Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  Mum hurries over and peers with narrowed eyes, carefully checking my head from every angle. I feel a frisson of nerves. Mum’s a Maths teacher in a secondary school and as such I often get the feeling that she’s about to grade me below average or send me to a headmaster for punishment.

  “Well, I think I like it,” she eventually declares. “You look exactly like Tracy. May she rest in peace.”

  Tracy was our childhood tabby cat. On hearing Mum’s observation Dionne snorts loudly, only this time, she doesn't even attempt to cover it.

  God.

  Maybe I could get a wig.

  “Anyway,” Mum continues briskly. “You've ruined your surprise now. Go on. Take a look.”

  Dionne is holding up the dress in front of herself. It's got a corseted top covered in silver sequins and diamante and a huge, puffed skirt held up with reams of stiff netting.

  “Is this for the hen night?” I ask, stroking the satiny material. Better than the slutty Moulin Rouge outfits Dionne initially suggested. This isn’t so bad. I can wear this. I can have a laugh like the rest of them. The second rule of getting married: Everybody looks like a chump on their hen night.

  “No, you daft git,” says Mum. “It's a wedding dress. For your wedding.” She rolls her eyes at Dionne.

  Whaaaaat?

  I look hard at Dionne and wait for her to burst into giggles, unable to hold in the joke any longer.

  She doesn't. She just sighs lovingly at the dress before bestowing it upon me like a midwife with a new born baby. “We were thinking you could wear a muff and all. And maybe a feathery shrug.”

  Feathery shrug? And what the pickle is a muff?

  “What’s a muff?”

  “You know. One of those furry mitten things you use to keep your hands warm. They’re all the rage at winter weddings.”

  A furry mitten thing? Why on earth would my hands be cold at my own wedding? I get a vision of the entire congregation bundled up in colourful scarves and woolly hats. Olly in an expensive, tailor made balaclava. Dove grey to match his morning suit.

  I pull a face of distress.

  “Try it on then!” chides Mum. “We'll have to get it taken in.” Her eyes flicker down towards my stomach. “Or taken out. There isn't much time.”

  Is this for real? They haven't actually bought my wedding dress, have they?

  “A- are you joking?” I murmur, my cheeks burning.

  They grin at each other, mistaking my question for grateful disbelief

  “Nope,” says Dionne. “We said we'd pay for your dress. Well… here you go!”

  They did say they would pay for my dress. I didn't mean for them to go out and buy it. Without telling me. Without letting me choose.

  Isn't shopping for a wedding dress supposed to be a rite of passage? The free champagne, the seamstress fussing over me and pretending that she knew as soon as I walked through the shop door which dress I was eventually going to choose. Standing on that wooden box and pretending I'm much taller and slimmer than I really am, picking the dress that I absolutely could not not wear on my wedding day...

  “It's gorgeous, isn't it,” Dionne continues, fingering the hooks and eyes of the corset. “And look at all the diamante! We thought that diamante could be, like, the theme for the entire wedding.”

  Diamante? As a theme? Oh God. No.

  I silently curse Olly for proposing last week and insisting we get married as soon as humanly possible.

  It was a lovely proposal, mind. He'd gotten a discounted weekend at a health spa in Cheshire and got down on one knee after a delicious meal at the spa's vegan restaurant.

  I look down at the ring displayed pride of place on the third finger of my left hand. A gorgeous heart shaped diamond on a platinum band. It's very shiny.

  I thought I'd have at least a few months to get the wedding sorted, but then Olly surprised me by booking the church for next month.

  “Natalie, it was a cancellation It was either Christmas Eve or 2014. I’m not waiting till 2014! I want to marry you now! Plus, we get a reasonable discount for taking the space up.”

  I've had to rely on Mum and Dionne to help organise everything in super quick time. They’ve even been doing this checklist and emailing it to me each time we make even the slightest change to the plans.

  I bury the groan bubbling in my throat. I'm being selfish. Their buying me a dress is just their way of helping to get everything sorted in time.

  I suddenly spot hundreds of little bows stitched in along the hemline of the dress. Bows!

  No. This is ridiculous. People choose their own wedding dresses. That's how it's done! When you think about it, it's bloody out of order to choose someone else’s wedding dress for them.

  But then Mum and Dionne look so pleased with themselves. They genuinely think they've done a good deed. And they are planning the entire wedding in only four weeks after all...

  “Come on then, we want to see what it looks like,” urges Dionne, eyes sparkling like… diamante.

  Well... I suppose there's no harm in trying it on, is there?

  “It looks extraordinary!” mum breathes as I shuffle into the kitchen to show them the dress. Her dark brown eyes are shining with tears of joy. Wow. It must look better than I thought it would. Maybe, shockingly, they do know me better then I know myself.

  While I was getting changed they've brought down the full length mirror from my bedroom and propped it up against our kitchen table. Dionne pours everyone a glass of wine before gesturing that I should have a look at myself in the mirror.

  I warily manoeuvre myself around to the other side of the table, being careful not to knock over the pan stand or the vegetable rack with the massive skirt. Nervously, I glance up at my reflection…

  Wow.

  Mum’s ‘Extraordinary’ is right. Horrendous, horrifying, horrible are also suitable adjectives.

  I gawk numbly into the mirror, entranced by the way the diamante glistens under the fluorescent kitchen lights. The flab from my waist is compressed into this iridescent bodice and is now making a bid for freedom by spilling over the top of my corset. I turn around to see the view from behind. Back fat. Definite fat of the back.

  “We are so GOOD!” cheers Dionne. “You look just like Katie Price. Except you’ve got no tits. Maybe you should buy some tits before the wedding, and then you’ll look perfect.” She grabs her own surgically enhanced breasts to demonstrate.

  I look down towards my 32 Bs and sigh. They’re not that bad. They'd be improved considerably if I wasn't wearing a dress that flattened them into total oblivion.

  Nope. No. Nuh uh. Noooooooo. This is not what I want to look like on my wedding day. I wanted Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face not Bridal Drag Queen in a Gypsy Wedding Sequin Frenzy. I take a breath. I must tell them. Meg said to stand up for myself, and that is what I’ll do, damn it. I’ll tell them that this is just not the dress for me. It’s not like they can force me to wear it.

  “Mum, Dionne. I don’t quite…” My voice goes all scratchy. I clear my throat and try again. “I don’t think -”

  “You look just like I always wanted to look on my wedding day,” Mum interrupts, welling up. “I would have done, if it wasn’t for your bastard of a dad spending all our money on that stupid motorbike of his.”

  Dionne pats her gently on the shoulder.

  “Aw, Mum… I’m sorry, but -”

  “Just imagine. Diamante everywhere,” pipes up Dionne, brightly.

  “I’m not sure it’s really me,” I eventually get out, turning this way and that in the mirror.

  My mother’s face hardens, imperceptibly.

  “Look, Natalie,” she says. “Dionne and I are trying to produce the perfect wedding, in only few short weeks. It isn’t easy.” She takes a shaky breath. “Do you not want us to be involved with this?”

  She looks so sad.

  “Of course I want you to be involved,” I soothe.

  I do. I can’t plan all of this on my own, and Mum and Dionne tog
ether are like an unstoppable whirlwind of productivity. When they’re around things get done, things get sorted.

  “Your Dad would have loved that dress,” Mum says again, dabbing her eyes carefully so as not to smudge her mascara.

  “I know Mum. I know.” I neglect to remind her that Dad's not dead, just buggered off to India and we really shouldn't care whether he'd like it or not. It’s just us now.

  I glance back down at the dress and notice that all the pearls have been stitched on in the shape of little love hearts. Jesus.

  “Are you not sure I should wear something a bit... simpler? I don’t want to look… flashy,” I try.

  “Definitely not,” says Dionne, hands on hips. “The idea of a wedding dress is that it makes you look better than usual. Not being funny or anything, but who wants to see the same old boring Natalie rolling down the aisle?”

  Mum wipes her eyes and juts out her chin.

  “This wedding is not just about you, love. It’s about all of us. Our family. God knows we could use a bit of happiness since…since.” She buries her face into Dionne’s silicone bosom and sobs loudly. Shit.

  “I’m sorry Mum. I don’t want to upset you. I really don’t. But -”

  “That is the dress you are wearing.” She looks up sharply. “A proper wedding dress. Not some flimsy, nothing dress you could wear any other time.”

  I don't say anything for a moment, just stare into the mirror. I look exactly like a toilet roll holder doll.

  “I'm trying to help you to make the best of yourself, Natalie,” Mum goes on. “Do you not need my help?” Her voice wobbles again. “You don't, do you! You think I'm useless. Your Dad thought I was pointless and now you do too.”

  She dissolves into another round of tears and presses a hand to her chest, her expression pained.

  “Mum, are you alright?” I ask, worriedly.

  “It’s just indigestion,” she sniffs. “I’ll be fine. I’ll take a Rennie.”

  I don’t have any other choice.

  “Fine. We’ll get this one.” I plaster a smile onto my face and pat Mum on the arm.

  “Fantastic, darling! You’ll be a princess!”

  Mum and Dionne grin at each other and clink glasses. I smile weakly, take a glass of wine from the table beside me and neck it in one.

  The dress of devastation is hung up on my bedroom door, silently mocking me. I glower at it and frown. A sequin flickers and sparkles under the lights, like an evil sequin wink.

  For the past two hours Mum and Dionne have been chattering away about the wedding; how brilliant it’s going to be, how gorgeous I’m going to look (if I manage to drop a dress size in the next 30 days), whether there’s such a thing as edible diamante for the wedding favours and the probability of our vicar agreeing to wear a bedazzled dog collar. So me wearing a disco ball Barbie dress isn’t such a big sacrifice, when you really think about it. Considering how much they like it, and how much of a favour they’re doing me, planning the wedding and all. It’s the very least I can do.

  I glance up at the alarm clock on my bedside table. Eight o’clock already. Olly should be round at any moment. Almost every weeknight he picks me up after he’s finished work at Dino's Suits and Ties. We head over to his executive apartment in Deansgate where we have dinner and then snuggle up in front of the TV with a blanket. It’s lovely just hanging out with him. Lovely, cosy, quiet and… just lovely.

  I'm trying to slick back my terrible hair with styling gel when Dionne bursts into my bedroom. She stops before the wedding dress and presses an acrylic nail adorned hand to her chest.

  “I can’t believe you actually get to wear it!”

  Me either.

  “I know! Lucky me!”

  “You are like, so super jammy… Anyway I was wondering if you'd do your little sister a massive favour?”

  A massive favour. I think back to other massive favours Dionne has asked of me over the years. Like that massive favour when she got me to break up with her high school boyfriend for her. The poor lad snotted and cried on me for two hours before trying to cop a feel. And then there was the massive favour last month when her kitchen flooded and I had to clean it up because she had a vital eyebrow appointment at the beauty salon. Once we’re living next door to each other, I suspect the massive favours will be coming thick and fast.

  “Go on?” I say wearily.

  “Bull just phoned and said he's going to take me for a romantic Madras on Saturday and I was wondering if you’d babysit Jean-Paul Gaultier. Please.”

  As massive favours go it's pretty tame. But Saturday night? The night I planned on doing nothing but trying out recipes for the perfect hollandaise sauce while Olly is out with his mates from the gym.

  “I'll pay you,” she pleads.

  I wouldn't normally accept money for looking after Jean-Paul Gaultier, he's the sweetest little poodle, but a bit of extra cash would not go amiss...

  “Fine. No probs.”

  “Excellent, cheers, Sis. But…do you mind if I pay you next month, rather than this? There's this dress I'm after in River Island and I really want to buy it for Saturday night.” She grabs a lipstick off my dressing table, checks out the colour on her hand and then pockets it.

  “But you wouldn’t have accepted money to look after him anyway, right?”

  Yes.

  “Oh, no, no. Course not.”

  “Awesome sauce. That's that sorted. When’s Olly getting here?”

  Twenty minutes ago.

  “He should be here any minute. Probably driving over here as we speak. I best get on.”

  “Right,” says Dionne, flipping her blonde hair so that it lands in a perfect arrangement over her shoulder. “Well, I’ve got to go anyway - Jean-Paul Gaultier needs a walk and then Bull and I are going to his house to watch Scarface. His uncle’s cousin was a consultant on the set of the movie. He had to make sure it was all true to life and realistic and stuff. It’s all very close to Bull’s heart.”

  I picture Al Pacino and his massive desk mountain of cocaine and wonder how realistic that scene was. And then I wonder how worried I should be about this Bull fella and his murky connections.

  “When do we get to meet him, then?”

  Dionne bites her lip and shrugs, “Soon. He’s shy.”

  A shy gangster. What next? An interesting accountant? An obedient hairdresser?

  On her way out of the room Dionne grabs my favourite silver and turquoise scarf - the one I intend to wear to the pub tomorrow - from the wardrobe door and flings it around her neck.

  “Oooh, can I borrow this?”

  “Well, actually -”

  “Smell ya later, sis!” She dives out, not bothering to wait for my reply.

  Arrrrrrgh!

  Fifteen minutes later a horn beeps outside. Olly! I check my lip-gloss in the mirror, hop downstairs, and with a quick ‘see you later’ to Mum, head out of the door and into Olly’s car.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TEXT FROM: DIONNE.

  4got to tell u Bull’s mate does wedding cake 4 cheap. All styles. Even glitter cakes.

  REPLY TO: DIONNE

  Sounds great! Nt sure abt glittery cake though…

  After all the noise and wedding stress back at Mum’s house it is quite lovely to be in the silence of Olly’s apartment. We’re snuggled up on his huge black leather sofa watching some kind of sporty programme on Sky Sports. I’m not so much watching as peering at the telly and wondering why the men on the screen are wearing Lycra bodysuits. I am thoroughly enjoying the feel of Olly’s lovely arm flung around my shoulder, though. He lifts his bum off the sofa in excitement; something apparently interesting is happening on the screen involving weird grunting from the Lycra men. I don’t really understand it all but gasp with feigned interest, nevertheless. In response, Olly turns to me and blows a kiss before eagerly returning to the Lycra action.

  I’m not really into sports and stuff but Olly loves it. Really loves it. He’s very into fitness and weight trainin
g. Every morning at six on the dot he wakes up and heads to the gym to ‘get pumped’ for an hour before coming back to pick me up and drive us both into Manchester for work. How committed is that? And then on the weekends he does paintballing with his friends and plays golf with his dad. His favourite things in the world are his car, me (presumably) and competitive sports. Sometimes I wonder how the heck we’re still together. Him a muscled, wheatgrass drinker, and me decidedly soft, (all right, flabtastical) around the edges. He doesn’t seem to mind at all though. Obviously he thinks I should lose a little weight for the sake of my health. Obviously. He doesn’t want me conking out on him when we’re married, and that’s totally understandable. He’s really caring like that.

  Olly's gorgeous. I don’t even say that because I’m about to marry him, but he really is. His tanned, angular, his face makes Jude Law look like Donald Trump gone to seed, and he has the most gorgeous coffee coloured hair. He’s a little shorter than average, but just about taller than me, and it’s not like we spend all our time standing up next to each other, so it doesn’t really matter that much. And his body is just gorgeous. All toned and muscled and tanned and trim and firm and honed from the gym. And another good thing. Olly is really neat. Not like neat in the sixties groovy way, though obviously he is that too. But neat in the really tidy way. I’ve never seen him in anything that is creased or worn and his house is cleaner than a hospital operating theatre, which makes sense because both of his parents are surgeons. And anyway, it’s a great antidote to my natural state of messy and cluttered, something I’m working on improving for when we move in together.

  At the next ad break on the sports programme (which I’ve since figured out is a documentary about the exciting lives of pro wrestlers) Olly jumps energetically off the sofa and bounds around into the open plan kitchen of the apartment. He lifts the lid off one of the pans that has been simmering away on the cooker and inhales deeply.

  “Voila!” he declares. “Ready in few minutes, sweetness.”