The wedding dress was still in the wardrobe. The marriage, however, had long since vanished. At least the story that remained was entirely genuine.
When the new houses closet began to groan under the weight of clothes, Poppy swore to her husband that she would finally sort it out: toss the junk, donate or sell the unwanted bits (see her earlier tale The Fashion Sacrifice). So she spent an hour shuffling garments from hanger to hanger, justifying each one in her head this one for a walk with the terrier, that one just in case were invited to a charity ball.
The throwaway pile was embarrassingly small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the depths of the cupboard, a fabriccovered box emerged.
What on earth is this? she frowned. Blimey! Its my wedding dress!
Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit shed worn at the town hall the second time around, but the dress from her first marriage the very piece that had travelled with her across oceans and years, a relic of a former life.
Poppy had first wed at twentyone by todays standards barely an adult, by the standards of the time almost a seasoned maiden. She caught bewildered, judging looks from acquaintances, sympathetic sighs from married friends, and worried glances from her mother and grandmother.
Enter the suitor: a decent young man from a respectable family, almost on his own, a year older, about to finish university. She said yes. He was handsome, loveydovey, liked by her, approved by his parents. What else did you need for happiness? Wild passion?
Dad declared that passion was a writers invention, a plot device, while a family was built for everyday life, not for romance novels.
They opted for a modest wedding in a tea room no grand halls, no limousines (and honestly, where would you even find those in a village?).
When it came to the outfits, the adventure began. The groom managed to snag a suit with a voucher from The Grooms Salon, Poppy got lucky with shoes, but the dress turned out to be a complete disaster.
Back then brides resembled towering meringues nylon, ruffles, bows the size of a small propeller. It was endearing and a touch ridiculous, sincere and pretty, but Poppy didnt want that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train to trample across the cobbles of London. She dreamed of a dress that was special exceptional and practical, suitable not just for the wardrobe but for both celebration and daily life.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress dotted with tiny blue flowers and a corset. Poppy froze: she was already a bit roundthebum a natural consequence of having filed the marriage notice at the registry office. The new condition was being concealed from her parents, but a stiff corset and morning nausea did not mix. She mumbled something about flowers and backed out.
The dilemma was rescued by her grandparents, Jack and Molly, who had emigrated from Israel. Upon hearing that their beloved granddaughter was getting married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
Poppy waited for the parcel with a mixture of excitement, joy and dread. When she finally opened it, she could hardly believe her eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, very 1920s soft fabric, loose cut, horizontal gathers at the waist, skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequins only a light veil and slender gloves that gave the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veil he wanted everything to feel real. He later lifted her onto his shoulders and carried her up to the sixth floor of the building. After that, there was no romance whatsoever: weary, sweaty, and slightly panicky, 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 Cornwall for their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to the United States. Naturally, the dress travelled with them.
It was never worn again, though a couple of friends borrowed it for miniature weddings, and the rest sighed with envy.
When the marriage fell apart and Poppy moved to Europe, she shoved the dress back into a suitcase just in case.
Decades later she stood in the nowoverstuffed wardrobe and thought, Its time to sell it. She snapped a photo, wrote a brief description and listed it on Gumtree for £75 enough to show it wasnt a bargain basement find but not so high as to scare off buyers.
To her surprise, the dress sold the same day. The buyer was a local, so they arranged to meet at a café in the town centre no shipping hassles.
Poppy was already sipping a cappuccino and nibbling a croissant when a whirlwind of a young woman about twentyseven, light brown hair, blue eyes swooped to the table.
Good heavens, thats me in my younger days, Poppy thought.
The girl examined the dress, cooed, twirled it in her hands and babbled nonstop: Im from Poland, finishing my pharmacy degree, my fiancés Spanish and also a studentworker. We have no one to help, and we dont need any well manage everything ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our mates fun and all that. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Poppy smiled. Thats wonderful. Im glad I could help. No payment needed, just take it.
She brushed away a tear and mused: perhaps this dress will bring the girl genuine happiness. As for herself, when you think about it, things werent that bad: love, two brilliant sons, travel, laughter. Just not all at once, and certainly not like in the movies.
The girl left, and outside a fine drizzle fell as thin as a veil. Poppy watched the street and reflected that happiness comes in many forms.
Sometimes its like a dress: not brandnew, but familiar. The key is that, at least once in life, it fits you just right.
She stirred her cooling cappuccino thoughtfully and smiled. Better have a proper look through the wardrobe, she thought. Theres still plenty more in there.
