The wedding dress was still there, even though the marriage itself had long vanished. At least the tale that lingered was genuine.
When the new houses overstuffed wardrobe began to groan under the weight of hanging garments, Emma pledged to her husband that she would sort it all out: toss the junk, donate or sell the rest (as in the short story The Fashion Sacrifice). So she spent a solid hour shuffling clothes from one peg to another, convincing herself of each items merit: this will come in handy, thats for a walk with Baxter, and this one is just in case we need a charity ball.
The throwaway pile was pitifully small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the depths of the cupboard, a fabriccovered box emerged.
What on earth is that? she frowned. Blimey! Its my wedding dress! Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit shed worn at the town hall the second time around, but the dress from her very first wedding a relic that had travelled with her across seas and years.
Emma had first married at twentyone a teenager by todays standards, but nearly an old maid back then. Shed started to field bewildered, judging looks from acquaintances, sympathetic sighs from married friends, and anxious probes from her mother and grandmother.
Enter the suitor: a decent fellow from a respectable family, almost selfsufficient, a year older and about to finish university. She said yes. He was handsome, headoverheels, liked by her parents. What more did they need for happiness? A dash of wild passion?
Her father remarked that passion was a writers invention, while a family was built for everyday life, not for novels.
They decided on a modest wedding in a tea room no extravagance, no limousines (and honestly, where would they find any). When it came to outfits, the adventures began. Oliver managed to grab a suit from a Newlyweds Boutique voucher, Emma got lucky with shoes, but the dress turned out to be a complete flop.
Back then brides resembled whipped meringues crinoline, ruffles, and bows as big as a propeller on a vintage tractor. It was charming and a little comical, earnest and pretty, but Emma didnt want to look like that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train trampling the London streets. She dreamed of a dress that was special, unique, and practical not just a wardrobe showpiece but something suitable for both celebration and daily life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress with tiny blue blossoms and a corset. Emma froze: she was already a touch pregnant, having filed the marriage licence. The condition was a secret from her parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness simply didnt mix. She mumbled something about blossoms and withdrew.
The crisis was averted by her grandparents from Israel, who, hearing their beloved granddaughter was tying the knot, decided the dress would be their gift.
Emma awaited the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy, and dread. When she finally tore it open, she could hardly believe her eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, straight out of the roaring twenties soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal gathers at the waist, a skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequins only a light veil and delicate gloves that lent the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
Oliver insisted on the veil, wanting everything authentic. He later lifted her onto his shoulders and carried her up to the sixth floor. After that, there was no grand 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 Scotland for their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to the United States, and, of course, the dress travelled with them. It never saw another wear by Emma, though a couple of friends borrowed it for miniature occasions, each time with a touch of envy from the rest.
When the marriage eventually fell apart and Emma moved to Europe, she tucked the dress back into a suitcase just in case.
Decades later she stood amid the wardrobe and thought, Its time to sell it. She snapped a few photos, wrote a brief description and listed it on Gumtree, the British version of an online flea market where you can buy anything from a kettle to a hamster.
Price: £85 enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not so high as to scare buyers.
To her surprise, the dress sold the same day. The buyer was local, and they arranged to meet at a coffee shop in the town centre no shipping required.
Emma was already nursing a cappuccino and a croissant when a whirlwind of a young woman, about twentyseven, with strawberryblonde hair and blue eyes, swept into the table.
Good heavens, thats me at twenty, Emma thought.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, twirled it in her hands and chattered nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing a pharmacy degree, my fiancé is Spanish, still studying and working. No ones going to help us, and we dont need it well manage on our own. Weve decided on a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends fun and lively. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Emma smiled. Thats brilliant. Im glad I could help. No money needed, just take it.
She wiped away a tear and mused, perhaps this dress would bring the girl real happiness. As for herself, she realized it hadnt been all that bad: love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. Just not the cinematic kind, and not all at once.
The girl left, and outside a fine drizzle fell as thin as a veil. Emma stared at the rainspattered street and thought that happiness does come in many forms. Sometimes its like a dress: not brandnew, but familiar. The key is that, at least once in life, it fits you perfectly.
She gave her lukewarm cappuccino a gentle stir, smiled and said to herself, Better have a proper look through the wardrobe theres still plenty left.
