White Wedding (4 page)

As they pulled up at the side of White Wedding, the postman was just pushing open its door. It never failed to fascinate him how long the shop was inside. He had the feeling
that if he went right to the back and pushed the last rail of dresses out of the way he’d end up in Narnia.

‘Morning, ma’am. Parcel for you to sign for,’ he said. He always called the tall, snow-haired lady who ran the shop ‘ma’am’. She had a quiet elegance about
her that would have made him want to tip his cap at her, if he’d worn one.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the pen he proffered. She was a beautiful woman; her skin was clear and youth-fresh, her cheekbones sharp and her eyes bright. She must have been a real
stunner in her time, thought the postman. There was something regal about her, as if she was one of the Russian princesses who escaped from the revolution and had lost her fortune but never her
dignity. He suspected she was a lot older than she looked.

She carried the parcel to the large counter halfway down the shop and looked at the label on the front. It was addressed simply to: Freya, White Wedding, Maltstone, Barnsley, South Yorkshire,
England. It had come from Canada. She had an inkling of what was inside it – and she was right.

In the layers of white tissue paper was
the
dress, carefully folded. The long ivory-silk gown with the tiny peach roses at the neck looked as new as the day she had sewn it herself. As
she lifted it up to shake out the creases, a small note fluttered to the floor and she bent to pick it up.

Freya smiled. She remembered the girl with her lovely freckled face and sad, trembling bottom lip. Now she could supplant that memory with the picture of a smiling bride with
sunshine in her eyes. In a different dress. This one was not meant for her, which is why she’d returned it.

All Freya’s dresses were special to her, this one most of all: the first wedding gown she ever made, and it always came back to her. She had created it but never thought she would wear it
herself. After all, she was married at the time. She shuddered at the thought of the cold, loveless life she once had. She had been determined that if she ever realized her dream to own a
wedding-dress shop, she would ensure that any woman who crossed her threshold became a happy bride. Maybe not always in the straightforward way they imagined, though.

‘I love coming here,’ said Max, shivering with excitement.

‘Me too,’ echoed Violet, attempting to copy Max’s enthusiasm. ‘Did you buy your cousin’s bridesmaid’s dress from here, Bel?’

‘No, Leeds,’ replied Bel, remembering the day last month so well. She and Shaden had driven there and gone for a refined brunch in Harvey Nicks’ first, where they ate grilled
chicken salad and indulged in very small talk. The bridesmaid’s dress had cost more than the whole of Violet’s wedding probably would. However, nothing but the best for dear cousin
Shaden. The dress was beautiful and her long bleached Californian-blonde hair looked stunning against it.
Strawberry-red silk
. A perfect fit as well. Not a stitch of alteration needed. Meant
to be.

They all peered into the shop’s bay window before entering. On display there was the prettiest selection of bridal accoutrements and all arranged perfectly. Confetti was scattered around
the shoes and tiaras, veils and faux-fur stoles, and centre stage was claimed by an hourglass-figured mannequin wearing a plain white, but exquisite gown. Freya changed the window regularly and it
always looked so beautiful.

Bel pushed open the door and the sound of the bell above it heralded their arrival.

‘Good morning,’ Freya smiled at them, nudging back a swoop of her hair with the heel of her hand. ‘Back again, I see. En masse this time.’

‘Morning,’ they returned with a chuckle.

‘Do feel free to wander as usual and if you want any help, just ask,’ said Freya. Her attitude was so refreshing. In the shop where Max bought the beige suit, the assistant followed
her around so closely that her CV should have read: ‘Previous occupation: shadow’. In retrospect Max wondered if she had bought the suit to get the hell out of there as quickly as
possible.

‘You’re cutting it fine, aren’t you? I can’t believe you haven’t found a dress you like yet,’ said Bel to Violet.

Neither could Violet, if the truth be told. She had halfheartedly searched a few more bridal stores and tried on loads but still not settled on anything. Maybe she was subconsciously putting off
buying a dress; that was the only possible explanation. She knew she would have to pick one soon, and something kept pulling her back to White Wedding.

‘This is nice, but it’s more bridesmaidy than bride, don’t you think?’ said Bel, holding up a cream ballerina-length dress with puffy sleeves.

‘Talking of which, how do you fancy being my bridesmaids?’ asked Max suddenly.

‘Max – I thought you weren’t having any.’ Bel thought that Max would have forgotten all about her new daft gypsy wedding plans after a good sleep. It wasn’t as if
she had time to arrange something of that magnitude anyway.

Max raised her eyebrows innocently. ‘Bel, if I have a gypsy wedding I can’t possibly go down the aisle with no bridesmaids behind me, can I? And who else can I ask? I don’t
know any women except the ones that work for me and the ones I sell things to. Or my cousin, Alison, who would scare the living shit out of Jeremy Kyle,’ she said with a shudder. That was the
trouble with workaholics – they too lost their friends along the way.

Bel looked around idly. There were some gorgeous dresses in her sight but none as beautiful as her late mother’s gown. She was surprised her stepmother, Faibiana, hadn’t got rid of
it; in fact she had done the opposite, placing it in a suit cover to preserve it for the day when Bel might need it. Not that Bel ever thanked ‘Faye’, as she preferred to be called, for
that. Faye Bosomworth had breezed into Bel’s widowed father’s life twenty-eight years ago on a hearty gust of floral perfume and totally and immediately enchanted him. To her
stepdaughter she was nothing but kindness and patience, yet Bel had never quite lost the feeling that the new queen of her father’s heart had unlawfully usurped the old one, who should have
reigned for ever. Bel had never called Faye ‘mother’ and Faye had never pressed her to. Luckily her stepmum was nothing like her cow of a sister Vanoushka – Shaden’s mother.
Or her sow of the other sister, Lydiana, who, thankfully, now lived in Melbourne, Australia, and visited only once yearly. And that was once yearly too much.

Max carried on hunting along the rails, but there was nothing remotely like gypsy Margaret’s dress. Freya directed Violet to her new stock but she still couldn’t see a dress she
liked enough to consider buying. The only one she tried on had a neckline that was far too low and didn’t flatter her almost non-existent cleavage at all.

‘O. M. G.’ Max’s scream was so high-pitched that dogs started barking outside. Violet jumped.

‘What’s up?’ she said, rushing over, closely followed by Bel.

‘Look. At. That.’

‘Here we go again,’ smiled Bel, following the track of Max’s pointing finger. At the very back of the shop, and taking up a lot of its width, was a headless mannequin wearing a
gargantuan white dress. It made gypsy Margaret’s look like a shift.

‘That’s it.’ Max was so emotionally overcome that she addressed the gown directly. ‘You’re the one I want.’

‘Ooh ooh ooh, honey,’ trilled Bel behind her, but Max wasn’t listening. She was cocooned in a world where only she and this big white cloud of dress belonged.

‘I’m making this for display,’ said Freya, appearing at her shoulder.

‘Is it for sale?’ Max asked breathlessly.

‘Well, yes, if I found a buyer, I suppose,’ Freya answered.

‘I think you’ve found one,’ said Bel.

‘Can you customize it?’ Max asked Freya. ‘Can you add bits? Flowers? Lights?’

‘Caravans,’ put in Bel.

‘Of course,’ nodded Freya, as if she were asked every day to sew weird things onto dresses.

‘Your fiancé is going to kill you, I think,’ Violet warned her in a sing-songy voice.

‘Oh I’ll work on Stuart, don’t you worry,’ Max flapped her hand at her friend. ‘I’ve got a few weeks to bring him round to my way of thinking. It’s
never been that hard before.’ She clapped her hands together and turned back to Freya. ‘Is there any chance I could try it on?’

‘I’ll have to pin it round you,’ said Freya.

‘I don’t mind,’ said Max, whisking off her jacket and throwing it at Bel as if she were a stripper.

Freya slipped the gown off the mannequin before following Max into the changing room. As soon as Max stepped into the dress she
knew
this was the one she had to have. There was absolutely
no way on this planet or any other that she was going to wear that beige suit, which was becoming fouler in her mind with every passing minute. She would be married in this dress or die. And if she
had this dress, she needed the setting of a church in which to wear it, not a room in the town hall. And a host of people to show it off to. And bridesmaids, photographers – and a cake the
size of Kuala Lumpur. How could she have a dress this size and not have a cake? And flowers. Balloons. Fireworks. And sod having an intimate lunch for two after the ceremony – now she foresaw
a banqueting hall, caviar starter, fillet of beef main, trios of chocolate desserts – nay, quartets of cheesecakes, quintets of meringues, sextets of cheeses . . .

‘Jesus Christ.’ Bel’s blasphemy broke into her reverie as she and Violet sneaked a peak behind the changing-room curtain. ‘That is one seriously massive frock.’

At nearly six foot tall, her head inches away from the low cottage roof of the shop, Max looked like Alice in Wonderland after she’d done the ‘drink me’ thing and grown out of
the room. The corset top made the best of her full bust and nipped-in waist and Marilyn Monroe hips. She looked gobsmackingly stunning. And that smile spreading across her lips was as mischievous
as an imp’s on April Fools’ Day.

‘Uh-ho,’ said Bel and Violet together as they saw her expression. They suspected that a giant can of worms had just been opened. But even they could never have suspected how many
worms would spring out and how much damage the little buggers would do.

Violet walked straight into the end house on the row of terraced villas on Spring Lane, then down the long hallway and into the kitchen where, more often than not, she would
find her mother. The back door was ajar and her mum, Susan, was in the garden.

‘Hello,’ she called.

‘I’m bringing in the washing,’ said Susan. ‘Nan’s in the front room. I’ll be with you in a minute, love.’

Violet doubled back and went into the lounge. Her nan jerked awake as the door creaked open.

‘Oh sorry, Nan. Didn’t realize you were asleep.’

‘No worries,’ said the old lady, stretching her thin limbs. ‘Did you find a frock at last, then?’

‘Ah you remembered I was going shopping.’

‘Course I did. I don’t forget everything, you know. Not yet, at least. And I remember that you were going with two other ladies that you’ve become friends with lately. Maxine
and . . . Melinda?’

‘Nearly,’ Violet smiled. ‘Belinda.’

‘See? I reckon that merits a score of nine out of ten,’ twinkled the old lady.

Nanette Flockton was as sharp as a knife when she was compos mentis. Alas, the days when she was mentally alert were becoming less frequent. She forgot the simplest of things and sometimes had
moments when she talked distressing gibberish, although she couldn’t remember doing so. Violet relished the coherent times, for she knew there would be fewer and fewer of them as the months
went on. Nan was her paternal grandmother. She moved in to help nurse Violet’s dad, Jeff, when he fell victim to a stroke ten years ago. He died two months later but Nan stayed put and her
old cottage was rented out. Violet’s mother had always viewed her as more of a mum than the one she already had; Violet’s maternal grandmother, Pat Ferrell, was a creature with a soul
of ice. Nan often said that the woman should never be visited without the escort of an exorcist.

‘I didn’t find one, no,’ sighed Violet. ‘I’m still on the lookout.’

‘I saw an angel last night. Lovely red hair she had,’ said Nan. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Violet. It was only in a dream. I don’t mean she was in the room with
me. She was humming.’

Violet laughed with relief that this wasn’t one of her ‘episodes’.

‘What was she humming, Nan?’

‘The theme tune to
Coronation Street
.’

Violet chuckled. ‘Fancy a cuppa? I’m gagging for some tea.’

‘Not for me. I want one of those little lagers in the fridge. Ask your mum if she wants a drink, will you, love? She could do with a sit-down. She’s been washing bedding all morning.
She never stops.’

Violet went into the kitchen and as the kettle boiled she watched her mum through the window unpegging sheets from the line. She changed the beds every weekend, she always had. Violet used to
love her ‘clean sheet night’ every Saturday: white cotton in summer, flannelette in winter. Violet knocked on the glass and did a drinking mime at her mum. Her mother stuck a thumb up
before dipping into the peg basket again. Violet brewed the tea and got out the cups. Her mum and Nan always drank out of delicate bone china. Nan’s cup had a big black cat on it,
Susan’s featured butterflies.

‘Fetch the Jaffa Cakes in as well, will you, love?’ called Nan. ‘Apparently I’ve to have more fruit in my diet. I’m counting those as a couple of my
five-a-days.’

Violet smiled and went to the cupboard where the biscuit tin was kept. Her phone went off in her pocket just as she was tipping the Jaffa Cakes on to a plate. Glyn. Violet felt herself
stiffening at the sight of his name on the screen. She knew exactly why he was ringing.
Where are you? How long will you be?
She was tempted to press ‘ignore’ but knew he
wouldn’t let up if she did that.