The Disappearing Dress (1/3)

I was looking forward to Tasha’s wedding as much as I’d look forward to a colonoscopy. Well, I was happy for her, obviously. She’s my best friend from our school days—we’re like sisters really—so I was happy that she was in love and I wanted to be there with her on her big day.

The rest was not so great. In the first place, she wanted to tie the knot in Cefalù as that’s where she and Derek first met. I was actually there when they met. We were on a group holiday in summer, five single babes from Glasgow having a great time ogling the local talent, sunbathing, slurping up Aperol spritzes and seafood like there was no tomorrow. Then Derek appeared, literally blocking our sunlight (we lounged on sunbeds) and figuratively casting a chill over my life.

It’s not that I have anything against Cefalù per se. Of course I like Sicily. What’s not to like? Sun, food, sea, history up the wazoo…Sicily’s great. But for the wedding, Derek His Lordship had declared that all the guests had to take care of their own travel and accommodation. Well, it costs money to fly there, it costs money to book a room in the fanciest hotel in town, it costs money to eat at restaurants. This was fine for Derek’s family or for Tasha’s famous barrister dad—they’re all loaded. Tasha managed to get him to pay for her mum, who’s struggling on the benefit, so she was OK as well. I don’t have extra cash though so I had to work weekends for four months to save for the airfare. Which I actually didn’t mind because, honestly, how often does your best friend get married?

No, Sicily wasn’t really the problem. The problem was Derek.

What do I have against Derek? Natasha’s asked me that a lot. I can’t explain it without offending her. It’s not really rational. He’s one of those smarmy, handsome plausible public-school men who think they’re God’s gift and end up in prison for committing white-collar crime. He’s too outwardly clean. The best way I can explain it is that he looks as if he expects his mother to iron his underwear.

Let me add that the feeling is mutual. Tasha admitted that he initially told her he was surprised she was friends with someone like me.

“Someone like me? What is that supposed to mean?” I asked. “He thinks I’m fat?”

“No, of course not. I think he was surprised because you’re not a lawyer. Most of his friends are in the trade, you know. He doesn’t have as wide a social circle,” Tasha said.

I knew that was a polite way of saying he thought I was common because I was a hairdresser who hadn’t gone to university. Twat. I’ll give it to Tasha, though, she’s loyal. As much as she adored Derek—and she would have followed him up Mount Etna even if it was starting to spit rocks—she stuck up for me. She told him that her friendship with me was a non-negotiable: Chicks before dicks, friends before bell-ends. Well, she didn’t say that. In any case, the wedding was a bittersweet occasion for me because it meant that I’d never be able to visit Tasha without that snotty plonker hovering in the background.

There were other reasons why I was less than enthusiastic about the nuptials. Derek, being filthy rich, had hired his cousin Giorgio who was a famous Milanese designer to plan the wedding. Derek’s fashion-model aunt had married some degenerate Italian prince and Giorgio was the issue of that cursed union. Everything Tasha should have been doing was now Giorgio’s job. The way Derek put it to Tasha, he was taking the stress out of it for her: she wouldn’t have to do a thing, just saunter up the aisle and say ‘I do.’ She actually said it was sweet of him. Ugh.

“But it’s your wedding,” I said to her. “Won’t it be weird to not have any say about it? Won’t it feel a bit impersonal?” I asked.

“I felt sad about it at first,” said Tasha, “But then I realized he just wants to help. I don’t want to turn into Bridezilla. This way I can just enjoy it,” she shrugged. “Besides, Giorgio gave me some choice. I had to choose the theme from Primavera, The Divine Comedy or Caligula.”

“Which one did you choose?” I asked, shuddering.

“Primavera,” she said. “It seemed the most traditional one. To be honest, though, it doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that matters is spending the rest of my life with the man I love.”

She smiled in a dreamy way that made me want to puke.

I was secretly disappointed because I’d been looking forward to helping organize the wedding. I was also annoyed because I thought she was being a doormat about the whole thing. It didn’t seem like the Tasha I knew, who was very definitely not a doormat. I remember the day she dumped Dave Stuart—who was quite yummy—just because he admitted his first crush was Margaret Thatcher. And here she was now simpering over an avowed Tory! Love truly makes fools of us all.

The worst was yet to come. I was the maid of honor and, according to Giorgio, this meant I had to go as a giant pomegranate.

On first seeing it, I thought it was a joke. It was literally a dress shaped like a pomegranate. The dress was purplish-red and globular. To top it off I had to wear a weird purple crown to mimic the spiky thing on top of the fruit.  So I’d look like a beach ball except that my head would pop up out of the top with a crown on top.

“Is this a joke?” I asked.

“No, no, no!” he said. “It is round and beautiful, like you—you are round and beautiful.”

I didn’t like that much.

“Does Tasha know about this?” I asked. I couldn’t believe she’d go along with this , and sure enough she hadn’t.

“No, it is a surprise for the bride.”

I’m not shy but shrank from the prospect of standing in front of 500 people dressed in that. Giorgio had his own ideas and would not listen to reason.

“Giorgio petal,” I said, “Don’t you think something with a waist would be nicer?”

“It’s nice, it’s very nice! The maid of honor, she is fertility, she is harvest, she is fruit! She is Persephone. It is molto feminine, come si dice? elemental.” he enthused, bustling about with his tape measure.

“But it’s the bride’s big day,” I pleaded. “And if I’m up there wearing this, trust me darling, no one is going to be looking at her. It’s distracting. What are the bridesmaids going to be anyway?”

“They are nymphs,” he said. "As in the Botticelli painting, you know!"

“Of course they are,” I sighed. “What about the best man, Gordon?”

“’E is Pan. Ze great god.”

“What, the one with goat feet?”

“Sì. And the pipes.”

That was some comfort. At least someone else was going to look ridiculous.

Apart from all this, there was the fact that it reminded me I didn’t have a proper boyfriend but really wanted one. I’d had plenty of one-night hook-ups in the previous six months, but you can’t invite a one-night hook-up to a posh wedding in Sicily, can you. Not if you have any self respect.

So there I was at this hotel in Sicily that I couldn’t afford just to see my friend marry a goober and on top of all that I had to be a pomegranate. Plus, I was involuntarily single. It was a tragic situation. I stood on the balcony looking out at the sparkling sea and the town of Cefalù and bemoaning my fate. All of a sudden there was a sound like a sick goose right behind me.

“Psst! Susan!” It hissed.

I yelled. A hand swiftly covered my mouth.

“Shut up! Come on!”

I was pulled backwards. Before I knew it, I was standing in an opulent room that must have been the honeymoon suite. Tasha was standing next to me, her eyes shining with a strange light.

“I told Derek I was going swimming. He doesn’t want anyone to see it but I have to show you.”

“To see what?” I asked.

“This!” she said, flinging open her wardrobe door.

There it was. I’m still amazed I wasn’t permanently blinded by its brilliance. The dress. My god, what a dress! An ivory, silky, elegant masterpiece. The bodice was embroidered with tiny pale blue forget-me-nots, there were crystals in the tulle skirt that glittered like the morning dew. The veil was mysterious and floaty. It seemed to have a halo around it.

“I just died and woke up in wedding-dress Heaven,” I whispered.

“I know,” she grinned. “Isn’t it ridiculous?”

“It must have cost a bomb!”

“That’s pretty much what Derek had it insured for,” Tasha agreed.

I held my hands up in front of it as if warming them at a fire. I realized, in an instant, that I coveted that dress. It was a dress to dream of, to desire, to die for.

I looked at Tasha. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Mine were too, but I’m ashamed to say mine were largely stimulated by jealousy.

I hugged her fiercely, hoping that it would exorcise this unworthy emotion.

“It’s beautiful, you’re going to look incredible,” I said. “Let me look at it some more.”

“Go ahead. I knew you’d like it. I’ll keep a look out at the window.”

She peeked out the window while I examined its multifarious wonders.

“Woah, it even has pockets!” I exclaimed. “What did you say?”

I turned around and saw that her face had become pale and her expression was odd.

“Nothing,” she whispered.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I feel sick,” she murmured, leaving the window. “I need to lie down.”

“I know what it is: Low blood-sugar. Here’s a caramel.” I fished one out of my handbag.

She took it with a listless expression and lay down on the bed.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” I asked, worried.

“No, thanks,” she smiled. “I need some time alone.”

“Take it easy, hon,” I said, “It’s probably just cold feet. Totally normal.”

I zipped the dress back up in its case, hung it up and tiptoed out of the room.