One Day in December(60)
‘So, you’re my bride!’ She says it as if she’s the one I’m getting hitched to, all panto over-emphasis. ‘I’m Gwenda, otherwise known around here as the fairy godmother!’
My smile is thin; if there’s one thing I’ve come to realize about weddings, it’s that pretty much everyone who works in the industry has perfected a false air of perpetual excitement, like nothing delights them more than making your every wedding wish come true. I get it. More gushing equals more money spent. The mere fact that something is wedding related seems to make it instantly three times more expensive than it might otherwise be. You want a couple of bay trees to put either side of your front door? Sure. These beauties are fifty pound a pair. Wait, you want them for your wedding reception? Ah, well, in that case let me tie ribbons round the pots and charge you double! But I’ve got their number now. I try not to throw the bridal bomb in until the very last minute, if at all. Not that Oscar is interested in cutting corners; he and his mother have gone into a full-scale wedding mania. I’m having a hard time reining them in. What I’d really love, if they cared to listen to me, is a small wedding – and unlike most people who say that, I really mean it; something intimate and special, just for us and our very dearest. The only people I really want there from my side are my immediate family, Jack and Sarah, and the couple of old school friends I’ve stayed in touch with. As for my colleagues, I like them well enough, but not well enough to want them at my nuptials. Not that it matters a great deal what I think. It seems I’m going to end up with something lavish and public. I mean, I don’t have a religious bone in my body, but apparently a church wedding is non-negotiable, preferably the same church Oscar’s parents married in. A family tradition to uphold, even though Lucille’s own marriage was hardly one to aspire to.
I’m just glad I’ve managed to ring-fence choosing my own wedding dress and Sarah’s maid of honour dress – believe me when I say that it wasn’t a given. My mother-in-law-to-be has been sending me dress links for weeks, all of them suitable for Kate Middleton, or perhaps more accurately, Oscar’s previous girlfriend, Cressida. Oscar rarely mentions her. I wish the same could be said for his mother; she keeps their photo in a frame in their sitting room, on the piano, naturally. I say naturally, because Cressida was – is – a concert pianist. She has long, skinny fingers. She has long, skinny everything, to be honest.
‘I find that a sweetheart neckline makes the most of a more modest cleavage,’ Gwenda says, eyeing my chest with something like pity.
Sarah turns away into the wall of dresses because she’s laughing. This is the second time today I’ve been made to feel as if my boobs leave something to be desired; we’ve just come from an equally depressing shopping experience being measured for a bridal bra, which of course was twice the cost of the non-bridal underwear beside it. I’m now wedged into this eight-way basque one-piece that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get off or have a wee in, so Gwenda’s unimpressed reaction to my assets riles me. My mother, bless her, steps in.
‘I quite agree, Gwenda,’ she smiles. ‘Laurie takes after me in that department.’ Mum rolls her eyes down towards her own chest. ‘Perhaps if we could have a bit of a glance around first and then come and find you?’
Gwenda smarts a little, fast flutters of her eyelashes behind her horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘As you wish, ladies. Your appointment is for the whole hour, so take your time.’ She steps behind her counter, then looks up again. ‘Just so you know, we do all of our adjustments in-house, no sleepless nights for you worrying your dress might get misplaced while it’s away being shortened.’
Lovely. Now I’m flat-chested and short. Some fairy godmother she’s turning out to be.
‘How are you doing after all that business, Sarah, my love?’ I hear my mum whisper her question as she puts an arm round Sarah’s shoulders over by the rack of meringue dresses I’m purposefully avoiding. Mum’s met Sarah several times over the years, and they share a sense of humour – mostly at my expense – that bonded them from the outset.
‘Not too bad, Helen, thank you. I’m just trying to get on with things, keep myself busy.’ Sarah chucks in a small, grateful smile to reinforce her words. Me and Sarah have drunk more wine together than is healthy over the weeks since it happened, but all things considered she’s holding it together. Jack, I’m not so sure about. We’ve met up a couple of times for coffee; Sarah knows, of course. I promised her I’d tell her whenever I saw him. I didn’t tell her the nitty-gritty – that the first time we met he looked like hell, the second time even worse, as if he’d done the walk of shame to get to the coffee house. I guess everyone has their own way of coping, but seeing him like that left me feeling uneasy.
I’m wondering how to get my mum away from the five-foot-wide frocks when Gwenda comes unexpectedly to my rescue.
‘Mum,’ she calls loudly, peering over her specs. ‘I find that the fuller skirt can swamp my more petite brides.’
It’s my turn to put my face into the nearest wall of dresses to hide my smile. Gwenda calling her ‘mum’ is another symptom of the wedding industry. Everyone is referred to by their role in the proceedings. Bride, groom, mother of the bride.
Sarah puts her head on one side and nods slowly. ‘You know, I think Gwenda’s right there. We don’t want Laurie to be all skirt, do we? She’d be unbalanced, like one of those toilet-roll-holder dolls.’ She laughs breezily and links arms with my mum, throwing me a wink as she steers her towards me. I smile, but shoot her a few tiny daggers too. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the intervention, but a toilet-roll holder? Anyone else want to chuck a few insults my way today? The wedding magazines assured me this would be one of the most memorable shopping trips of my life. I’m sure they mentioned tears and champagne. Given the way this day’s shaping up, I’m not too hopeful, although there may well be tears of pain and the need for a very stiff drink.