The wedding dress was still there. The marriage, not so much. At least the story that followed felt genuinely lived.
When the new houses alreadycrammed wardrobe started groaning under the weight of endless coats and shoes, Agnes Whitmore swore to her husband, Tom Harris, that she would sort it out: toss the rags, give away or sell the bits she didnt need (see the short Fashion Sacrifice). So she spent a good hour inside, shuffling garments from one hanger to another, justifying each move in her head: this will come in handy, thats for a walk with the terrier, and this one just in case a charity ball pops up.
The pile destined for the bin was embarrassingly thin. Everything seemed important, useful, almost familylike.
Then, from the back of the closet, a dusty fabric case appeared.
What on earth is this? she frowned. Blimey! Its my wedding dress!
Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit shed once tried on at the town hall for a second ceremony, but the gown from her very first wedding the one that had travelled with her across seas and years, a relic from another life.
Agnes had first said I do at twentyone by todays standards almost a teenager, by the standards of the early 80s almost an old maid. Shed started to notice the puzzled, sometimes sympathetic looks from friends, the supportive nods from married acquaintances, and the worried glances from her mother and grandmother.
Enter the suitor: a decent lad from a respectable family, nearly on his own, a year older and about to finish university. She said yes. He was charming, head over heels, liked by the parents. What else does a girl need for happiness? A whirlwind romance?
Dad had always said passion was a writers gimmick, that a family was built for everyday life, not for soapopera plotlines.
They chose a modest wedding, in a local tea room no grand halls, no limousines (and where would you even get a limo in a village?).
When it came to attire, the adventures began. The groom managed to snag a suit on a voucher from The Bridal Shop, she got lucky with shoes, but the dress was a complete disaster.
Back then brides looked like overwhipped meringues taffeta, ruffles, bows the size of a tractor propeller. It was sweet, a little comic, earnest and pretty, but Agnes didnt want to parade around like that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train that trampled the cobbles of London.
She dreamed of a dress that was special exclusive yet practical. Not just a showpiece for a wardrobe, but suitable for both a celebration and everyday life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. By then, Agnes was already a touch roundthebum naturally, after filing the marriage notice. She kept the pregnancy a secret from the folks, but a stiff corset and morning sickness simply did not mix. After mumbling something about flowers, she backed out.
The crisis was averted by her grandparents, who had retired to Israel. Upon hearing their beloved granddaughter was getting married, they declared, The dress will be our gift.
Agnes waited for the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy, and terror. When she finally opened it, her eyes widened: the dress was simple yet elegant, a nod to the roaring 20s soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequins just a light veil and delicate gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veil he wanted everything to be real. He later lifted her onto his shoulders and carried her up to the sixth floor. After that, there was no cinematic romance: both were exhausted, a little tipsy, nerves jangling, and they collapsed onto the bed, asleep in seconds. By half past six they had to dash to the airport for a flight to Scotland for their honeymoon.
Three years later, the young couple emigrated to the United States. Naturally, the dress travelled with them.
It never got worn again, except when a couple of friends borrowed it for a brief moment they were luckier and more petite. The rest of the circle sighed enviously.
When the marriage dissolved and Agnes moved to Europe again, she tucked the dress back into a suitcase just in case.
Decades later she stood in the same overstuffed wardrobe, thinking: Its time to sell it.
She snapped a few photos, wrote a brief description and listed it on Gumtree, the British online classifieds where you can buy anything from a kettle to a hamster. Price: £98 enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not so much as to scare off buyers.
To her surprise the dress sold the very same day.
The buyer turned out to be a local, and they arranged to meet at a café in the city centre no shipping required.
Agnes was already nursing a cappuccino and a croissant when a whirlwind of a young woman about twentyseven, with sandy hair and blue eyes swooped into the table.
Good heavens, thats me at your age, Agnes mused silently.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, turned it over in her hands and chatted nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy degree. My fiancés Spanish, also studying and working. No ones going to help us, and we dont need anyone well make it ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends, a proper kneesup. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Agnes smiled. Thats wonderful. Im glad it helps. No money needed, just take it.
She brushed away a tear and thought, perhaps this dress will bring the young lady genuine happiness. As for me, if I look back, it wasnt all that bad: love, two brilliant sons, travel, laughter. Just not a Hollywood script, and not all at once.
The girl left, and outside a fine rain fell as delicate as a veil. Agnes watched the street and thought that happiness does come in many forms. Sometimes, like a dress, it isnt brandnew, but its yours. The key is that, at least once, it fits you just right.
She stirred her nowcold cappuccino, smiled, and mused, Better give the wardrobe a proper rummage theres still plenty in there.
