The wedding dress stayed hidden; the marriage itself had long since vanished. Yet the memory of a time when everything felt genuine endured.
When, in the new cottage, the cramped wardrobes began to creak under the weight of coats and gowns, Eleanor swore to her husband that she would sort it all outtoss the junk, give away or sell what they no longer needed (as recounted in the tale The Fashion Sacrifice).
So she spent a good hour inside, shifting garments from one hanger to another, justifying each move in her mind: this will be useful, that one for a walk with the spaniel, and this one just in case of a charity ball. The pile marked to discard was dismally small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the depths of a battered wardrobe, a cloth-covered bundle emerged.
What on earth is this? she frowned. Heavens! Its my wedding dress!
Not the stiff, stately blue Chanelstyle suit she had worn at the town hall the second time, but the dress from her very first marriagea relic that had crossed oceans and years with her, a keepsake of a former life.
The first time Eleanor wed, she was twentyoneby todays standards barely a teenager, but by the standards of the early 1900s already a seasoned maiden. She began to attract puzzled, judging glances from acquaintances, sympathetic looks from married friends, and anxious eyes from her mother and grandmother.
Then a suitor appeared: a respectable young man from a good family, almost on his own, a year older and about to finish at university. She agreed. He was handsome, ardent, she liked him, his parents approved. What more could a woman ask for? Fiery passion?
Her father declared that passion was the invention of novelists, while a family was built for a life, not for romance. They decided on a modest wedding in a tearroomno fanfare, no coach.
When it came to the attire, adventures began. The groom managed to purchase a suit with a voucher from The Grooms Emporium, she lucked into suitable shoes, but the dress turned out to be a disaster.
Back then brides resembled whipped meringuescrinolines, ruffles, and bows the size of a propeller on an old biplane. It was all charmingly quaint, a little humorous, sincere in its own way, yet Eleanor did not want to look that way. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train that could sweep across the cobbles of London. She dreamed of a dress that was specialexceptional yet practical, not just for a single occasion or a wardrobe, but suitable for both celebration and everyday life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a gown of white batiste dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. Eleanor froze; by then she was already a touch roundthebump after filing the marriage licence. The new condition was hidden from her parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness made a terrible pair. Mumbled something about flowers and retreated.
The crisis was averted by her grandparents from Israel, who, upon hearing that their beloved granddaughter was to be married, decided the dress would be their gift.
Eleanor awaited the parcel with a mixture of excitement, joy and dread. When she finally unwrapped it, she could not believe her eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, a nod to the twenties, with soft fabric, a loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, and a skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequinsonly a light veil and thin gloves that gave the whole ensemble a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veilhe wanted everything to be truly proper. He later lifted it, carrying his bride on his shoulders up to the sixth floor. After that, there was no romance left: exhausted, flushed, and jittery, 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 their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to America, and, of course, the dress travelled with them. It was never worn again, though occasional friends borrowed it for miniature parties, prompting envious sighs from others.
When the marriage eventually fell apart and Eleanor moved to mainland Europe, she slipped the dress into a suitcasejust in case.
Now, decades later, she found herself standing in the same cramped wardrobe, thinking: Its time to sell it. She photographed the gown, wrote a brief description and listed it on Gumtree, the British bargainsite where you can buy anything from a kettle to a hamster. The price: £78enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not to frighten buyers.
To her surprise the dress sold the same day. The buyer was a local woman, and they agreed to meet at a café in the city centre to avoid postage.
Eleanor was already sipping a cappuccino and nibbling a croissant when a young woman, about twentyseven, with auburn hair and blue eyes, breezed to the table.
Goodness, she looks just like me at twenty, Eleanor thought.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, twirled it in her hands and chatted endlessly: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy studies; my fiancé is Spanish, also still a student and working parttime.
None of us have anyone to help, and we dont need help, she said confidently. Well manage everything ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friendsfun and lively. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Eleanor smiled.
Wonderful. Im glad it will be useful. No money needed, just take it.
She wiped away a tear and thought, perhaps this dress will bring true happiness to the girl. As for herself, she reflected that, looking back, life had not been all that bad: love, two wonderful sons, travels, laughter. It just wasnt the sort of fairytale ending one reads in novels.
The girl left, and outside a fine drizzle fell, thin as a veil. Eleanor stared at the street and mused that happiness comes in many shapes. Sometimes, like a dress, it isnt brandnew, but it feels right because its familiar. The key is that, at least once, it fits you perfectly.
She stirred her nowcool cappuccino thoughtfully and smiled. I should still have a proper look through the wardrobe, she thought. Theres still plenty left to discover.
