Wedding Belles (11 page)

As soon as I walk into Butterfly Bridal on Thursday with Mum and Clover, I know it’s going to be a long evening. I’ve never seen so many wedding dresses in one place in my life — dozens and dozens of them, all hanging on two ultra-long rails that run the length of the shop. Plus, the room is so white, it’s already giving me a headache. Walls, mirror frames, sofa, desk, carpet, computer, and, of course, wedding dresses — all bright, blinding white. They should offer visitors sunglasses. I sigh inwardly. I’ve had a rotten day in school, spent trying to avoid Seth so I don’t get upset, and I’m not exactly looking forward to being all chirpy and wedding-y.

“Is it just me or have we walked into a snowstorm, Beanie?” Clover whispers. It’s also the kind of place where you feel you have to lower your voice, like in a church.

“Nope, it really is blizzard a-go-go,” I say. “But the romantic music’s a nice touch.” The sound system is playing “My Heart Will Go On,” the theme song from
Titanic
.

Mum hasn’t moved since we entered the shop. She’s still standing in the middle of the white carpet, blinking rapidly.

“You OK, sis?” Clover asks her.

Mum nods, still looking a little bewildered. “Gosh, there are a lot of dresses, aren’t there, girls?”

A woman walks through the white velvet curtain at the back of the shop. She’s tall and slim, with long ash-blond hair and a small, perfectly oval face. She looks like an old-fashioned doll. There’s a slash of dark-pink lipstick on her full lips, and she’s wearing — guess what! — white from head to toe. A classy white cap-sleeve dress teamed with neat white kitten heels. Clover’s also looking smart in sunny-yellow woolen shorts, with a short black jacket, black tights, and Chelsea boots. Mum’s made an effort too, wearing fitted black trousers and her good cream raincoat that she rarely wears these days on account of the babies and their sticky hands. Yikes! I feel completely underdressed in my skinny jeans.

“Good evening,” the woman says politely. “Have you made an appointment?”

“Yes,” Clover says firmly. “Sylvie Wildgust and bridesmaids. Well, two out of three. Monique’s running late, but she’ll be here soon.” We’re lucky Monique is available at all. She’s flying back to London tomorrow morning, which is why we’re here tonight and not on the weekend. Luckily, Butterfly Bridal stays open late on Thursday.

The woman smiles. “Of course, the Wildgust party. Lovely. I’m Cassandra, and I’ll be assisting you this evening. Let me just check my notes.” She strides toward the desk and stares at the computer screen. “Ah, yes, I remember. Sylvie is the bride. Welcome, Sylvie.” She smiles at Mum. “And your wedding is on Tuesday, April thirtieth, is that correct?”

Clover and I both look at Mum, waiting for her to respond, but she still seems a bit shell-shocked and doesn’t answer, so Clover says, “That’s right.”

Cassandra tut-tuts. “We’re cutting it a little close, ladies. Most of our clients select their wedding gown at least six months before the wedding.”

“But what if they change their minds about the dress?” Clover asks. “Six months is a long time.”

Cassandra frowns. “Our ladies seldom change their minds, my dear. You see, at Butterfly Bridal, we believe that there is a perfect gown for every bride. Their second perfect match, so to speak.” She gives a tinkling laugh. “And that’s why I’m here this evening, to ensure that Sylvie finds her dream dress.”

Mum finally wakes up. “Dream dress? That sounds nice.”

“So, Sylvie,” Cassandra says, gesturing at the comfy-looking white sofa. “Why don’t you settle yourself here while we have a little chat about your vision for your wedding dress — bodice shape, fullness of the skirt, sleeves, neckline, train, et cetera, et cetera. It will give me some idea as to what gowns to show you first.”

Mum looks bewildered again.

“We do have a folder of wedding-dress ideas,” I pipe up quickly. “Magazine clippings.”

“Excellent,” Cassandra says. “Let’s have a peek, shall we? And we can a flip through the Butterfly Bridal folder also. Do take a seat, Sylvie.”

Cassandra fetches a large photo album with a white padded-leather cover and sits down on the sofa beside Mum with the album on her knee. Clover squeezes in beside Cassandra, holding our own wedding-dress folder, and I slot in next to Mum. It’s a tight squeeze.

“Lovely,” Cassandra says, but she doesn’t sound all that thrilled. I’m not sure she’s used to the bridesmaids taking such an active role in the dress selection. After lifting up her album, she flattens down the front of her dress with her hands and says with a purr, “So, let’s have a look at your clippings, Sylvie.”

“Well, they’re more Clover’s ideas, really,” Mum admits. “She’s planning most of the wedding.”

Cassandra smiles at Mum. “A wedding planner, how sensible. Shame she couldn’t be here this evening.”

Clover gives a cough. “Hello? Ace wedding planner at your service. I’m Sylvie’s sister, Clover. We thought we’d keep it in the family.”

“I see,” Cassandra says slowly. “I’m sure it will all go swimmingly.” She doesn’t sound at all convinced, though. I suppose Clover is probably a lot younger than the average wedding planner.

Clover glares at Cassandra. She opens her mouth to say something, so I speedily jump in.

“This is my favorite,” I say, pulling a random clipping out of our folder. It turns out to be a photo of a blond woman with a generous chest running through a field of corn, wearing what can only be described as a white circus tent — the skirt of the dress is gigantic.

“Really?” Cassandra frowns again. “Sylvie’s a lot slighter than that model. I’d advise something less puffy, with more classic lines. Like this, perhaps. The ‘Alicia.’” She opens her own album and points at a photograph in which a tall, elegant woman is wearing a sweeping Grecian-column dress with elaborate, blingy jewel decoration sewn around the waist and neckline. It’s very footballers’ wives and so unlike anything Mum would choose, I can’t help but start giggling.

“Maybe not,” Mum says, throwing me an “Amy, please behave” look. “It’s not really me.”

“What about this one?” Clover pulls another image out of our folder. It’s a dark-haired model this time and she’s wearing a simple, fresh lace dress with a long flowing skirt. It’s really pretty and I think it would look amazing on Mum.

But Cassandra has other ideas. “It’s rather dated-looking, don’t you think, Sylvie? Lace?” She wrinkles up her button nose. “So last year. No, I’m thinking more along the lines of this beauty. The ‘Celtic Princess.’” She gives a dreamy sigh as she points at another photograph. The bodice is tight and embellished with embroidery and crystals in swirling Celtic patterns, while the skirt billows out from the knee area in a riot of white net that is also embroidered with Celtic symbols.

“That’s not a dress,” Clover says. “That’s a whole performance of Riverdance.”

I’m about to start giggling again, when I spot Mum’s face. She’s staring at the photograph, mesmerized.

“Do you really think a dress like that would suit me?” she asks Cassandra.

“With your neat figure, absolutely. Isn’t it dreamy? I’ll let you in on a secret — it’s on my wish list too. Would you like to try it on?”

“What do you think, sis?” Mum asks Clover.

Clover hesitates. “If you like it, Sylvie, that’s all that matters. Why don’t you try on a few different styles and see which one you like the best? There’s no rush and you don’t have to decide this evening.”

“Good idea.” Mum jumps to her feet. She’s fully awake now. “I’m a size six to eight, Cassandra. Do you have the ‘Celtic Princess’ in my size?”

“Of course, we have a sample dress for you to try on and then we order a brand-new one, which will be adapted to fit you like a glove if it doesn’t already. It’s all part of the Butterfly Bridal service. We want you to look your absolute best. We always say, a beautiful bride is a happy bride. Why don’t we select four or five different styles, including the ‘Celtic Princess’ and present a mini wedding fashion show for your sisters?”

Mum laughs. “Amy’s my daughter.”

“Silly me,” Cassandra says. “But you look so young, Sylvie.”

Clover gags. Luckily Cassandra doesn’t notice.

As soon as Mum has followed Cassandra through the white velvet curtain to the changing room, Clover says, “Did you hear that Cassandra woman buttering Sylvie up?
You look so young, Sylvie. You have an amazing figure, Sylvie
. What’s the bet that the ‘Celtic Princess’ is the most expensive dress in the whole darn shop? What is Sylvie thinking?” She continues in a low voice: “All those sparkles and the fish-tail skirt. It’ll swamp her. I was talking to Hettie about wedding dresses — you know, Saffy’s friend who edits
Irish Bride
— and she says that when the bride walks down the aisle, you want people to say, ‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’ not ‘Isn’t that an amazing dress?’ Do you get the difference, Beanie?”

I’m not sure I do, to be honest, but I say yes anyway. Clover seems very riled up and I want to keep her calm. If Mum has her heart set on this “Celtic Princess” dress, we’ll both have to go along with it. It is
her
wedding after all!

“They could be a while, Beanie, so we might as well do some work.” Clover settles herself on the sofa, rummages in her bag, and then hands me a sheet of printed paper. “This came in today. What do you think?”

I start to read the problem letter:

I look up from the letter and smile at Clover. This is an easy one. “You told Lia you’d take her shopping, didn’t you? Give her some hands-on style tips.”

Clover grins. “Got it in one, Beanie. Sometimes I think you can read my mind. But you’re coming too, my friend. It’ll have to be in a couple of weeks, though. I’m afraid I’m up to my tonsils before that.”

“Perfect.”

“Speaking of perfect.” She lowers her voice. “Or maybe not so perfect.” Mum is swishing through the velvet curtain in a dress not unlike the one in the first clipping I pulled out of our folder — a big white meringue of a dress with an off-the-shoulder bodice and a puffy ballerina skirt.

“Dress number one,” Cassandra says in a clipped fashion-show voice. “The ‘Angelica.’ What do you think, girls?”

It does nothing for Mum. In fact, it makes her hips look big, and the bodice is slipping off her chest.

I wince and Clover shakes her head. “The Dublin jury is not impressed, I’m afraid, Sylvie.
Nil points
.”

Next Mum appears in an ivory-lace dress with cap sleeves and a rather odd high neckline at the back. For some reason the bodice reminds me of a Spanish matador’s jacket. The sweeping skirt is nice, though, very delicate.

But Cassandra tut-tuts. “As I suspected, lace is not very flattering on you, Sylvie. It definitely ages you. Let’s try another style.”

The next dress — the “Eliza,” a white-silk sheath with a drape of material at the front and back, and a material rose on the waist — is nice but nothing special. Meanwhile, gown number four — a pale-coffee-colored number with two spaghetti straps on each shoulder and a frothy layered skirt — is wrong on so many levels. Clover sums it up nicely.

“You look like a cappuccino, Sylvie!” she shrieks. “Take it off, quick, before someone drinks you.”

“Don’t hold back, Clover,” Mum says with a grin.

“I do admire your honesty, Clover,” Cassandra says, her carefully plucked eyebrows lifting. “Brides need someone they can trust, don’t they, Sylvie?”

“You can certainly trust Clover to speak her mind,” Mum says.

Monique bustles through the front door of the shop while Mum is changing yet again. “I am so sorry, girls.” She gives us a kiss on each cheek. Her lips feel cool against my skin and her perfume smells dark and exotic. “I am most dreadfully late,” she adds in her delicious French accent, settling her black bob behind her ears with her fingers. “I got caught on the phone with my agent, and you know how it is. Chat, chat, chat.” She waves both hands in the air as she speaks.

“You look
wunderbar
, Monique,” Clover says admiringly. And she’s right. Monique looks extraordinary. She’s wearing a cherry-red woolen cape over a black polo neck and neat black cigarette pants teamed with teetering red stilettos, which make her look even taller than she already is. With her customary slash of red lipstick, she looks every inch the superstar.

There’s a squeak of delight from the back of the room. “Monny!” Mum cries. “What do you think? Isn’t it dreamy?”

Mum is wearing the “Celtic Princess,” or should I say the “Celtic Princess” is wearing Mum. I now get what Clover was saying — with all the sparkles and embroidery, you barely even notice Mum.

“That dress is certainly something,” Monique says. She looks at Clover and then me, and we both shrug.

Mum does a twirl in front of the mirror. Then she sighs.

“It’s frightfully expensive,” she says. “But if we cut back a bit on other things, like a wedding car and the flowers, I think we can just about afford it. Now, Clover, I want your honest opinion. Is this the dress for me or not?”