12May2025
Today I finally cleared out the old wardrobe in the new flat on Highgate Road. The cupboards have been bursting at the seams for months, and I promised my wife, Eleanor, that I would sort through everythingtoss the junk, give away what we dont need and sell the rest. I spent a good hour moving garments from one hanger to another, trying to justify each piece: This will be useful, Thats for the dog walk, This one is for a charity ball. The pile destined for the bin was oddly small; everything seemed oddly precious, almost like a family member.
From the back of the cupboard a dusty cloth cover emerged.
What on earth is that? I muttered, frowning. Blimey, thats my wedding dress! Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit I wore when we remarried at the town hall, but the dress from my first marriage the very one that crossed oceans and years with me, a relic from another life.
I was twentyone when I first married, barely out of school by todays standards and, back then, almost an old maid. I remembered the bewildered looks of acquaintances, the sympathetic glances from married friends, the wary eyes of my mother and grandmother. Then came the suitor: a decent chap from a respectable family, a year older, finishing his degree at university. He was handsome, head over heels, and his parents approved. What more could we ask for? Passion, they said, is the stuff of novelists; a solid family is built for everyday life.
We kept the ceremony modesta quiet tea room, no limousines, nothing ostentatious. The outfit hunt turned into an adventure. My fiancé managed to get a suit with a voucher from the Newlyweds Outfit Shop, I lucked out with shoes, but the dress turned out to be a disaster.
Back then brides resembled oversized meringuescrinoline, ruffles, bows as big as a propeller. It was charmingly ridiculous, but I didnt want that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train that could swallow the streets of London. I dreamed of a dress that was special yet practical, something I could wear not just for one evening but for life.
Eleanors mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. By then I was a little ahead of schedulepregnant after filing the marriage notice. I hid the condition from my parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness simply didnt mix. I mumbled something about the flowers and walked away.
Luckily, my Irish grandparents, visiting from Dublin, offered to make the dress their wedding gift. I waited anxiously for the parcel, half thrilled, half terrified. When I finally unfolded it, the dress was simple yet elegant, a nod to the Roaring Twenties: soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, a skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequinsjust a light veil and delicate gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, dignified modesty.
My husband insisted on the veil, wanting everything proper. He later lifted me onto his shoulders and carried me up to the sixth floor flat. After that, there was no romance left on the night; we were exhausted, tangled, and fell straight into bed, sleeping like logs. By half past six we were racing to the airport for a flight to Scotland for our honeymoon.
Three years later we emigrated to the United States, and the dress, of course, came with us. I never wore it again, though a couple of friends borrowed it for tiny, lucky celebrations, and the rest of the ladies sighed enviously.
When the marriage fell apart, I packed the dress again and slipped it into a suitcase before moving to continental Europe, just in case. Decades later, standing in the same cramped wardrobe, I finally thought, Its time to sell it.
I snapped a few photos, wrote a short description, and listed it on Gumtree for £98a price low enough not to scare off buyers but high enough to show it wasnt a cheap trinket. To my surprise, it sold the very same day. The buyer was a local woman, so we arranged to meet at a café in the town centre to avoid postage.
I was sipping a cappuccino and nibbling on a croissant when a whirlwind of a twentysevenyearold with auburn hair and blue eyes approached the table. She looked like a younger version of me.
God, its like looking at myself at that age, I thought.
She examined the dress, turned it over, and chattered nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy degree; my fiancés Spanish and still studying. No ones helping us, but well manage ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for friendsfun and lively. Your dress is perfect, exactly what we need!
I smiled and said, Thats wonderful. Im glad it helps. No money needed, just take it.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I thought, perhaps this dress will bring you genuine happiness. As for me, looking back, life wasnt that terrible after all: love, two brilliant sons, travel, laughter. It just didnt play out like a Hollywood script.
She left, and outside a light drizzle fellfine 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 important thing is that, at least once, it fits you just right.
I stirred the cooling cappuccino, smiled, and noted to myself: Better to give the wardrobe a proper look; theres still plenty hiding in there.
Personal lesson: Things we think are lost or useless often hold the shape of future joy; we just need the patience to rediscover them.
