Emilys wedding dress had survived; the marriage itself, not so much. Still, she kept a story that felt entirely genuine.
When the new houses alreadycrammed wardrobe began to groan under the weight of hangers, Emily swore to her husband that she would sort it out: toss the junk, give away the bits that still had life, or sell the rest (see her earlier tale A Fashion Sacrifice).
So she spent an hour standing in the middle of the chaos, shuffling garments from one rod to another, justifying each one silently: This will come in handy, that one for a walk with Baxter, and this one just in case of a charity ball. The pile destined for the bin looked insultingly small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the darkest corner of the wardrobe, a fabriccovered case emerged.
What on earth is that? Emily frowned. Good grief, its my wedding dress! Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit shed worn at the town hall for the second time, but the dress from her first weddingthe very one that had travelled with her across oceans and years, a relic of another life.
The first time Emily married, she was twentyoneby todays standards a teenager, but back then practically an old maid. She began to feel the puzzled, judging looks of acquaintances, the sympathetic sighs of married friends, and the anxious glances from her mother and grandmother.
Enter the suitor: a decent lad from a respectable family, nearly selfsufficient, a year older and about to finish university. She said yes. He was handsome, smitten, liked by everyone, and his parents approved. What more did you need for happiness? Wild passions?
Her father declared that passion was a writers invention, a plot device, while a family was built for everyday life, not for romance novels.
They opted for a modest ceremony in a caféno grandeur, no stretch limousines (and frankly, where would they get any?).
When it came to attire, the adventure began. The groom managed a suit with a voucher from The Grooms Salon, Emily was lucky with shoes, but the dress turned out to be a total flop. Back then brides resembled frosted cupcakestulle, ruffles, bows the size of a small propeller. It was all sweet and a bit ridiculous, sincere and lovely, but Emily didnt want that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train that could sweep the streets of London.
She dreamed of a dress that was specialexceptional yet practical. Not just a showpiece for a wardrobe, but one that could serve both a party and everyday life.
Her mothers dressmaker suggested a gown of white batiste dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. Emily froze: by then she was already a touch pregnantnaturally, after submitting her notice to the registry office. She was keeping the news from her parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness just didnt mix. She mumbled something about the flowers and backed out.
The crisis was rescued by her grandparents, who had emigrated from Israel. Upon hearing that their beloved granddaughter was getting married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
Emily waited for the parcel with a mixture of excitement, joy, and dread. When she finally opened it, she could hardly believe her eyes: the dress was simple but elegant, 1920sinspiredsoft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, a skirt that fell just below the knee. No lace, no glitterjust a light veil and delicate gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veilhe wanted everything to feel real. He later lifted her onto his shoulders and carried her up to the sixth floor. After that, no romance: exhausted, slightly tipsy, and a bit nervous, they collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. By halfpast six they had to dash to the airport to catch a flight to Wales for their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to the United States, and, of course, the dress came with them. It never saw another wedding, though a couple of friends borrowed it for miniature parties, prompting envious sighs from the rest of the circle.
When the marriage fell apart and Emily moved to Europe again, she tucked the dress back into her suitcasejust in case.
Decades later, standing amid the wardrobe, she thought, Its time to sell it. She snapped a few photos, wrote a brief description and posted it on Gumtree, the British equivalent of a flea market for everything from kettles to hamster cages.
£85. Not too cheap, not too priceyjust enough to show it wasnt junk.
To her amazement, the dress sold the same day. The buyer was a local, and they arranged to meet in a café in the town centreno shipping hassles.
Emily was already nursing a cappuccino and a croissant when a whirlwind of a twentysevenyearold woman with strawberryblonde hair and blue eyes swooped to the table.
Good heavens, thats me at your age, Emily thought.
The young lady examined the dress, gasped, twirled it in her hands and chattered nonstop: Im from Manchester, finishing a degree in pharmacy. My fiancé is Spanish, still studying and working parttime.
None of us can help ourselves, and we dont need anyone else, she declared confidently. Well make it on our own. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friendsfun and lively. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Emily smiled.
Lovely, Im glad I could help. No money needed, just take it.
She dabbed away a tear and mused: perhaps this dress will bring the young woman real happiness. As for her, she thought, things werent so bad after all: love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. Just not Hollywoodstyle, and not all at once.
The girl left, and outside a drizzle fellfine as a veil. Emily watched the street and thought that happiness does come in many forms.
Sometimes, like a dress, it isnt brandnew but it fits. The key is that, at least once, its the right size for you.
She stirred her nowcool cappuccino, smiled and thought, Better give the wardrobe another looktheres still plenty in there.
