The wedding dress stayed, but the marriage didnt. At least the story that followed was genuinely ours.
When the new houses walkin wardrobe began to sag under the weight of too many things, Eleanor Whitaker swore to her husband that shed sort it out toss the junk, give away or sell what wasnt needed (see my earlier piece The Fashion Sacrifice). So she spent a good hour in the closet, shuffling garments from hanger to hanger, justifying each one in her head: this will be useful, thats for a walk with Biscuit, and this one is just in case we need it for a charity ball.
The pile meant for the bin was embarrassingly small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the back of the wardrobe, a clothcovered object emerged.
What on earth is that? she frowned. By Jove! Thats my wedding dress!
Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit shed worn at the town hall the second time, but the dress from her first marriage the very one that had travelled with her across seas and years, a relic of a former life.
Eleanor first married at twentyone by todays standards almost teenage, by the standards of the time nearly a spinster. She caught bewildered, judging looks from acquaintances, sympathetic ones from married friends, and worried glances from her mother and grandmother.
Then came a suitor: a good lad from a respectable family, almost independent, a year older and about to finish university. She agreed. He was handsome, in love, she liked him, his parents approved. What more does a man need for happiness? Wild passions?
Her father once said that passion is a writers invention, while a family is built for living, not for romance.
They planned a modest wedding in a café no grand halls, no limousines (and where would we even find any). When the outfits came into play, the adventure began. The groom managed a suit from a Newlywed Salon voucher, she was lucky with shoes, but the dress turned out to be a disaster.
Back then brides resembled sugary meringues crinoline, ruffles, bows the size of a cornhopper propeller. It was touching and a little funny, sincere in its own way, but she didnt want to look like that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train that could blanket the streets of London. She dreamed of a dress that was special unique yet practical, suitable both for a celebration and for everyday life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. Eleanor froze: by then she was already a bit pregnant a fact shed kept hidden from her parents after filing the notice at the registry office. The stiff corset and her morning sickness just didnt mix. She mumbled something about the flowers and backed out.
The situation was rescued by her grandparents, who had settled in Israel. Upon hearing that their beloved granddaughter was getting married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
Eleanor waited for the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy, and dread. When she finally opened it, she could hardly believe her eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, in a twentiesstyle cut soft fabric, loose silhouette, horizontal pleats at the waist, a skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequins only a light veil and thin gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veil he wanted everything to feel real. He later lifted it off, carrying her up to the sixthfloor flat. After that, there was no romance left: exhausted, a little tipsy, they collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. By halfpast six they had to dash to the airport to catch a flight to Scotland for their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to the United States, and, of course, the dress came with them. She never managed to wear it again, though a couple of friends borrowed it for very petite, lucky events. The rest envied her silently.
When the marriage broke down and Eleanor moved to Europe, she tucked the dress back into a suitcase just in case.
Now, decades later, she stood in the wardrobe and thought, Its time to sell it. She photographed the dress, wrote a brief description and posted it on Gumtree, the British version of a cheap online market where you can buy anything from a kettle to a hamster. Price: £85 enough to show it wasnt a junk item but not so high as to scare off buyers.
To her surprise the dress sold the same day. The buyer was local, and they arranged to meet at a café in the town centre, no shipping required.
Eleanor was already nursing a cappuccino and a croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with sandy hair and blue eyes, swooped up to the table.
God, thats me when I was younger, Eleanor thought.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, turned it over in her hands and chattered nonstop: she was from Poland, finishing a pharmacy degree, her fiancé a Spaniard still studying and working. Weve got no one to help us, and we dont need any, she said confidently. Well do it all ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends fun and lively. Your dress is perfect, it fits the bill!
Eleanor smiled. Thats wonderful. Im glad it helps. No money needed, take it.
She wiped a tear and thought, maybe this dress will bring real happiness to that girl. As for her, when you look back, it wasnt all that bad: love, two brilliant sons, travels, laughter. Just not all at once, and not like in the movies.
The girl left, and outside a fine drizzle fell thin as a veil. Eleanor stared at the street and mused that happiness does come in many forms. Sometimes, like a dress, it isnt brandnew but its yours. The point is, at least once in life it fits you just right.
She stirred her cooling cappuccino, smiled and thought, Better give the wardrobe another good look theres still plenty in there.
