23April
Today I watched Emma Clarke standing in front of the fulllength mirror, twirling in a powderpink dress shed found in a boutique on Oxford Street. Her mate Rachel nearly tipped her coffee cup when she saw it.
Are you serious? Pink for a wedding? Rachel blurted.
Its pretty, I like it, Emma replied, admiring the soft hue. It feels romantic.
Rachel huffed, Youre thirtytwo, love. Pink is for teenagers.
Emma turned, eyes bright. Who said I cant feel like a princess on my one and only wedding day?
After a sigh, Rachel sipped her tea. Fine, wear what you want. But ivory would suit you better.
The shop assistant, a patient woman named Ms. Patel, held up a third gown. Ladies, perhaps youd like to try this one? Its very elegant, with a train.
Emma nodded, slipped into the changing room, and emerged in an ivory sheath with offtheshoulder sleeves and a sweeping train.
Rachel walked around her, eyes wide. Now thats a queen.
The dress fit like a glove.
Do you think Anton will like it? Rachel asked.
Who knows? Hes been oddly quiet all week.
Rachel reassured, Men get jittery before the big day; its just nerves about responsibility.
Emma bought the ivory dress; Ms. Patel boxed it up and the two friends left the boutique.
At the café across the street, Rachel asked, Everything set? Have you booked the venue, got the rings?
Yes, Emma said. The wedding is the day after tomorrow, Saturday. The Hall at Brookfield is booked, the menu approved, the band hired.
How many guests?
About eighty.
Rachel whistled. Thats a proper shindig.
Emma explained that her mother was insistent on making a splash, while Antons mother would attend but his father had declined, saying Anton must face the consequences of his own choices.
They finished their coffees; Rachel left for her errands and Emma returned home. The flat was quiether mother at work, her father tinkering in the garage.
Emma texted Anton: Got the dress, its stunning! Cant wait for Saturday.
A terse reply arrived twenty minutes later: Fine.
The bluntness set her on edge; Anton had always been laconic, but lately hed become almost mute. She called him.
Hello? his voice sounded weary.
Hey, its me. How are you?
Fine.
Anton, whats up? Youve seemed off all week.
Silence, then a deep sigh. Emma, I need to tell you something.
What is it?
Not over the phone. Meet me tomorrow at six by the fountain in Greenfield Park.
Emma felt a chill run down her spine. Alright, see you then.
Later her mother called, Did you get the dress?
Yes, mum, its gorgeous.
Show it tomorrow, love. You need rest; youve got the biggest day of your life ahead.
Emma lay down, halfdressed, wondering what Anton might say.
The next morning she arrived at the park fifteen minutes early, perched on a bench by the fountain, watching families stroll and children play. At six punctually, Anton appeared in dark jeans and a shirt, his expression serious, almost grim.
Hi, he said, sitting beside her.
Hello. What did you want to tell me?
He stared at the water, then turned. Emma, Im not sure Im ready for the wedding.
Her heart dropped. What? The wedding is tomorrow! Guests are booked, the hall paid for!
I know, but I need time to think. Maybe we should postpone.
Emmas voice trembled, Postpone? Weve planned everything for three years!
Anton stood, hands in his pockets, Im sorry, I just cant.
She lunged for her phone, dialing Rachel. Hes backing out!
Rachels voice burst with anger, That idiot! Where are you?
Im at the fountain.
Stay put, Im on my way.
Rachel arrived half an hour later, enveloping Emma in a tight hug until tears streamed down both their faces.
What do I do? The wedding is tomorrow!
Cancel everything. Call the venue, tell the guests.
Its a messparents, money
Rachel steadied her, Tell them the truth. Hes fled. It happens.
They sat until darkness fell, then Rachel drove Emma home.
Her mother opened the door, immediately sensing something wrong.
Emma, what happened?
Anton cancelled.
Her mothers face paled. How?
It said he isnt sure, needs time.
Her father emerged from the garage, furious, What do you mean cancelled a day before?
He stormed out to speak with Anton, but Emma stopped him. No, I wont talk to him.
She retired to her room, lay on the bed, the emptiness louder than any sob.
Morning came, her mother bringing tea. You have to call the guests, dear.
Emma swallowed, Ill try.
She phoned each invitation, hearing sympathy, anger, indifference. Her father later returned from the hall with a grim expression.
The deposit is nonrefundable. Weve lost £2,000.
Emma covered her face. Two thousand pounds all that we saved.
Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, The money is gone, but youre safe, and thats what matters.
Saturday arrived, the day that should have been their wedding. Emma stared at her unused dress hanging in the wardrobe, tears threatening again. Her phone buzzed.
It was a photo from Anton: he in a tux, arm around a woman in a white dress, both smiling beside a bright red folder. The caption read, Sorry, Im already married. Ive loved her forever.
Emmas world stopped. She fled to the bathroom, screaming, while her mother burst in, horrified at the image.
This this monster! she shouted.
They held each other, the mothers words a balm: Its not your fault. Hes a scoundrel.
Rachel arrived shortly after, eyes wide on the photo. Ill find him!
Emma explained that Anton had claimed he was renovating his flat, never inviting anyone over.
Weeks passed; Emma ate little, stayed indoors, while Rachel visited daily with fruit and attempts at cheer.
On the eighth day, an unfamiliar voice rang out. Emma?
Its me, answered Emma.
Im Lydia Harper, Antons mother.
Emma was taken aback.
I need to speak with you. Its important.
They met again at Greenfield Park. Lydia, a stout woman in her sixties, wept quietly.
Im sorry youve been hurt. Anton is a con artist. He marries one woman, then another, siphoning money from families.
What money?
The wedding expenses. He makes secret deals with venues to get a fraction back.
Lydia handed Emma a crumpled list of names and addressesother women hed duped.
Emma felt a cold resolve.
Ill tell my parents.
Back home, her fathers face turned crimson. Im going to the police!
Dad, we have no proof; his word is his only defense.
Her mother studied the list, Maybe the other women want justice too.
Emma called the first number.
Hello, is this?
Whos speaking?
My name is Emma Clarke. Did you date Anton Harper?
Silence, then a firm voice: Yes. Im not alone.
The woman introduced herself as Maya, another victim. Soon Emma had three more women on the line: Sara, Helen, and Priya. Together they pooled their stories.
Maya said her family lost £1,500, Sara £2,000, Helen £1,800, and Emma £2,000.
They debated options.
Maya: I tried the police; they dismissed it.
Sara: We could go to the newspapers.
Helen: Hell just change his name and keep going.
Emma thought, then said, What if we confront him together? Demand the money back, or well expose him publicly.
The women agreed.
Lydia gave them Antons flat address. That night the four women marched to his door. He opened, stunned.
Can we come in? Maya asked, voice steady.
He let them in, eyes darting.
Listen, Emma began, we know everything. Your mother told us, we have your victims testimonies. We want the money back.
Anton sputtered, I dont have that much.
Well give you a month, Emma said, or well flood the press with your picture and story.
He paled. Fine. A month.
The women left, hands shaking as they stepped onto the street.
A month later, Anton sent each of them an envelope. Inside lay the exact sums owed, neatly counted.
Emma handed the money to her parents.
How did you manage that? her mother asked, astonished.
We united. We were his past brides.
Her father embraced her, Im proud of you, love.
Six months have passed. Ive landed a new job, met new people, and the sting of Antons betrayal has dulled, though it never fully disappears.
Last week Lydia called to thank me. Anton finally got a decent job. He says he wont cheat again.
I hung up, wondering if perhaps some justice was served.
I never wore that dress; I gave it to a friend whos just getting married. Watching her smile at her own altar reminded me that life moves on.
My mother always says my happiness is still aheadwe just have to be wiser about whom we trust.
Lesson learned: trust must be earned, not given away on the promise of a fairytale.
