June 12
The wedding dress is still here, though the marriage itself has long since dissolved. At least the story behind it feels genuine. When the new flats overflowing wardrobe began to groan under the weight of clothes, I vowed to my husband that I would sort it outtoss the junk, give away or sell what we no longer need (as in my earlier tale The Fashion Sacrifice).
So I spent a solid hour inside, moving garments from one hanger to another, justifying each choice in my head: this will come in handy, that one is for a walk with Baxter, and thisjust in case theres a charity ball. The pile earmarked for the bin was absurdly small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the depths of the wardrobe, a cloth-wrapped parcel emerged.
What on earth is this? I muttered, brow furrowed. Good grief, its my wedding dress!
Not the sleek blue Chanelstyle suit I wore at the town hall the second time, but the gown from my first marriagethe very dress that crossed oceans and years with me, a relic from another life.
I was twentyone when I first said I do, practically a teenager by todays standards, yet almost an old maid back then. I recall catching bewildered, judging looks from acquaintances, sympathetic sighs from married friends, and anxious glances from my mother and grandmother.
Enter the suitor: a decent lad from a respectable family, almost independent, a year older and about to finish university. I agreed. He was charming, infatuated, I liked him, his parents approved. What more does one need for happiness? Fiery passion?
My father always said passion was a writers invention, a plot device; a family is built for everyday life, not for romance novels.
We opted for a modest ceremony in a caféno grand halls, no limousines (and frankly, where would we even find a limo in a suburb?). The dress hunt turned into an adventure. He managed to get a suit from the Grooms Outlet, I lucked into a pair of shoes, but the dress was a disaster.
Back then brides looked like overwhipped meringuestulle, ruffles, bows the size of a cornharvester propeller. It was endearing and a touch ridiculous, sincere in its own way, but I didnt want to look like that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train trailing down Manchesters cobbled streets. I dreamed of a dress that was specialunique yet practical, not just for the wardrobe, but suitable for both celebration and daily life.
My mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste gown dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. By then I was already a shade pregnantnaturally, after filing the marriage licence. I kept the condition hidden from my parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness simply did not mix. I mumbled something about the flowers and withdrew.
The crisis was averted by my grandparents from Israel. Upon hearing their beloved granddaughter was to be married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
I awaited the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy, and dread. When I finally opened it, I could not believe my eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, twentysstyle in spiritsoft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, a skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequinsonly a light veil and delicate gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
My future husband insisted on the veilhe wanted everything to be real. He later lifted me in his arms, carrying me up to the sixth floor after the ceremony. Then, without any cinematic flourish, we collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, tipsy, and fell asleep instantly. By half past six we had to rush to the airport to catch our flight to a honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands.
Three years later we emigrated to the United States, and, of course, the dress came with us. I never wore it again, though a couple of friends borrowed it for miniweddings, and they always sighed enviously.
When the marriage fell apart and I moved to Europe, I tucked the dress back into a suitcasejust in case.
Now, decades later, I stand in the wardrobe and think: Its time to sell it. I photographed it, wrote a brief description and listed it on Gumtree for £85enough to show it isnt cheap, but not so high as to scare buyers. To my surprise, it sold the same day.
The buyer turned out to be a local, and we arranged to meet at a café in the town centreno shipping hassles. I was already sipping a cappuccino with a croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with sandy hair and blue eyes, breezed up to the table.
Good heavens, I look just like my younger self, I thought.
She examined the dress, gasped, twirled it in her hands, and chatted nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy degree. My fiancé is Spanish, also studying and working. No ones going to help us, and we dont need any well make it ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends, something fun. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
I smiled. Thats wonderful. Im glad I could help. No money needed, just take it.
A tear slipped down my cheek and I thought, perhaps this dress will bring you real happiness. As for me, looking back, things werent all that bad: love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. It just wasnt a Hollywood ending.
She left, and outside a fine rain fellthin as a veil. I watched the street and realised happiness comes in many forms. Sometimes its like a dress: not brand new, but familiar. The key is that, at least once, it fits you just right.
I stirred my nowcold cappuccino, smiled, and thought, I should give the wardrobe another proper looktheres still plenty in there.
