WEDDING DRESS
The dress stayed, the marriage didnt. Yet a story lingered, one that felt truly lived.
When the overflowing wardrobe in their new London flat began to creak at the seams, Emily Harper swore to her husband, Thomas, that she would sort it out: throw away the junk, give or sell what wasnt needed.
So she spent an hour inside, shuffling garments from hanger to hanger, mentally justifying each piecethis will be useful, that for a walk with the dog, another for a charity ball. The pile marked to toss held disappointingly little. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the back of the closet, a fabric cover emerged.
Whats this? Emily frowned. Oh! Its my wedding dress!
Not the sleek blue Chanelstyle she had worn at the town hall the second time, but the gown from her first marriage the relic that had travelled with her across oceans and years.
Emily had first married at twentyone young by todays standards, almost a maiden then. She felt the puzzled, judging looks of acquaintances, the sympathetic glances of married friends, and the worried eyes of her mother and grandmother.
Enter the suitor: a decent lad from a respectable family, a year older, finishing university. He was charming, in love, approved by the parents. What more did they need for happiness? Wild passion?
Her father said passion was a writers fancy, while a family was built for everyday life, not romance novels.
They chose a modest ceremony in a tearoom no limousines, no fanfare.
When it came to attire, the adventure began. Thomas managed a suit with a voucher from The Bridal Shop, Emily was lucky with shoes, but the dress turned out a disaster. At the time, brides looked like whipped meringues taffeta, ruffles, bows the size of a small propeller. It was touching and a little funny, sincere and beautiful, but Emily didnt want that. No floorlength veil, no train sweeping the streets of London. She imagined a dress that was special exceptional yet functional, not just for a wardrobe but for celebrations and everyday life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress with tiny blue flowers and a corset. Emily froze: she was already a little pregnant after filing their marriage notice. The condition was hidden from the parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness did not mix. She muttered something about flowers and backed away.
The situation was saved by her grandparents from Manchester. Upon hearing their beloved granddaughter was getting married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
Emily waited for the parcel, heart thudding with joy and fear. When she finally opened it, she could not believe her eyes: a simple yet refined 1920sstyle gown soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequins only a light veil and thin gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
Thomas insisted on the veil he wanted everything real. He later removed it, lifted Emily onto his shoulders and carried her up to the sixth floor. After that, there was no romance: tired, dizzy, they flopped onto the bed and fell asleep. By half past 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. The dress, of course, went with them.
It was never worn again, though friends borrowed it a couple of times they were smaller and luckier. Others sighed enviously.
When the marriage collapsed, Emily, moving to France, tucked the dress back into a suitcase just in case.
Now, decades later, she stood in the wardrobe and thought, I should sell it.
She photographed the dress, wrote a brief description and listed it on Gumtree, the British classifieds where you can buy anything from a coffee maker to a hamster.
Price: £85 not cheap enough to scare, but not cheap either.
To her surprise, the dress sold that very day.
The buyer was local, so they agreed to meet at a café in the city centre no shipping required.
Emily was already at a table with a cappuccino and a croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with blonde hair and blue eyes, swept over.
Goodness, she looks just like me at that age, Emily thought.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, turned it over, and chatted nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing a degree in pharmacy. My fiancé is Spanish, also studying and working. No one to help us, but well manage ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for friends fun. Your dress is a miracle, perfect!
Emily smiled. Thats wonderful. Im glad I could help. No money needed, take it.
She wiped a tear and reflected: perhaps the dress will bring the girl real happiness. As for her, when she thought back, life hadnt been so bad: love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. Just not all at once, not like in the movies.
The girl left, and outside a fine rain fell thin as a veil. Emily watched the street and realised happiness comes in many forms. Sometimes its like a dress: not new, but familiar. The important thing is that, at least once, it fits you perfectly.
She stirred her cooling cappuccino thoughtfully and smiled. I really should go through the rest of the closet, she mused. Theres still plenty more.
