“Not really. But I don’t want Byron to bend his knees just to be in the same shot as me. Can one of you pass them over?” A disembodied hand sticks out of the curtain. I get up and place the box in her hand. Ever the organised type-A person, Isabella has come today with the shoes she’s going to wear on her big day (so she knows the length the gown has to be tailored to), a strapless bra (as she expects not to have any wide straps or sleeves), and no make-up (to make sure she doesn’t leave a stain on the precious frocks).
We hear the rustle of material and the soft tap of shoes as Isabella puts them on. There’s no mirror behind the curtain. The bride can’t see what she looks like until she emerges and stands in front of the huge mirror behind us.
“You guys ready? Tell me the truth, okay?” Isabella calls out to us before coming around to full view.
I chuckle before I can stop myself.
“Oh. My. God.” Penny says and I can’t quite tell whether she likes it or not.
The dress is awful. Isabella looks like a newborn bird with its plumage not quite even or grown in yet.
“Oh, gosh. No.” Isabella scrunches up the skirt of the dress, steps out of her nosebleed-high shoes and goes back around the other side of the curtain. “Wow. This dress does not look the same on me.”
She tries on another gown to similar results.
“I’ll probably have to rethink the style,” Isabella tells us emerging from the change area in a courtesy robe.
“Yeah.” Penny steps up to her. “You’re pretty short, chick, so your dress can’t be too busy.”
“And you have this short body and no boobs,” I add, making my companions look at me like I broke wind in front of them. What? It’s true. Isabella has always had the smallest chest in our group. And now that she’s a pre-wedding size 8 (the equivalent of the even tinier-sounding American size 4 or 6, depending on the label), her little tits were swimming in the gowns she tried on.
“You need a simpler dress. Come on, let’s have another look.” Penny leads Isabella to the racks filled with all sorts of gowns.
I should’ve said something like that. Times like these, the gaps in my upbringing bite me in the arse.
I get up and follow them; behind me is the store clerk in charge of our appointment at this fancy bridal shop. I made the booking myself—Isabella saw their dresses online and I made the call.
“How about this one?” Penny suggests, pointing at a very plain, fitted satin number that looks like a glorified full-length nightie. “That’s so cute. Hold it up against me, chick?”
Penny can’t do it herself. Only those wearing white cotton gloves—another specification of the store—can handle the delicate, expensive gowns. Isabella uses her covered hands to comply with her friend’s request.
“This is so me.”
We know. Penny loves the plainest possible styles.
“We’re shopping for me, Penny. I want a little tasteful bling, or detail. As long as the gown’s not mermaid style—I’m thinking an A-line skirt to give me some shape.”
“I want to get married just so I can tell all my friends what to wear,” Penny muses. “You’re not going to put me in something sleeveless though, right? My arms look huge.”
Nine more dresses later and everyone, including the sales clerk, is tired. I’ve wandered off to the racks. Shopping is fun except when it’s for other people’s stuff and you’re just tagging along. Penny is consoling the bride and trying to convince her that it’s the selection that is the problem and not the fact nothing seems to suit her.
And then I see it. The most amazing wedding gown I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It’s on a dressmaker’s mannequin in the side window with its back to me. It’s mermaid-cut with silver thread embroidery in swirly patterns accentuated by crystals that go from the middle of the back to just below the wearer’s bottom. The skirt has a small, round train which is also decorated at the hem with the silver thread and tasteful bling detail.
A mental picture of me in that gown suddenly comes unbidden. I’d never ever imagined me getting married before, much less looking so happy in a white wedding gown. But this dress transports me there. I can almost see the groom at the end of the garden path, but only his wide smile is clear to me.
My feet take me towards the dress. My hand reaches out to trace the romantic swirls.
“You found something, Jess?” Penny asks behind me.
I quickly turn around, hoping my height and girth would hide the gown behind me.
Isabella is nowhere in sight which probably means she’s in the change room, trying on something else.
“No. Maybe we should try another place.” I walk towards Penny to herd her away from the dress I’ve just fallen in love with. It’s irrational, considering I have neither any desire to get married nor someone to marry, but I want to save that gown for me.
Isabella emerges from the curtain just as Penny and I take our seats in front of the change stall again. This time she has on a strapless gown with a lacy bodice and small floaty skirt. It’s gorgeous but there’s something missing.
“That’s nice,” Penny says, then looks at me expectantly to gush with her.
“It’s beautiful.” I can fake a lot of things but enthusiasm is not one of them.
Isabella studies herself in the mirror. “It’s the best one so far…” she says with a thoughtful frown, but she’s not sold on it either.
“Sometimes you have to try on something totally different,” Penny suggests. “My friend Mikayla, the designer, says she’s never met a bride who looked good in the gown she thought would look good on her.” Penny stands up, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she’s going to suggest to Isabella to try on my gown. Instead, she heads for the rack and back to the nightie-wannabe dress.
Isabella lifts up the beautiful chiffon skirt of her current frock to inspect Penny’s suggestion. She takes it off the rack and places it against her body while she inspects her reflection in the mirror.
“It’s a little too plain for me, Penny.”
“It might look better on. You’ll look so classy, like Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy.”
Isabella cringes. “She died in a plane crash,” she says, probably thinking about her own flight back to London in just over a week.
“Fine. This can be my wedding dress. What about that one in the window that Jess found?”
I watch them both turn towards my dress.
“It’s mermaid cut,” Isabella dismisses.
“Yeah. Isabella said she didn’t want that style,” I say.
“You’ve worked your arse off, babe. Literally,” Penny says, already walking towards my dress. “You deserve to show it off. Come on. It’s got bling.” She asks the sales assistant for a dress in Isabella’s size.
“Sorry. That’s the last one we have,” the woman informs us.
Yes! Secret-fist pump moment in my head. Isabella already has so many things in her life that I want but don’t have. Keats’ interest being on top of that list. I want this dress. It’s several sizes too small for me but it’s the dream gown I never realised I wanted.
“It’s not really my style anyway, Penny,” Isabella says, looking at herself in the mirror again in the dress she has on.
“Just try it on. I suddenly have a good feeling about this one,” Penny insists.
The sales assistant puts on a brave smile as she carefully peels the dress off the mannequin. I suppress the urge to tackle her, wrench the gown away and run like a mad woman down the road with it.
It’s a size 6 dress, I remind myself—a size 2-4 by US standards. With my recent weight loss, I’m currently an Australian size 20. Even with the more flattering US sizing, that’s still a size 16-18. That gown will only cover about half my butt. Isabella looks at the off-white and silver thread creation like she thinks the same thing about herself. Something irrational twists in my stomach.
“I’ll help you with the zip,” the staff member says as she and Isabella walk back to the change stall.
Penny and I follow them, returning to our seats. My leg shakes while I wait, like an expectant father in a waiting room.
Please don’t suit her. Please don’t suit her.
“It’s too tight, Penny,” Isabella calls out to us from behind the curtain, and I release a sigh of relief. “I wouldn’t be able to walk all day in this.”
Isabella emerges from the change stall with the sales clerk holding the dress behind her, probably because it won’t zip up.
My heart sinks. She looks gorgeous. And judging by her expression when she finally catches sight of herself in the full length mirror behind us, she likes it too.
“Oh, wow.”
Penny jumps out of her seat like an excited puppy. “You like?”
“It’s gorgeous. But it doesn’t close at the back.” Isabella turns around and shows us the zip agape by two inches.
“That’s what, half a size? You can do it. You have four months,” Penny says.
We all turn to the store clerk.
“Most brides lose weight for their big day,” she says vaguely like she’s worried we might sue her if she takes a stand either way.
Isabella looks at her reflection again.
“What do you think, babe? Don’t you just love it?” Penny enthuses.
“I do, but I’m already fifty-seven kilos. That’s pretty light for me. I don’t know how much lighter I should get. Besides, Byron and I negotiated how much I can spend on the wedding gown and bridesmaid’s dresses. Technically, if I got this one and it doesn’t fit, I would have to buy a second hand replacement from a charity store.”
***
“I can’t wear this, babe.” Penny puts the full-length gown with the heart-shaped neckline against her body and looks at herself in the floor to ceiling window. “You’re getting married in a church, right? This is a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.”
Isabella nods and Penny puts the grey chiffon dress back on the rack. I watch the bride-to-be bite her lip, the excitement of gown shopping with us gone about half an hour ago. We’ve been looking for dresses in Brisbane City for two hours and counting. She’s been too polite to say it, but it’s difficult to find nice dresses that fit larger bridesmaids, much less, flattering ones. Mia and Penny are probably the thinnest at size 16. With my height, boobs and hips, I’m next at an Aussie size 20—18, if the store is generous. And mum-of-three Fiona is a size 24. Most of the gown shops only have dresses up to a small size 14. Some have size 16, but we are yet to find anywhere that sells formal dresses bigger than that.
Talk about a hole in the market for Miz Peggy to fill.
Fiona takes another bite of a celery stick as we exit the store. She’s brought with her a little sealable plastic bag of snacks which she’s carrying in her purse. I’m not sure if this is some kind of last minute dieting but it’s not working.
“How about something from the net?” Penny suggests outside a dress shop we don’t even bother entering. Everything in there looks too small.
“But we won’t know what the fabric’s like, and whether they’ll fit properly.” Isabella bites her thumb, thinking. “Maybe we can find a bridal shop that custom-makes gowns to size.”
That sounds expensive to me. Thank God Isabella is paying for all our dresses, and we just have to buy the matching shoes.
“Maybe we can just buy something from Target. They have bigger sizes,” Fiona offers. She’s been blushing and dejected for the last two hours. I don’t blame her. We’re all frustrated and she’s the hardest one to find anything for. She takes out another celery stick and chews on that. Judging by her grimace, it tastes as awful as it looks.
Isabella turns to Mia, Penny and me. She’s too much of a snob to get her bridesmaids’ dresses from a discount department store, but everyone is tired and no longer feeling attractive. We’d all started with such high hopes. Even me. Like the four Sex and the City women, with their married friend, about to hit the shops. But now…I can almost hear Isabella wondering if we would be agreeable to calling it a day.
“We could check out Stones Corner. They might do dresses there to fit.” My voice sounds gruff, even to me. I’m still sore that she bought my dress this morning. It doesn’t matter that the mermaid-style wedding gown wouldn’t have fitted me. Nor looked good on me. It’s a metaphor, and something else to add to the list of things I saw or wanted first that Isabella always seems to get. “And there are cafés there for afterwards,” I add.
After all the ill-fitting clothes and florescent lighting, everyone’s just looking forward to sitting down and having coffee.
***
How many fat chicks can you fit in a Mini Cooper? The answer: five because fat is pliable. We squish back into Isabella’s British car with Fiona in the front passenger seat. Penny is in the middle backseat because she’s top heavy, Mia on the left is bottom heavy, and I, on Penny’s right, am just heavy all over. Thank goodness it’s a mid-July winter afternoon because we’re like sardines in here.
It feels weird being in the same car as my ex-classmates from high school. It’s like we’re still students and our parents allowed us to go out. Well, allowed the others. My dad never kept track of whether I was in or out of the house.
“Turn right here. There’s three-hour free parking in that centre.” I direct Isabella to a low parking structure positioned atop a supermarket on the left.
We go around the car park twice before we get lucky and chance upon some shoppers returning to their vehicle. They have two kids and lots of groceries but Isabella follows them and waits patiently till they’ve loaded up everything and returned their shopping trolley.
“You guys can get out here,” Isabella suggests. “The spaces are pretty tight so it might be hard to get out later.”
I grit my teeth in annoyance. She’s right of course. It would be difficult to exit the Mini Cooper once we’re wedged between other cars but I would’ve rather figured it out for myself than have Isabella tell me.
Ugh. This is so not going to work—it was so much easier to like her while she was away and Keats wasn’t so actively plotting to get her back. Now everything she does just rubs me the wrong way, and I’m finally mature enough to realise it’s not always her fault. That I have issues and a huge, persistent chip on my shoulder.
Isabella balks at the entrance of the first formal wear outlet store we reach, an unsure expression on her face. She’s just spent thousands of dollars buying my dream wedding gown which doesn’t fit her, and she seems uncertain about getting our dresses from here.
“They might have something for Fiona,” I whisper to her, looking over my shoulder to where our ex-classmate is trailing behind everyone else, all sweat-covered and out of breath.
Isabella nods, puts on a brave smile and enters the store. She goes straight to the sales assistant and asks which styles they had from size 16 to size 24. Apparently, all the styles could be made to order to any size, but there are only three gowns in the store right now in Fiona’s size.
“Okay, everyone. Go nuts. Choose something you like and let’s see which one suits everyone best. No pink, white, black, patterned or multi-coloured,” Isabella reminds us, unable to hand over complete control.
My feet take me to the pink rack. I can’t help it. Dad bought unisex clothes so that whatever I outgrew, I could hand down to my brother. What can I say? As soon as I could buy my own things, I headed straight for the girliest clothes I could find, and I haven’t stopped since.
Maybe if I choose something fuchsia, it will be reddish enough for Isabella.
I take five dresses in various shades of pink into the change stall, passing by Mia who is carrying a loose-fitting maxi dress so dark blue it almost looks black.
“Hey, Jess. Help me with the zip?” Penny says, opening her change stall and turning her back to me. She’s trying to fit her breasts in a knee-length, light cream chiffon dress with short sleeves and a square neckline.
“You guys ready to show me yet?” Isabella calls to
us a minute later.
The latches on the other stalls click as I’m pulling up the zip on my back. I rush out and find Isabella standing in front of the row of change stalls with a sales assistant who seems to have realised we mean business. I stand between Mia and Penny while the bride inspects us with a little frown between her brows.
“Those look black, pink, and white,” she says, voice flat with disappointment. Fiona seems to be the only one not in trouble with Isabella in a deep red, sleeveless maxi dress that is empire cut from the boobs down. It has some bling detail between the breast cups and lining the heart-shaped neckline. “That’s…nice, Fiona. What do you think?”
Isabella has always been a terrible liar. The gown looks like a fucking tent but at least it fits Fiona.
“It’s comfy,” Fiona says while beads of sweat form on her forehead.
The sales clerk’s smile wavers like she’s worried our friend would leave sweat stains on her discounted, but still-expensive, dresses.
“Have you got any more to try on?” Isabella sounds hopeful.
“There’s that royal blue one…” Fiona wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, then points to a gown on a mannequin on the far wall.
Isabella nods, a brave expression on her face. I can tell she feels bad for Fiona who looks ready to have a heart attack or cry. Or cry while having a heart attack.
“Well, maybe you can sit here and wait for everyone else to try on that dress. Let’s see what you look like all together as a group.” Isabella asks the sales assistant for an extra chair for Fiona, then looks at us with a silent tip of her head towards the red rack. “You can try the blue one after.”
Obediently, we get the red dress in our sizes and hurry into the change stalls. We’re not sure how much more shopping Fiona can handle. Disappointed, I peel the fuchsia dress off me, and pull the red gown on. I catch a glimpse of myself in the stall mirror. Even with the warm lighting of the shop, the shade makes me look washed out. And God, I look saggy in this—a saggy-boobed corpse. Perfect.
Wouldn’t it just be fan-fucking-tastic if Isabella bought my dream wedding dress and the worst possible bridesmaid dress ever on the same day?
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