The wedding dress was still in the wardrobe, but the marriage itself had long since vanished. Still, the tale that remained was entirely genuine.
When the new houses walkin closet began to groan under the weight of coats and shoes, I promised my wife, Margaret Turner, that Id sort it out: toss the rubbish, give away or sell the surplus (as in my earlier yarn The Fashion Sacrifice). So she spent a good hour hoovering the rows of hangers, justifying each piece to herself: This will be useful, this one for a walk with Rover, that one for a charity ball. The pile destined for the bin was embarrassingly small; everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the back of the wardrobe, a fabriccovered case emerged.
What on earth is this? she whispered, brow furrowed. By Jove, its my wedding dress! Not the sleek blue Chanelstyle suit shed worn at the town hall the second time, but the gown from her first marriage the very same dress that had crossed oceans and years with her, a relic of another life.
Margaret first wed at twentyone by todays standards a teenager, by then almost an old maid. She had felt the puzzled, judging glances of acquaintances, the sympathetic looks of married friends, and the worried stare of her mother and grandmother. Then a suitor appeared: a decent young man from a respectable family, almost selfsufficient, a year older and about to finish university. She agreed.
He was handsome, sincere, she liked him, his parents approved. What else was needed for happiness? A whirlwind romance? Her father once said passion was a writers fancy, that a family was built for life, not for novels.
They planned a modest wedding in a café no grand halls, no limousines (and where would they get any anyway). When it came to the attire, the adventures began. The groom managed to buy a suit with a voucher from The Bridal Salon, she was lucky with shoes, but the dress turned out to be a disaster.
Back then brides looked like frosted meringues capri, ruffles, bows as large as a corncutter propeller. It was all earnest and a touch funny, genuine and pretty, yet she didnt want to look that way. No floorlength veil, no train sweeping the London streets. She dreamed of a dress that was special unique yet practical, suitable not just for a wardrobe showcase but for both celebration and daily life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress with tiny blue flowers and a corset. Margaret froze: she was already a shade pregnant after filing the notice at the registry office. The condition was kept secret from her parents, but a stiff corset and earlymorning nausea simply didnt mix. Mumbling something about the flowers, she withdrew.
Her grandparents from Israel stepped in. Hearing that their beloved granddaughter was to be married, they declared the dress would be their gift.
Margaret waited for the parcel with a mixture of excitement, joy, and dread. When she finally opened it, she could hardly believe her eyes: a simple yet elegant dress in a twentiesstyle soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal gathers at the waist, skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequins only a light veil and thin gloves that lent the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veil he wanted everything real. He later lifted her onto his shoulders and carried her to the sixthfloor flat. After that, there was no romance left: exhausted, dishevelled, and a little tipsy, they collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. By half past six they had to dash to the airport to catch a flight to Scotland for the honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to the United States, and of course the dress came along. It never saw another proper wearing, though a couple of friends borrowed it for miniature, lucky occasions, while the rest sighed enviously.
When the marriage fell apart and Margaret moved to Europe, she tucked the dress into a suitcase just in case. Decades later, standing in the stillcluttered wardrobe, she thought, Its time to sell it. She snapped a photo, wrote a brief description and listed it on Gumtree, the British bargainhunters version of eBay. Price: £98 enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not frightening.
To her surprise the dress sold the same day. The buyer turned out to be a local, and they agreed to meet at a café in the city centre to avoid any postalley shipping.
Margaret was already nursing a cappuccino and a croissant when a brighteyed young woman, about twentyseven, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, swooped over the table. Goodness, thats me at your age, Margaret thought.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, turned it over in her hands and chatted nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing a pharmacy degree, my fiancé is Spanish, also studying and working. No ones going to help us, and we dont need it well manage everything ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbythemed wedding for our friends, something fun. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Margaret smiled. Thats lovely. Im glad I could help. No money needed, just take it. She brushed away a tear and mused, Perhaps this dress will bring you real happiness. As for me, looking back, things werent terrible: love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. It just wasnt a Hollywood script.
The girl left, and outside a fine rain fell, as thin as a veil. Margaret watched the street and thought that happiness comes in many forms. Sometimes its like a dress not brandnew, but familiar. The important thing is that, at least once, it fits you just right.
She stirred her cooling cappuccino, smiled and thought, I should have a proper look through the rest of the wardrobe theres still plenty left.
