The wedding dress was still tucked away, but the marriage itself had long since vanished. At least the story that went with it felt genuine.
When the new houses walkin wardrobe started groaning under the weight of every coat and jumper, I swore to my husband Id sort it out toss the junk, give away or sell the bits we didnt need (youll remember that bit from my Fashion Sacrifice tale).
So there I was, half an hour stuck among the hanging racks, shuffling clothes from one peg to another, trying to justify each piece: This will come in handy, this ones for walks with Rex, and this ones just in case we get invited to a charity ball.
The pile earmarked for the bin looked embarrassingly small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost like a family member.
Then, from the depths of the closet, a fabriccovered bundle emerged.
What on earth is that? I muttered, squinting. Blimey, its my wedding dress! Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit Id remarried in at the town hall, but the gown from my very first wedding the one thatd travelled with me across oceans and years, like a relic from another life.
Id first said I do at twentyone, which by todays standards feels almost teenage, though back then I was already considered a bit of an old maid. Id started catching the puzzled, judgmental looks from acquaintances, the sympathetic nods from married friends, and the worried frowns from Mum and Gran.
Then came the suitor: a decent bloke from a respectable family, almost on his own a year older and about to finish university.
I said yes. He was charming, headoverheels for me, and his parents gave their blessing. What more did we need for happiness? A dash of wild passion?
Dad always said passion was just writers fluff, and that a family was built for real life, not for romance novels.
We opted for a modest ceremony in a cosy café no grand halls, no stretchlimousines (and honestly, where would we even get those?).
When it came to outfits, the adventure began. The groom managed to nab a suit on a voucher from the Newlyweds Boutique, I got lucky with shoes, but the dress turned out to be a total flop.
Back then brides were like overwhipped meringues all tulle, ruffles, and bows the size of a propeller on a vintage plane. It was sweet and a bit funny, sincere in its own way, but I didnt want to look like that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train that could swallow Londons streets.
I dreamed of a dress that was special unique yet practical. Not just for the wardrobe, but for both celebrations and everyday life.
Mums seamstress suggested a white batiste dress dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. I froze by then I was a tad pregnant, having just submitted our marriage licence paperwork. The new condition was tucked away from the parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness just didnt mix. I mumbled something about the flowers and backed out.
Luckily, Granddad and Gran from Israel swooped in. Upon hearing their beloved granddaughter was getting married, they declared the dress would be their gift.
I waited for the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy, and nerves. When I finally opened it, I could barely believe my eyes: a simple yet elegant dress in a twentiethcentury vibe soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal gathers at the waist, skirt just below the knee. No lace, no glitter just a light veil and delicate gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
James insisted on the veil he wanted everything to feel real. He later lifted it off and carried me up to the sixth floor on his arms. After that, there was no cinematic romance: we were exhausted, tipsy, and a bit frazzled, collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. By half past six we had to dash to the airport to catch our flight to Cornwall for the honeymoon.
Three years later we emigrated to the United States. Of course the dress came with us.
I never got to wear it again, though a couple of friends borrowed it for tiny, lucky occasions. The rest just sighed with envy.
When the marriage fell apart and I moved to Europe, I tucked the dress back into a suitcase just in case.
Now, decades later, Im standing in the wardrobe, thinking: Its time to sell it. I snapped a few photos, wrote a short description and listed it on Gumtree the UKs nofrills classifieds where you can sell anything from a kettle to a hamster.
Price? £98 enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not so high as to scare people off.
To my surprise, it sold the same day. The buyer was local, so we agreed to meet at a café in the city centre no postage hassles.
I was already nursing a cappuccino and a croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with light brown hair and blue eyes, swooped in like a breeze.
Goodness, thats me when I was younger, I thought.
She examined the dress, gasped, twirled it in her hands and chattered nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy degree. My fiancés Spanish, still studying and working. No ones going to help us, and we dont need it well make it on our own. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends, all fun. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
I smiled. Thats wonderful. Im glad it helped. No money needed, just take it.
A tear slipped down my cheek and I thought, maybe this dress will bring you, love, the happiness you deserve. As for me, looking back, things werent so bad: love, two brilliant sons, travels, laughter. Just not Hollywoodstyle, and not all at once.
She left, and outside a fine drizzle fell thin as a veil. I watched the street and realised happiness comes in many shapes.
Sometimes its like a dress: not brandnew, but still yours. The key is that, at least once, it fits you just right.
I stirred my nowcold cappuccino, smiled, and thought, Better give the wardrobe another proper look theres still plenty in there.
