“Well,” said Judy. “Here they are. Not all of them are mine, technically. That one was my sister’s.” She pointed at a long, flowing gown in an ’80s style. “That one was my aunt’s, and that one, I think, I wound up with after a particularly heavy night of drinking somewhere in Monaco—don’t ask.”
Bridge came hesitantly over and took a look. “Oh,” she said with a tremor in her voice that should have sent ripples through people’s mimosas, “they seem…lovely?”
“No need to be polite,” insisted Judy, for whom No need to be polite was practically a family motto. “Well aware that half of them are ghastly and the other half are worse, but they are suitable. And certainly better than wearing nothing at all—and I speak from experience in that regard.”
The bridesmaids gave her a look of collective interrogation.
“It was the sixties, he was American, there was a lot of mud and flowers,” she explained. “All very harmonious, I’m sure, but one does get rather bitten.”
Bridge was holding dresses up to herself and checking the mirror. “I think this one’s too short.”
“Sixties again,” explained Judy. “Fabulous time.”
“And this one”—she tried another—“might be too frilly.”
“That’s the sister. Frilly woman all around.”
“And this one…” Bridge held up a full-sleeved, almost fairy-tale gown with a train that stayed on the bed as she took the rest of it across the room. “Luc, talk me out of this because this is exactly the dress I wanted when I was nine years old, and nine-year-olds have no taste.”
Judy had a faraway look on her face. “Now that is from my 1980s husband. Rich as Croesus, fabulous in bed, otherwise a complete shit.”
“Well”—Mum gave a laconic shrug—“that was the eighties for you.”
“Yes, I don’t know how I’d have got through it if it hadn’t been for the cocaine.”
I looked at the dress. It was definitely…of its era. From a time when if you wanted to show your friends how much better and happier than them you were, you had to blow a ton of money on something vulgar and expensive, instead of just Instagramming yourself in front of something you didn’t really own like we did in our more enlightened age. “It’s… It might be the best option?”
Bridge was staring at herself in the mirror with an expression of profoundly mixed emotions. “Is it wrong that I sort of love it?”
“You can do nothing wrong today,” said Bernadette. “That’s the joy of being a bride.”
Jennifer set down her mimosa and moved to a better vantage point. “I think I unironically like it. It’s got a Princess Diana vibe.”
“Sign of the times,” explained Judy. “All wedding dresses had a Princess Diana vibe for a full decade.”
“Wasn’t precisely a model marriage, though, was it?” Melanie pointed out.
“That wasn’t the dress’s fault,” protested Bridge, suddenly strangely defensive of the honour of a forty-year-old taffeta gown.
Judy clapped her hands. “Well, if you like it, you can absolutely have it. We might need to make one or two tiny adjustments, but that’s why Matron taught me to sew all those years ago.”
So Bridge got changed, and while it wasn’t quite what she’d chosen and didn’t fit quite perfectly, even after Judy had gone at it with pins, I had to admit Bridge did look remarkable in it. Sure, it was a bit dated, but it really did make her look like a princess. And since she’d always been one, deep down, I thought she deserved to look like one too.
BY THE TIME THE BRIDAL party was lurking outside the walled garden where the ceremony was due to take place, there was still no sign of Oliver, which meant the replacement dress was definitely the dress, and I was going to have to maid the honours without my boyfriend. It was barely two, I was already knackered, and all the running around had left its mark. Its sweaty, sweaty mark. So, from a certain perspective, Oliver’s absence was a plus because he wouldn’t be able to see or, for that matter, smell me.
I was just reflecting on how disgusting I was when the “Wedding March” kicked in. Bridge gave an I’ve-been-waiting-for-this-all-my-life squeak and, letting her father take her arm, glided triumphantly through the archway and towards where Tom was waiting. And, to give him credit, he looked a lot less shocked than he might that his bride-to-be had shown up in a frock that Cinderella’s fairy godmother would have turned down for being a touch OTT.