The wedding dress stays, the marriage doesnt.
Now my new houses wardrobe is bursting at the seams, and I swear to my husband Ill sort it out throw away the junk, donate or sell the rest (as I did in the story The Fashion Sacrifice).
I spend an hour inside, shuffling garments from one hanger to another, convincing myself: this will be useful, thats for the dogwalk, and this one is just in case we attend a charity ball.
The pile for the bin looks insultingly small. Everything feels important, needed, almost dear.
Then, from the back of the closet, a fabric-covered box emerges.
Whats this? I frown. Blimey, its my wedding dress!
Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit I wore for my second ceremony at the town hall, but the dress from my very first wedding the relic that travelled with me across oceans and years.
I first married at twentyone by todays standards a teenager, by the standards of the time almost an old maid. I caught bewildered, judging looks from acquaintances, sympathetic sighs from married friends, and worried glances from my mother and grandmother.
Then a suitor appeared: a decent lad from a respectable family, a year older, finishing university. I said yes. He was handsome, in love, I liked him, his parents approved. What more did we need for happiness? Wild passion?
Dad told me passion is the writers invention; a family is built for life, not for novels. We decide on a modest wedding in a coffee shop no grand venues, no limousines (and where would we even get those?).
When it comes to the clothes, the adventure begins. The groom manages a suit from a Newlywed Salon voucher, I snag a pair of shoes, but the dress turns into a disaster.
Back then brides looked like meringues tulle, ruffles, bows as big as an aeroplane propeller. It was sweet, a bit funny, sincere and pretty, but I didnt want that. No floorlength veil, no train trampling the London streets. I dreamed of a dress that was special, exceptional and functional not just for a single night in a wardrobe, but for celebrations and everyday life.
My mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress embroidered with tiny blue flowers and a corset. I freeze: Im a little pregnant now, having just submitted our marriage notice. The tight corset and morning sickness dont mix. I mumble something about flowers and retreat.
My grandparents, who arrived from Israel many years ago, hear the news that their beloved granddaughter is getting married and decide the dress will be their gift.
I await the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy and fear. When I finally open it, I cant believe my eyes: a simple yet elegant 1920sstyle dress soft fabric, relaxed cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, hem just below the knee. No lace, no sequins only a light veil and thin gloves that give the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insists on the veil he wants everything real. After the ceremony he lifts me onto his arms and carries me up to the sixth floor. Then, exhausted, sweaty, jittery, we crash onto the bed and fall asleep instantly. By half past six we have to dash to the airport to catch a flight to Scotland for our honeymoon.
Three years later our young family emigrates to the United States, and of course the dress comes with us. I never get to wear it again; it only loans out to a couple of friends a few times, and the rest watch enviously.
When the marriage ends and I move to Europe, I tuck the dress back into a suitcase just in case.
Now, decades later, I stand in the wardrobe and think, I need to sell it. I photograph it, write a short description and list it on Gumtree for £98 low enough not to scare, high enough to show it isnt cheap.
To my surprise it sells the same day. The buyer is local, and we arrange to meet at a café in the town centre, avoiding any post.
Im already sipping a cappuccino and nibbling a croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with blonde hair and blue eyes, breezes to the table.
God, I look just like me at that age, I think.
She examines the dress, gasps, twirls it in her hands and chatters nonstop: shes from Poland, finishing a pharmacy degree; her fiancé is Spanish, also a student and working.
There’s no one to help us, and we dont need any, she says confidently. Well make it on our own. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends, fun and lively. Your dress is perfect its a miracle!
I smile.
Great, Im glad it helps. No money needed, just take it.
I wipe a tear and think: perhaps this dress will bring you, girl, real happiness. And me? All things considered I wasnt too badly off love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. Not a straightoutofamovie life, but a good one.
She leaves, and outside a fine rain falls, thin as a veil. I watch the street and realise happiness comes in many forms. Sometimes its like a dress: not brandnew, but familiar. The key is that, at least once, it fits you perfectly.
I stir my nowcold cappuccino, grin and think, Better give the whole wardrobe another look theres still plenty left.
