately blow-dried hair, should have looked mismatched seated on the antique chaise longue beside my very fashion-indifferent best friend. And yet, as they disappeared from view when Gwendoline swished the curtain into place on its rail, I saw the two women exchange an identical look of anticipation and then – unbelievably – clasp hands. There aren’t many things in the world that have the ability to unite total polar-opposite strangers in such a uniquely emotional way. Newborn babies can do it, puppies too I suppose, but other than that, a wedding dress – or rather the first sight of a bride in her wedding dress – might possibly be one of only a few other situations when even the stoniest, coldest of hearts melts.

  My fingers were trembling as I undid the buttons on my shirt and pulled it free from the waistband of my skirt. I kicked aside my everyday clothes with a bare foot, as though they were suddenly unworthy of sharing a changing room with the dress I was about to try on. Gwendoline reached for the garment bag that still effectively hid from view the most expensive and important piece of clothing I’d ever purchased. She paused with one hand on the zip fastener and glanced back at me over her shoulder. This was pure theatrics, and I suspected she’d done this not just once, but many times before. She was smiling in a Mona Lisa sort of way, but I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe to join in.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked.

  I nodded, my eyes fixed on the zip as it crept slowly down on small white teeth. I thought I’d remembered the dress; I thought the reason why this had been ‘the one’ was securely locked away in my data banks. But I’d forgotten so many details over the past six months. I could have told you it was strapless with a sweetheart neckline, but the silver embroidery decorating the bodice was more delicate than I remembered, with a Milky Way of tiny crystals scattered across the fabric that glittered like the remains of a passing comet. I reached out my hand to finger the soft chiffon folds of the skirt that flared from the dropped waist, already knowing and loving the way it would swirl around my legs like a moving white cloud as I walked.

  For the first time I was grateful that Fleurs insisted upon a strict no-photography-of-the-gowns rule. It would have ruined this perfect moment of falling in love with my dress all over again if I’d have been able to see it any time I’d wanted.

  ‘Couldn’t you have taken a sneaky photo on your phone?’ Karen had asked, when I’d tried and failed to properly describe my dress to her.

  ‘They don’t let you,’ I’d answered, ‘and to be honest I was still in a state of shock when I chose it.’

  ‘That was probably because of the price tag,’ she’d quipped. It was hard to tell from her voice whether or not she was teasing. ‘Did you stop to work out how cost in-effective it is spending that many months’ salary on a dress you’re only going to wear once?’

  ‘Actually, I’m planning on wearing it to work every day, until I break even,’ I’d said, laughing at how well that plan would go down at the weekly team meeting. ‘I know you think I’m crazy – and not just because of how much the dress cost. But I only intend to do this once in my life. This is the only wedding dress I’m ever going to buy, so for once I forgot to be an accountant and decided to just be a girl.’

  Karen had smiled then and given me a really hard squeeze, and when we’d broken apart I was shocked to see her eyes were glittering brightly. She’d been with her boyfriend, Tom, since university, and although she always claimed she wasn’t bothered about getting married, I wondered for the first time if my whirlwind courtship, engagement, and now marriage was actually painful for her. And just like that, she wasn’t the only one with teary eyes.

  ‘Have you got it on yet?’ called my friend’s voice now from the main salon. ‘We’re practically dying out here, you know.’

  ‘Patience, ladies. It’s going to be worth the wait,’ assured Gwendoline, slipping the dress from its hanger and holding it open, like a silken pool, for me to step into.

  The fabric rippled smoothly against my bare legs, as I was expertly eased into the gown. Being dressed by hands other than your own is a strange sensation. Unless you’re royal or exceptionally rich, most of us will probably only ever experience it as an adult on our wedding day. I shut my eyes as Gwendoline expertly hitched the strapless dress exactly where it was meant to go, and then kept them closed as she deftly laced up the back fastenings. If speed-lacing ever became a competitive sport, Gwendoline was a shoo-in for gold. Finally, she stepped back, ensuring her reflection was clear of the changing-room mirror.

  ‘You can look now,’ she instructed quietly. It wasn’t just the dress, although that alone made me want to cry. I’m not vain, but most of the time the reflection staring back at me in the mirror is passably attractive. Today I looked beautiful. And it wasn’t just the dress. Somehow, with just a skilful twist and two hairclips, Gwendoline had managed to secure my shoulder-length hair into a style that looked as though I’d spent an afternoon in a hairdresser’s chair.

  ‘Go and show them,’ she urged, whispering as though we were in a place of worship, and even though Darrell and I had been in total agreement about having a civil ceremony, I suddenly regretted our choice, and wanted not the slimmed-down svelte service, but the pews, and the organ, and the peeling of bells and a hymn-singing choir. The whole big fat wedding.

  ‘Oh, Suzanne, oh my God… you look… you look…’

  ‘Please don’t say “like a cupcake”,’ I pleaded. My voice, my lower lip, everything about me felt like it was trembling. Karen leapt from t
he chaise and came towards me with her arms outstretched, stopping just centimetres away, as though she’d hit a force field.

  ‘You look so perfect and so beautiful, I’m afraid to touch you.’ I solved the problem by closing the distance between us and hugging her fiercely. From the corner of my eye I believe I saw Gwendoline wince. ‘You look totally amazing,’ Karen whispered into my ear, before slipping out of my hold.

  There was only one person left who still hadn’t passed judgement, and three pairs of eyes went to her, as she sat straight-backed and unmoving on the velvet chaise. My mum didn’t play poker, but should she ever decide to take up the game, she’d make an absolute killing. It was impossible to tell from her expression if she was moved, disapproving or just a little bit bored by the proceedings. No one could have seen the difference… unless they’d spent almost thirty-two years looking into a pair of cornflower-blue eyes that were practically identical to their own. Because when nothing else gave away her emotions, her eyes revealed her secrets. Karen and Gwendoline looked between mother and daughter and back again, like spectators at a tennis match, waiting for someone to knock the ball out of play. The longer the silence stretched on, the more anxious they looked. But not me.

  I cracked first. I always did. I was good, but I couldn’t beat the master at the game she had practically invented. I started, ever so slowly, to smile. ‘You like it, Mum, don’t you?’ She blinked, just a little more rapidly than usual. ‘You do, don’t you?’ She licked her lips but her mouth looked somehow softer now, and if I wasn’t mistaken, perhaps not quite as steady as she’d have liked.

  ‘I know you’re disappointed that I picked the dress out by myself, and that you weren’t involved. And I know you’ve got doubts, and they’re only because you’re worried about me. But putting all that aside, it would be really good right now to hear you say that I look nice.’ Blue eyes on blue eyes, and still she stayed silent. ‘Unless – of course – you really don’t like it.’

  ‘You look…’ She sighed as though struggling to find the right words, which as an author is not something she usually had a problem with. The one she eventually settled on was fine with me. ‘Perfect,’ she completed, wiping away a solitary timorous tear from the edge of one eye, before it dared run down her cheek and ruin her foundation. ‘You look absolutely perfect, Suzanne.’ Her hand reached for mine, and I gripped it tightly, noticing as I did two new small brown smudgy age spots. She was getting older, and I was getting married, and just for a moment I wasn’t sure which of those statements terrified me more.

  By the time I was back in my own clothes, Karen had already gone back to work. ‘I told them I’d be back in the office by lunchtime,’ she apologised, popping her head through a gap in the changing-room curtain. ‘You’re back in tomorrow, right?’ I nodded, hunting on the floor for a missing shoe. ‘Okay, well, I’ll see you in the morning. Enjoy the rest of your day off.’

  I gave her a watery smile from my kneeling position, where I probably looked like I was praying. And in a way I was. The first hurdle of the day was over; the dress had been a success. But there were further challenges that still lay ahead.

  Darrell had booked a table for three at an expensive restaurant, where he had insisted we take my mother for dinner. He was on a full-out charm offensive, and had looked so crushed when I’d suggested somewhere less fancy that I’d swallowed down my objections. There was an almost uncomfortable urgency in Darrell’s desire to change my mother’s mind about our forthcoming wedding. In a way it reminded me of the speed with which he’d swept me off my feet, making it practically impossible not to fall in love with him. This was his greatest fault, if I had to admit that he had any: his impatience. When he wanted something to happen, or to change, he wanted it right now, instantly. But that strategy wasn’t ever going to win over my mother.

  ‘So, it’s more softly, softly, catchee monkey, is it?’ he’d asked, nuzzling against the side of my throat in the way he did that was guaranteed to render me virtually incoherent in seconds.

  ‘Kind of,’ I said, my response already sounding throaty. ‘Although if you refer to my mother as any type of primate, she’ll probably never speak to either of us again.’

  Darrell had picked me up then, gripping my thighs as they fastened around his hips. ‘Talking of animal instincts…’ he’d said, striding towards my open bedroom door.

  ‘That’s not the most subtle or sexy segue I’ve ever heard,’ I said, gasping as his hand slid smoothly beneath the fabric of my T-shirt and around to cup my breast.

  ‘I’ll work on it, wife-to-be,’ he promised, his lips covering mine, making any further conversation impossible.

  *

  I was smiling when I emerged from the fitting room, and didn’t really expect to stop doing that any time soon. Even the considerable outstanding balance on my bill didn’t have the power to deflate my happy mood. Knowing that the two most important women in my life both agreed I’d chosen the right dress made paying for it a great deal less painful. I drew my credit card from my purse and laid it down on Gwendoline’s desk, waiting for her to finish up with the paperwork she was currently filing away.

  ‘Could you put the balance for the dress on this, please,’ I asked, confused when she slid my card back across the desk towards me.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ she said, ‘because it’s already been taken care of.’ For just a moment I thought Darrell had somehow contacted Gwendoline and paid for my dress. Except he hadn’t known which shop I’d gone to, nor how expensive it had been.

  I’m not sure why the obvious answer took so long to occur to me. No, scratch that. I knew exactly why Mum hadn’t been my first guess, because she’d spent the last twenty years or so of my life quietly brainwashing me against marriage. Darrell had seemed shocked when I’d said I would never ask nor expect my mother to contribute financially to our big day. ‘If we do this, we do it by ourselves,’ I’d told him unwaveringly. Darrell’s own parents had emigrated to Australia, and all I really knew about them was that after some huge falling-out – which he was very reluctant to talk about – they hadn’t spoken in years. It was one more thing that had drawn us together – a huge gaping chasm of a fault line that separated us from absent family members.

  ‘I really don’t give a monkey’s who pays for what, or whether we’re going against tradition,’ he had said, pulling me into his arms. ‘I don’t care where we get married, or how many bridesmaids you have, or how many guests you want to invite. Just as long as you’re there and I’m there, that’s all I’m ever going to want or need.’ We were writing our own vows, and I really hoped he was planning on including that line.

  ‘Mum? Did you do this?’

  My mother looked a little shamefaced, and I’m sure if there had been another customer in the shop, she might have tried to let them claim the credit for the purchase of her only daughter’s wedding dress. ‘It’s a very beautiful gown,’ she said with a small artless shrug, as though that had been her justification in parting with not just many thousands of pounds, but also with her long-held principles.

  I went to her and hugged her tightly, struggling to speak past the huge lump in my throat. I knew this didn’t mean she’d changed her mind about marriage, or the wedding, or even about Darrell, but it did mean that even if she thought I was in the wrong, she was still on my side. She always had been.

  ‘You do know, I didn’t ask you to come here today to pay for my dress,’ I said. From my peripheral vision, I was aware that Gwendoline had discreetly slipped into the shadows.

  ‘I know that, Suzy.’

  Suzy? When was the last time she had called me that? Not since I was in hospital with appendicitis, I thought, and that was when I was sixteen. It made me realise for the first time that today had been every bit as important to my mother as it had been to me. She just hid it better, that’s all.

  ‘Besides, one of your parents needed to contribute financially to your big day, and I’m pretty sure your father
will have squandered every last peseta he owns on that damn drinking hole of his.’

  My father’s bar was actually quite upmarket and elite, but this definitely wasn’t the moment to point that out, and anyway, I strongly suspected she already knew that.

  ‘You do know Spain has been using the euro since 2002, don’t you?’

  Her eyes glinted with the wickedly dark sense of humour that always took people by surprise the first time they met her. ‘Pesetas sounded pithier,’ she retorted, with a brief flash of a familiar smile.

  And there, as ever, was the chief difference between us: she was all about the words, and I was all about the numbers. I’d inherited none of her creativity, nor her unique and gifted way with words. Every B minus on my English school reports had probably left her wondering if there hadn’t been some dreadful mix-up on the maternity ward. If I didn’t look so much like her, I’m sure she’d have pursued it. Of course, in a world full of keyboards and spellcheckers, I keep my secret well hidden. But the notebook beside my bed, where I’ve scribbled down the vows I’ll be declaring in three weeks’ time, tells its own story. Each time I see the crossed-out words With Darrell I’ve definately found the right man to comit to, it looks as though I’ve changed not only my spelling, but also my mind.

  2

  It was three weeks after the sales conference where I’d first met Darrell when I stopped by Karen’s desk on my way to the photocopying room. She looked up from her screen with a smile and pushed her chair back. There was a half-eaten doughnut on a serviette beside her computer mouse, and sugar everywhere. Her desk was nothing like mine.

  ‘I think I’m being wooed,’ I said without preamble.

  Karen’s eyes widened with delight, as though she’d just sampled something even more delicious than the confectionery beside her. ‘Really?’ she breathed, beckoning me to bend down a little closer. ‘What are you doing, and more importantly, who are you doing it with?’