20 April
Laurie
‘You have to be on my side in here,’ I say, clutching Sarah’s arm before we push the door open at the bridal boutique in Pimlico. ‘My mum is all over the meringue dresses and I just want something simple. It’s a small church. Don’t let her bully me into something that won’t fit down the aisle.’
Sarah grins. ‘I’m quite partial to those big sparkly numbers. I think you could pull it off.’
‘I mean it, Sar. She’s one step away from ringing up that woman off Gypsy Weddings to see if she can fit me in at short notice. Don’t encourage her, for God’s sake.’
We step inside the boutique, still laughing, and I spy my mum already deep in conversation with the sales assistant, a glamorous fifty-something with a tape measure slung round her tanned neck.
‘Here she is now.’ Mum beams at me as we approach and I see the assistant’s eyes light up at the sight of Sarah, and then dim a little when she realizes that I’m the bride. I’m sure she has a million dresses in here that would suit someone tall and curvy like Sarah, whereas my shorter, more regular-girl body needs more skilful dressing to make the best of it. The assistant’s glasses are balanced on top of her auburn up-do, and she reaches for them and slides them on to study me as I hang my coat on the hanger she’s holding out.
‘So, you’re my bride!’ She says it as if she’s the one I’m getting hitched to, all panto over-emphasis. ‘I’m Gwenda, otherwise known around here as the fairy godmother!’
My smile is thin; if there’s one thing I’ve come to realize about weddings, it’s that pretty much everyone who works in the industry has perfected a false air of perpetual excitement, like nothing delights them more than making your every wedding wish come true. I get it. More gushing equals more money spent. The mere fact that something is wedding related seems to make it instantly three times more expensive than it might otherwise be. You want a couple of bay trees to put either side of your front door? Sure. These beauties are fifty pound a pair. Wait, you want them for your wedding reception? Ah, well, in that case let me tie ribbons round the pots and charge you double! But I’ve got their number now. I try not to throw the bridal bomb in until the very last minute, if at all. Not that Oscar is interested in cutting corners; he and his mother have gone into a full-scale wedding mania. I’m having a hard time reining them in. What I’d really love, if they cared to listen to me, is a small wedding – and unlike most people who say that, I really mean it; something intimate and special, just for us and our very dearest. The only people I really want there from my side are my immediate family, Jack and Sarah, and the couple of old school friends I’ve stayed in touch with. As for my colleagues, I like them well enough, but not well enough to want them at my nuptials. Not that it matters a great deal what I think. It seems I’m going to end up with something lavish and public. I mean, I don’t have a religious bone in my body, but apparently a church wedding is non-negotiable, preferably the same church Oscar’s parents married in. A family tradition to uphold, even though Lucille’s own marriage was hardly one to aspire to.
I’m just glad I’ve managed to ring-fence choosing my own wedding dress and Sarah’s maid of honour dress – believe me when I say that it wasn’t a given. My mother-in-law-to-be has been sending me dress links for weeks, all of them suitable for Kate Middleton, or perhaps more accurately, Oscar’s previous girlfriend, Cressida. Oscar rarely mentions her. I wish the same could be said for his mother; she keeps their photo in a frame in their sitting room, on the piano, naturally. I say naturally, because Cressida was – is – a concert pianist. She has long, skinny fingers. She has long, skinny everything, to be honest.
‘I find that a sweetheart neckline makes the most of a more modest cleavage,’ Gwenda says, eyeing my chest with something like pity.
Sarah turns away into the wall of dresses because she’s laughing. This is the second time today I’ve been made to feel as if my boobs leave something to be desired; we’ve just come from an equally depressing shopping experience being measured for a bridal bra, which of course was twice the cost of the non-bridal underwear beside it. I’m now wedged into this eight-way basque one-piece that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get off or have a wee in, so Gwenda’s unimpressed reaction to my assets riles me. My mother, bless her, steps in.
‘I quite agree, Gwenda,’ she smiles. ‘Laurie takes after me in that department.’ Mum rolls her eyes down towards her own chest. ‘Perhaps if we could have a bit of a glance around first and then come and find you?’
Gwenda smarts a little, fast flutters of her eyelashes behind her horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘As you wish, ladies. Your appointment is for the whole hour, so take your time.’ She steps behind her counter, then looks up again. ‘Just so you know, we do all of our adjustments in-house, no sleepless nights for you worrying your dress might get misplaced while it’s away being shortened.’
Lovely. Now I’m flat-chested and short. Some fairy godmother she’s turning out to be.
‘How are you doing after all that business, Sarah, my love?’ I hear my mum whisper her question as she puts an arm round Sarah’s shoulders over by the rack of meringue dresses I’m purposefully avoiding. Mum’s met Sarah several times over the years, and they share a sense of humour – mostly at my expense – that bonded them from the outset.
‘Not too bad, Helen, thank you. I’m just trying to get on with things, keep myself busy.’ Sarah chucks in a small, grateful smile to reinforce her words. Me and Sarah have drunk more wine together than is healthy over the weeks since it happened, but all things considered she’s holding it together. Jack, I’m not so sure about. We’ve met up a couple of times for coffee; Sarah knows, of course. I promised her I’d tell her whenever I saw him. I didn’t tell her the nitty-gritty – that the first time we met he looked like hell, the second time even worse, as if he’d done the walk of shame to get to the coffee house. I guess everyone has their own way of coping, but seeing him like that left me feeling uneasy.
I’m wondering how to get my mum away from the five-foot-wide frocks when Gwenda comes unexpectedly to my rescue.
‘Mum,’ she calls loudly, peering over her specs. ‘I find that the fuller skirt can swamp my more petite brides.’
It’s my turn to put my face into the nearest wall of dresses to hide my smile. Gwenda calling her ‘mum’ is another symptom of the wedding industry. Everyone is referred to by their role in the proceedings. Bride, groom, mother of the bride.
Sarah puts her head on one side and nods slowly. ‘You know, I think Gwenda’s right there. We don’t want Laurie to be all skirt, do we? She’d be unbalanced, like one of those toilet-roll-holder dolls.’ She laughs breezily and links arms with my mum, throwing me a wink as she steers her towards me. I smile, but shoot her a few tiny daggers too. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the intervention, but a toilet-roll holder? Anyone else want to chuck a few insults my way today? The wedding magazines assured me this would be one of the most memorable shopping trips of my life. I’m sure they mentioned tears and champagne. Given the way this day’s shaping up, I’m not too hopeful, although there may well be tears of pain and the need for a very stiff drink.
‘How about something like this?’ Sarah says, holding up a silvery white shimmer of art deco material. It’s beautiful, but very detailed and looks like it fishtails at the bottom. On Sarah, it would be stunning. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say how fantastic she’d look in it herself, like a mermaid-bride, but then I remember the compact Jack and I found for her that Christmas and I hold my tongue. To be honest, that afternoon is the last day I want to think about either. I’m proud of how she’s refused to sink into self-pity since she and Jack split; she’s out there putting her best foot forward as always, and I know she’s been out a couple of times with Luke, though she doesn’t talk about it much. I think neither of them are in any hurry to put a label on what’s happening between them, it’s too early – but all the same, I’m glad he’s there in her life.
‘I was thinking something more simple,’ I say, slowly sliding the dresses along on the rail to look at them. We spend a happy ten minutes pulling them all out and laying aside the ones I like, or they like so much I agree to try on. Although it’s not my favourite experience ever, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather do this with than Mum and Sarah. I was a little bit low last night, imagining how it would have been to have Ginny with me for this, but Sarah somehow makes it all okay.
Gwenda glides over and claps lightly. ‘Looks like we’re going great guns here,’ she says, her eyes moving over the dresses we’ve hung on the special gold rail she ceremonially wheeled across to us earlier. ‘Mum, matron of honour, this way.’ She grasps their elbows and ushers them through a curtain with the steely force of a prison officer. I stand on the spot for a sec, then my curiosity gets the better of me and I poke my head through to see what’s happening. Oh, I see. This is where the champagne happens. Mum and Sarah are sitting on dusky-pink velvet thrones being handed chilled champagne flutes by a younger assistant.
‘Chloe will be here if you need a top-up, ladies,’ Gwenda twinkles. Sarah catches my eye, and the unadulterated humour in her eyes makes the insults I’ve endured up to now worthwhile. This is the happiest I’ve seen her in weeks. I’d dithered over whether to even ask her in case it upset her, but in the end she invited herself, as she does. Looking at her now with her legs crossed, swigging champagne, I’m glad she did.
Gwenda does a little bow, as if we’re actors about to pop back behind the curtain. ‘I’m going to spirit the bride away now and create some magic! We’ll be back anon.’ She glances at her assistant. ‘Tissues at the ready, Chloe!’
I sense a well-oiled performance as Chloe picks up a floral padded box of tissues and lays them ceremonially on the glass table between Mum and Sarah. I cast a slightly panicked glance over my shoulder at them as I’m steered away and they both raise their glasses in toast and do absolutely nothing to help me.
Gwenda has chosen the dress my mum picked out for me to try first. I don’t argue; this is her rodeo. She’s made me strip down to my eight-way one piece, and she’s standing behind me in the changing room with the dress over her arm. When I say changing room, I don’t mean a cubicle at the back of the shop with an ill-fitting curtain to pull across. I mean an actual room surrounded with mirrors. I’m like a ballerina in one of those mirror-lined music boxes.
‘This one is called the Vivienne,’ she says, pronouncing the name in a French accent and shaking the dress out so the sequins send shivers of light around the room. It’s fussier than I’d choose, with a heavily beaded bodice and layers of netted skirt. I follow her instructions, stepping into it carefully as she unbuttons it. I watch my reflection as she fastens me in, fixing all kinds of clips along the back so that it pinches in at the waist, then fanning out the layers of netting.
As I stare into the mirror, the weirdest thing happens. I slowly turn into a bride in front of my own eyes. It’s a shock. I’ve been swept along with the tide of Oscar and his mother’s enthusiasm, and somewhere along the line I’ve forgotten that this is my wedding day we’re planning, my once in a lifetime.
Gwenda is watching me, shrewd blue eyes over my shoulder.
‘Your mother was right, perhaps,’ she says, suddenly more serious.
‘It’s not that,’ I say, still staring at myself as if I’m looking into one of those magic mirrors where a different you is reflected in the glass. I half expect the bride in the mirror to wink at me, she’s so alien. ‘It’s me … I’m …’
‘A bride?’ She smiles sagely. ‘A lot of women feel a bit of a shock when they put their first wedding dress on. It’s certainly a special moment, isn’t it?’
I’m not sure Gwenda totally understands, but then I can’t quite articulate it either, so I just nod.
‘My goodness! If it has this effect on you, imagine how your groom is going to feel,’ she coos, probably as she has to many other brides standing in this exact spot. ‘There he’ll be, the man you’ve always dreamed of waiting for you at the altar, about to turn round and get his first glimpse of his blushing bride.’ She sighs, pure theatre. ‘It’s a precious moment.’
I stand completely still, her words swirling around my head so clearly it’s a wonder I can’t see them in the mirror. I see myself as Oscar and all our guests will see me as I walk up the aisle.
‘I don’t like it,’ I say, suddenly breathless. ‘Please, Gwenda, just get me out of it. It’s too tight.’
She looks at me, shell-shocked; she obviously thought she had me wrapped round her heavily jewelled finger. And she sort of did, right up to the moment she mentioned ‘the man you’ve always dreamed of’.
Back at home, hours later, I strip off in the bathroom and turn the power shower up to full-on assault. What a bloody disaster. I managed to pull myself together in the bridal boutique enough to try the other dresses on, but none of them were the mythical ‘one’ all of the magazines bang on about. Gwenda tried to coerce me back into the first dress at the end of the session, but that wasn’t going on my back again for love nor money.
I turn the water temperature up to a tiny bit hotter than is comfortable and stand there with it raining down over my head. I’m so achingly disappointed with myself. It’s not that I don’t love Oscar or that I don’t want to marry him. It’s nothing like that. It’s just crushing to know that it’s still there, like a muscle reflex.
That when someone says ‘the man you’ve always dreamed of’, I think of Jack O’Mara.