The wedding dress still sits in the wardrobe, but the marriage itself has long gone. Still, the story that surrounds it feels genuinely lived.
Now, in the cramped new flat where the wardrobe creaks under the weight of toomany garments, Eleanor Whitaker swears to her husband that she will sort it all outtoss the junk, give away or sell what isnt needed (as in the tale The Fashion Sacrifice). She spends an hour inside, shuffling coats from one hanger to another, justifying each piece: Ill need this, Ill need that for a walk with Baxter, and this onejust in case a charity ball comes up. The pile marked throw away looks pitifully small. Everything seems important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the depths of the closet, a fabriccovered case emerges.
What on earth is this? she mutters, frowning. Blimey! Its my wedding dress! Not the sleek blue Chanelstyle suit she wore at the town hall the second time, but the gown from her first marriagea relic that travelled with her across oceans and years, a keepsake from another life.
Eleanor first married at twentyoneby todays standards practically a teenager, but back then she was already considered an old maid by some. She starts to catch the puzzled, judging looks of acquaintances, the sympathetic glances of married friends, and the anxious stare of her mother and grandmother.
Enter the suitor: a decent young man from a respectable family, almost selfsufficient, a year older and about to finish university. She says yes. Hes handsome, head over heels, her parents approve. What more does one need for happiness? Wild passion? Her father tells her that passion is a novelists fancy; a family is built for everyday life, not for romance.
They decide on a modest wedding at a local caféno fanfare, no limousines (and where would they even get any). When it comes to the outfits, the adventure begins. The groom manages to buy a suit from a Newlyweds Salon voucher, she gets lucky with shoes, but the dress turns out to be a disaster.
Back then brides resembled whipped meringuestulle, ruffles, bows the size of a cornhopper propeller. Its sweet and a little funny, sincere and pretty, but Eleanor doesnt want that look. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train across the London streets. She dreams of a dress thats specialexceptional yet practical, not just a oneoff for the wardrobe but suitable for both celebration and daily life.
Her mothers seamstress suggests a simple white batiste dress with tiny blue flowers and a corset. Eleanor freezes: by then shes already a tad pregnantnaturally, after submitting the notice at the registry office. She hides the early pregnancy from her parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness simply dont mix. She mumbles something about the flowers and backs out.
The crisis is averted by her grandparents visiting from Israel. Upon hearing their beloved granddaughter is to be married, they decide the dress will be their gift. Eleanor awaits the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy, and anxiety. When she finally opens it, she cant believe her eyes: the dress is plain yet elegant, in a 1920s stylesoft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequinsjust a light veil and thin gloves that give the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insists on the veilhe wants everything to feel real. After the ceremony he lifts her onto his arms and carries her up to the sixth floor. Then, with no romance left to script, the weary, slightly drunk, and nervous newlyweds tumble onto the bed and fall asleep instantly. By half past six they have to dash to the airport to catch the flight to Wales for their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrates to the United States, and, of course, the dress travels with them. It never gets worn again, though a couple of friends borrow it for miniature parties, sparking envy from the rest.
When the marriage finally ends and Eleanor moves to Europe, she tucks the dress back into a suitcasejust in case. Decades later, she stands in the same cramped wardrobe and thinks, Its time to sell it. She photographs the dress, writes a brief description and lists it on Gumtree, the British version of eBay, for £98enough to show it isnt cheap, but not so high as to scare buyers.
To her surprise, the dress sells the very same day. The buyer is a local woman, so they agree to meet at a café in the town centre, avoiding any shipping hassles. Eleanor is already sipping a cappuccino and nibbling a croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with blonde hair and blue eyes, darts to the table.
Good heavens, I look exactly like I did at her age, Eleanor thinks.
The girl examines the dress, gasps, twirls it in her hands and chatters nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy degree, my fiancés Spanish and also studying and working. No ones helping us, and we dont need anyone well make it ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends, fun and lively. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Eleanor smiles. Thats wonderful. Im glad itll help. No money needed, just take it.
She wipes away a tear and muses: maybe this dress will bring the girl real happiness. As for her, looking back, life wasnt half bad: love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. Just not the Hollywood version, and not all at once.
The girl leaves, and outside a fine rain fallsthin as a veil. Eleanor watches the street and thinks that happiness comes in many forms. Sometimes, like a dress, it isnt brandnew but feels like it was made just for you. The key is that, at least once, it fits you perfectly.
She stirs her cooling cappuccino, chuckles and whispers to herself, I should really check the rest of the closettheres still plenty left.
