The wedding dress stayed in the wardrobe, but the marriage didnt. Still, there was a story that felt entirely genuine.
When the new houses closet began to buckle under the weight of clothes, I promised my wife, Eleanor, that Id sort it out throw out the junk, give away or sell anything we didnt need (as in my tale The Fashion Sacrifice).
So I spent an hour inside, shuffling garments from one hanger to another, justifying each one in my head: this will be useful, thats for a walk with the dog, and this one just in case theres a charity ball. The pile earmarked for the bin was surprisingly small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost a part of us.
Then, from the depths of the closet, a fabric-covered case emerged.
What on earth is this? I asked, frowning. By Jove, thats my wedding dress!
Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit Id worn at the town hall for my second marriage, but the gown from my first wedding the one that had travelled with me across oceans and years, a relic of another life.
I first married at twentyone, which by todays standards is almost teenage, and back then I was already considered a late bloomer. I began to attract puzzled, judging looks from acquaintances, sympathetic glances from married friends, and worried eyebrows from my mother and Gran.
Then a suitor appeared: a decent lad from a respectable family, almost on his own, a year older and finishing his degree at university. I said yes. He was handsome, in love, liked by my parents, and seemed to have everything for a happy life.
Dad always said passion was a writers invention, that a family was built for living together, not for romance novels. We planned a modest ceremony in a café no limousines, no fanfare.
When it came to the outfits, the adventure began. The groom managed to secure a suit with a voucher from the BridetoBe Boutique, I lucked out with shoes, but the dress turned into a total disaster. Back then brides resembled overdecorated cupcakes tulle, ruffles, and bows as wide as a corncob propeller. It was charming in a quirky way, but I didnt want to look like that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train across Londons streets.
I dreamed of a dress that was special unique yet practical, not just for the wardrobe but suitable for both celebration and everyday life.
My mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress with tiny blue flowers and a corset. By then I was a little pregnant after submitting our marriage licence, of course and trying to keep the news from my parents. A stiff corset and morning sickness didnt mix, so I muttered something about the flowers and backed away.
Granddad and Gran, whod been living in Israel, heard the news that their beloved granddaughter was getting married and decided the dress would be their gift.
I waited for the parcel with a mix of excitement, joy, and fear. When I finally opened it, I could hardly believe my eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, in a twentiesstyle soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, a skirt just above the knee. No lace, no sequins only a light veil and delicate gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veil, wanting everything real. He later lifted it, carried me up to the sixth floor of the venue, and there was no romance left: tired, slightly drunk, and nervous, we tumbled onto the bed and fell asleep straight away. By halfpast six we had to race to the airport to catch a flight to Scotland for our honeymoon.
Three years later we emigrated to the United States, and, of course, the dress came with us. I never wore it again, though a couple of friends borrowed it for miniweddings, and the rest of the ladies sighed with envy.
When the marriage broke down and we moved to Europe, I again tucked the dress into a suitcase, just in case.
Now, decades later, I stand in the wardrobe thinking, Its time to sell it. I snapped a few photos, wrote a brief description, and listed it on Gumtree for £98 enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not to scare anyone off.
To my surprise the dress sold that very day. The buyer was a local, and we arranged to meet in a café in the town centre, avoiding any postal hassle.
I was already sipping a cappuccino and nibbling a croissant when a young woman in her late twenties, with sandy hair and blue eyes, swooped into the table.
Goodness, she looks just like me at my age, I thought.
She examined the dress, gasped, turned it over in her hands, and chattered nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy course. My fiancés Spanish, also still studying and working. Weve got no help, and we dont need any well manage it ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friends, lots of fun. Your dress is perfect, exactly what we need!
I smiled and replied, Thats wonderful. Im glad I could help. No money, just take it.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I thought, perhaps this dress will bring you real happiness. As for me, when I look back, it wasnt all that bad: I had love, two remarkable sons, travel, and laughter. It just wasnt a Hollywood ending.
She left, and outside a fine drizzle fell light as a veil. I watched the street and realised 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.
I stirred my nowcold cappuccino, smiled, and thought, Better give the wardrobe another thorough look theres still plenty in there.
