WEDDING DRESS
The dress lingered.
But the marriage itself evaporated.
Only the story remained, and every fragment felt real.
When the new houses closet swelled until its doors creaked, Evelyn swore to her husband, James, to sort it out: toss the relics, give or sell the surplus (see the tale The Fashion Sacrifice).
So she spent a restless hour amid hanging garments, shuffling coats from one peg to another, justifying each move in her mind: this will be useful, this for a walk with Biscuit, this just in case of a charity ball.
The pile destined for the bin was absurdly scant. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost kin.
Then, from the shadowy depth of the wardrobe, a clothcovered case emerged.
What on earth is this? she frowned. Goodness! Its my wedding dress!
Not the sleek blue Chanelstyle suit she had once donned at the town hall for a second ceremony, but the gown from her very first wedding the one that had crossed seas and years with her, a relic of another life.
Evelyn had first married at twentyone, which by todays standards was barely adolescent, yet back then it felt like she was already an old maid. She sensed the bewildered, judgmental glances of acquaintances, the sympathetic sighs of married friends, and the anxious stare of her mother and grandmother.
And then a suitor: a decent lad from a respectable family, almost selfsufficient, a year older, finishing university.
She agreed. He was charming, in love, she liked him, his parents approved. What more could one need for happiness? Wild passion?
Her father once said that passion was a writers invention, a way to fill pages, while a family was built for living, not for romance novels.
They planned a modest wedding in a café no grand halls, no limousines (and where would they find any anyway).
When it came to attire, the adventure began. James managed to buy a suit with a voucher from the Newlyweds Boutique, Evelyn lucked into shoes, but the dress turned into a fullblown disaster.
Back then brides resembled frosted meringues organza, ruffles, and bows as large as a propeller on a vintage tractor. It was endearing, a little comic, sincerely beautiful, yet she did not want to look that way. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train trampling the cobbled streets of London.
Evelyn dreamed of a dress that would be unique and practical, not just a showpiece for a wardrobe, but suitable for both celebration and daily life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a gown of white batiste with tiny blue blossoms and a corset. Evelyn froze: by then she was faintly pregnantnaturally, after submitting the marriage licence. The condition was a secret from her parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness did not mix. Murmuring something about blossoms, she withdrew.
The crisis was averted by her grandparents who had emigrated from Ireland. Upon hearing that their beloved granddaughter was to be married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
Evelyn awaited the parcel with a mixture of excitement, joy, and dread. When she finally opened it, she could not believe her eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, in a 1920s spirit soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, a 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.
The veil was insisted upon by James he wanted everything real. He later lifted it, carrying her up the sixthfloor staircase. There was no lingering romance: weary, flushed, and jittery, they collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. By half past six they had to sprint to the airport to catch a flight to the Lake District for their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to the United States. Naturally, the dress travelled with them.
It was never worn again, though a few friends borrowed ita couple of petite, lucky ladies. Others sighed enviously.
When the marriage dissolved and Evelyn moved to Europe, she slipped the dress back into a suitcasejust in case.
Now, decades later, she stood amid the closet and thought, Its time to sell it.
She photographed it, wrote a brief description, and posted it on Gumtreea British online market where you can buy everything from a kettle to a hamster.
Price: £78. Enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not to frighten buyers.
To her surprise, it sold the same day.
The buyer was a local woman; they arranged to meet at a café in the town centreno shipping needed.
Evelyn was already nursing a cappuccino and a buttery croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with sandy hair and blue eyes, swooped down to the table like a breezy draft.
Good heavens, thats me at that age, Evelyn thought.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, twirled it in her hands, and chattered nonstop: she was from Poland, finishing a pharmacy degree, her fiancé Spanish and also a student and parttime worker.
Theres no one to help us, and we dont need any, she declared confidently. Well make it ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle weddingfor friends, for fun. Your dress is a marvel, it fits perfectly!
Evelyn smiled.
Wonderful. Im glad I could help. No money needed, take it.
She brushed away a tear and mused, perhaps this dress would bring the girl true happiness. As for herself, when she thought it over, things hadnt been that terrible: love, two wonderful sons, travels, laughter. Nothing was cinematic, nothing immediate, but it was enough.
The girl left, and outside a thin rain fell delicate as a veil. Evelyn stared at the street and thought that happiness does come in many forms.
Sometimes its like a dress: not brandnew, but familiar. The key is that, at least once, it fits you just right.
She stirred her cooling cappuccino thoughtfully and smiled.
Better give the wardrobe another look, she whispered. Theres still plenty hidden away.
