The wedding dress was still there, but the marriage had vanished. All that remained was a story that felt painfully real.
When the new houses overstuffed wardrobe began to creak under the weight of dozens of coats and shoes, Eleanor Whitaker swore to her husband, Tom Turner, that she would sort it out: toss the old junk, give away what could be useful, or sell the rest (as she later recalled in the tale The Fashion Sacrifice).
She spent an hour on her knees, shifting garments from one hanger to another, justifying each choice in her mind: this will come in handy, that one for a walk with Baxter, this for a charity ball, perhaps. The pile destined for the bin was absurdly small. Every piece seemed important, necessary, almost beloved.
Then, from the depths of the closet, a dusty fabric cover emerged.
What on earth is that? she muttered, frowning. By Jove, its my wedding dress! Not the sleek, navy Chanelstyle suit shed worn when she remarried at the town hall, but the gown from her first weddingthe very dress that had crossed oceans and years with her, a relic of a former life.
Eleanor had first married at twentyone, a teenager by todays standards and, in those days, an almostold maid. She remembered the bewildered looks of acquaintances, the sympathetic sighs of married friends, and the anxious stare of her mother and grandmother. The suitor was a respectable lad from a good family, a year older, finishing his degree at university. He was charming, in love, approved by his parents. What more could one ask for happiness? A raging romance?
Her father had warned that passion was the writers fancy, not the foundation of a lasting family. The wedding was to be modesta tea room in a quiet suburb, no limousines, no grand fanfare.
When it came to the attire, the adventure began. Tom managed to secure a suit with a voucher from The Grooms Boutique. Eleanor snagged a pair of shoes, but the dress was a disaster. In those days brides were like overwhipped meringuescrinolines, layers of tulle, and bows as wide as a farmhouse propeller. It was all sweetly absurd, sincere, and beautiful, yet she didnt want to look like that. No floorsweeping veil, no train rattling the cobblestones of London. She dreamed of a dress that was both exceptional and practical, one that could be worn not just once for a closet but repeatedly for celebrations and everyday life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress dotted with tiny blue flowers, cinched with a corset. Eleanor froze. By then she was a touch pregnant, the result of filing the notice at the registry office. The secret she kept from her parents clashed with the tight corset and morning sickness. She mumbled something about the flowers and backed away.
The situation was rescued by her grandparents, who had emigrated from Israel. Upon hearing that their beloved granddaughter was getting married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
Eleanor waited for the parcel with a mixture of excitement, joy, and dread. When she finally opened it, she could hardly believe her eyes: a simple yet elegant dress in a 1920s spiritsoft fabric, loose cut, horizontal pleats at the waist, a skirt that fell just below the knee. No lace, no sequins, only a delicate veil and fine gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
Tom insisted on the veil, wanting everything real. He later lifted her onto his shoulders and carried her up to the sixth floor of the venue. The romance ended there: exhausted, slightly drunk, and nervous, they collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. By halfpast six they had to rush to the airport to catch the flight to Scotland for their honeymoon.
Three years later, the young couple emigrated to the United States, and the dress went with them. It never saw a second wearing, though a few friends borrowed it for miniature weddings, while others sighed with envy.
When the marriage fell apart and Eleanor moved to Europe, she tucked the dress into a suitcasejust in case. Decades later, standing amid a cramped wardrobe, she thought, Its time to sell it.
She photographed the gown, wrote a brief description, and listed it on Gumtree, the British equivalent of a flea market site where you can buy anything from a kettle to a hamster. The price: £85enough to show it wasnt cheap, but not so high as to scare off buyers.
To her surprise, it sold the same day. The buyer, a local woman, arranged to meet at a café in the town centre to avoid postage.
Eleanor was already sipping a cappuccino and nibbling a croissant when a whirlwind of a twentysevenyearold with chestnut hair and blue eyes landed at the table.
Good heavens, shes me at twentysomething, Eleanor thought.
The young woman examined the dress, gasped, twirled it in her hands, and chattered nonstop: Im from Poland, studying to be a pharmacist. My fiancés Spanish, still at university and parttime work. Weve got no help, but well manage everything ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle weddingfun, for friends. Your dress is perfect, just wonderful!
Eleanor smiled. Thats lovely. Im glad it helps. No money needed, take it.
She brushed away a tear, thinking perhaps the dress would bring true happiness to this girl. As for her own life, it hadnt been a fairytale, but it wasnt terrible either: love, two remarkable sons, travel, laughter. It just didnt happen all at once or in a Hollywood script.
The young woman left, and outside a fine rain fell, as thin as a veil. Eleanor stared at the street, realizing happiness comes in many forms. Sometimes its like a dressnot brand new, but familiar. The key is finding one that finally fits.
She stirred the nowcold cappuccino, smiled, and mused, Better give the wardrobe another look. Theres still plenty hidden in there.
