All She Ever Wished For. Claudia Carroll
edge of the dressing table. ‘And admit that deep down you really love dressing up. Besides, gay women have white weddings all the time these days, you know. Look at Ellen DeGeneres and your woman, what’s her name, the tall blonde one that used to be on telly.’
‘Not this gay woman, thanks all the same,’ says Gracie.
The three of us are in The Bridal Room as it happens, which is this really exclusive shop outside Kildare town, about an hour from Dublin. It’s boudoir luxurious in here, with plush velvet seating, deep pile cream carpets and, as you’d expect in a bridal showroom this posh, glasses of Prosecco on tap. It’s my last fitting before the big day, hence my dragging Gracie and Mum all this way for the ride. And so far, in spite of all the behind the scenes trepidation about this wedding from my side of the family, it’s been fairly stress-free for all of us. So far, at least.
In fact I’d go so far as to say that this really is the joyous, happy, fun day out that I’d hoped for, and as an added bonus, I’m not having to listen to yet more long drawn-out lectures from my nearest and dearest about why Bernard and I will never work out and how I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life, etc., etc.
I’ve been putting up with that for months now and I can’t tell you how lovely it is to have a single day free of it. But then to a man, everyone around me has expressed doubts about Bernard, and the closer the big day gets, the more ominous those doubts seem to grow.
At this late stage, I’m basically sick to the gills of having to endure comments along the lines of, ‘he’s way too old for you!’ ‘You’ve absolutely nothing in common!’ ‘He’s so bloody boring!’ ‘You’re just doing this on the rebound!’ And somehow the most stinging of all from my dad, ‘ah pet, are you sure you’re doing this for the right reason? You know what they say, marry in haste, repent at leisure. And I’m not just saying that because I’m having to shell out a fortune for the bleedin’ thing either’.
To date, though, it’s Gracie who’s been the cheerleader-in-chief of all the doom-mongers; try as she might, she and Bernard just can’t seem to connect on any level whatsoever. ‘I feel like I’m about to lose my only sister,’ she told me after a few drinks too many when we first got engaged. She was a bit pissed and I think she might have forgotten that she ever said it in the first place, but I certainly didn’t.
It hurt then and it hurts even now to remember.
In fact Mum is the only one who doesn’t seem to think that I’m heading for the divorce courts anytime soon. Not that she ‘gets’ Bernard and all his constant references to obscure artists she’s never heard of and exhibitions in galleries she’s never so much as set foot in.
‘I suppose he’s solid and dependable,’ is about the most lukewarm thing she’s ever said to me in his praise, ‘with a permanent, pensionable job and everything. So if nothing else, you’ll always have a roof over your head. And I’ll say this much for him, he’s certainly not the type who’d ever cheat on you.’
Implication heard loud and clear and with that single sentence, Mum well and truly damned Bernard with faint praise. You may not exactly be marrying the love of your life, was her subtext, but I suppose you could do a whole lot worse.
And we all know exactly who she’s referring to when she says ‘a whole lot worse’.
Back to The Bridal Room though and maybe it’s the Prosecco, maybe it’s the fact that it’s a beautiful, sunny spring-like day and we’re all out of Dublin on a girlie jaunt, but right now the three of us are in great form, all my nerves and stress temporarily banished for the day as I focus on just having a lovely time with my nearest and dearest.
‘Right then, are you all ready?’ I call from inside the fitting room.
‘Come on out, love, I have the camera ready,’ Mum says.
‘Take all the photos you want,’ I yell back over the cubicle door, ‘but whatever you do, just don’t post them on Facebook or Twitter, will you? I want this to be a surprise for everyone on the big day.’
‘Course I won’t,’ says Mum. ‘Apart from Auntie Agnes, Brenda next door and Jill from the choir, I promise I won’t show a single soul. Now come on out, we’re all dying to see you.’
So I step out of the cubicle and swish my way up to a dais in the middle of the shop, then pirouette around so they can all get a really good look at the dress.
‘Well?’ I ask excitedly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Oh, my darling,’ Mum says, welling up a bit. ‘You’re just … beautiful. The dress is even lovelier than I thought it would be. Now give me a nice big smile while I take a few snaps.’
‘Absolutely stunning!’ says the saleslady, bustling over to me with a pincushion to hand. ‘It’s like the dress was made for you!’
Said saleslady, by the way, is called Cindi ‘with an i, not a y’, as she pointed out to us, and she even looks a bit like a Cindi, with swishy, long blonde hair extensions and a big, bright smile. She’s one of those bubbly effervescent women who almost seems to talk in exclamation marks and from day one she’s been nothing but shiny, positive and upbeat through all my changes of mind and last-minute panic attacks over the dress.
‘Do you think it works?’ I ask nervously, though looking in the mirror, I’m actually cheeky enough to think that it does. It’s the simplest dress you could imagine, just a plain white silk sheath, with spaghetti straps and a tiny fishtail swish to the ends, so it makes a little train as I walk around in it. No long veil for me. I decided against it at my very first fitting when I realised that against my pale, freckly skin, it made me look like a younger Miss Havisham.
So instead I’m just wearing a plain diamond clasp in my hair to hold it off my face. It’s my ‘something borrowed’ from my pal Stella, who bought it in Claire’s Accessories and wore it to her own wedding last year. I thought it would be particularly lucky because it was at this wedding that Bernard took me outside for a moonlit stroll when the dancing was in full swing, then out of the blue, proposed. Right down on bended knee and everything. Even though he ended up putting his back out, the poor dote. In fact, I spent my engagement night up in our hotel room holding an ice pack to his lumbar region, with him apologising profusely for our having to cut the night short.
Ahh, happy memories.
‘Ooh, look at you, you’re breathtaking,’ coos Cindi.
‘You’re like a film star,’ says Mum, with the camera focused firmly on me. ‘Just stunning. Now keep smiling till I get a few more photos.’
‘Have to hand it to you,’ says Gracie with her arms folded, taking me in from head to toe. ‘You certainly scrub up well. Looking good, babes.’
The three of them give an impromptu little round of applause and I giggle and twirl again feeling like a princess as Mum fires off another volley of camera shots.
‘So who’s the lucky guy then?’ Cindi asks innocently, from where she’s bent down on her hands and knees at my feet, making the tiniest little adjustments to the hem of the train.
But now, after a dream afternoon of laughter and messing and chat – there’s total silence. Not a peep out of Mum or Gracie, absolutely nothing.
‘Have you been engaged for long?’ Cindi persists, to an even deeper silence this time. All I can hear is the tinny sound of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March being piped over the sound system. And still not a word from either Mum or Gracie.
By now the silence is starting to get uncomfortable and I’m sure poor Cindi must be wondering why, after a whole afternoon of bright giggles and chatter, there’s suddenly a pin-drop silence in the room. I swear I can almost see it writ large across her big, hopeful face … did I just say the wrong thing?
I look over to Mum, but she doesn’t say a word about her son-in-law-to-be, instead she just stays firmly focused on her reflection in the mirror, this time with a giant dish-shaped hat on