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“Well, we’ll start you off with some of these off-the-rack options. They’re all one of a kind, of course, designed by yours truly. And I can make any adjustments or alterations required. Like, say, if you wanted to add sleeves, since it will be a winter wedding.” She looks thoughtful. “Will it be indoors or outdoors?”
“Indoors!” Valentina says from the couch. She’s got a glass of champagne now and is sipping it happily.
“Where is it?”
Donata and I ask the question at the exact same time. My face flames as Donata, Lucia, and Giulia all give me an odd look. Yeah. I guess it is pretty odd that I don’t even know where my own wedding is being held.
“The Royal Thompson Hotel,” Valentina replies with an expression that almost looks a little smug.
“Oh my God!” exclaims Giulia. “Are you for real?” She turns to me, eyes alight. “Your wedding is going to be amazing. The Royal Thompson, are you shitting me!”
I’m almost as surprised as Giulia is. I’ve never stayed there myself, but I know the location. It’s one of Toronto’s oldest and most expensive hotels. Events there are hosted by the nation’s elite.
And that’s where I’m apparently getting married.
None of this seems real. That sense of unreality only intensifies as Donata dresses me in gown after gown. They all begin to blur together, and I barely see myself in the mirror, swathed and swallowed by all that white.
My quietness doesn’t seem to bother the onlookers. Valentina and Giulia have more than enough opinions to make up for my tight-lipped numbness.
“Too boring,” Valentina says to a silk sheath dress. Giulia, now on her fourth glass of champagne, blows a raspberry and gives a dramatic thumbs-down.
“It’s simple. Refined,” protests Lucia. “Don’t listen to them, Deirdre.”
I stare at myself without emotion. This dress is just as good as any of the others I tried on, I suppose. It’s jaw-droppingly beautiful and crafted to perfection, there’s no question about that. But I don’t have any real feelings towards it, either positive or negative.
“What kind of dress do you want?” That question comes from Donata, who’s watching my face with a pensive look. “What did you always picture yourself wearing when you were a little girl?”
I laugh, but I think it might only be to stop myself from crying. Because once my mom died, I stopped fantasizing about the big life events that would come afterwards. I never imagined going wedding dress shopping because I knew she wouldn’t be there with me.
No one speaks, and it’s clear I’m expected to answer.
“I don’t know,” I say woodenly. I like dresses, and I do wear them, but a cute sundress isn’t the same as picking out a wedding gown.
Donata taps her finger against her chin then turns to the rack. Valentina puts down her drink and jumps up off the couch, coming to Donata’s side. They mutter quietly to each other, sliding dresses along the rack, the hangers making a metallic scraping sound.
“Ooh,” Valentina chirps suddenly. “What about this one?”
Donata pulls a gown off the rack and carries it over. In her arms, it’s hard to get a sense of the design. All I can see is cream lace over top of a slightly darker silk, along with the glitter of beading.
In a changeroom beside the couch and mirror area, Donata and her assistant Polly help me take off the sheath dress and step into this new one. There is no mirror in this room, and even if there were, I doubt I’d care to look much anyways.
I hear chatter and laughter as I step out of the changeroom, but it immediately ceases when I move out into view. Giulia, Lucia, and Valentina stare at me, and even though there is only one set of twins, and they’re not triplets, they’re all wearing identical expressions of stunned shock. During the fitting, Polly brought out a tray of appetizers, and Giulia drops the one she had in her hand onto her lap without even seeming to notice. Curse is the only one who looks completely impassive, standing off to the side with his arms crossed the way he has been this entire time.
My heartrate picks up at the eerie silence and gobsmacked faces of the usually very talkative women in the room. Suddenly nervous, I grab a champagne flute and take a few big swigs of the fizzy liquid before putting it back down and stepping up onto the pedestal. I stare down at the floor as Donata and Polly fuss with the dress, flaring out the train behind me on the floor and clipping excess fabric at my lower back. Donata pulls the hair tie out of my braid, arranging the waves around my shoulders in a loose style. I don’t see what it looks like because I’m still staring at a very interesting whorl in the wood on the floorboard just below and ahead of the pedestal.
“Deirdre.” At some point, Valentina must have gotten off the couch, because she’s speaking from beside me now. “Jesus. Just look at you.”
I don’t know why I’m avoiding the mirror. I’ve looked at myself in every other dress, blinking blankly at my own reflection, and it hasn’t really affected me. This should be no different.
I take a breath and look up.
And immediately, I know I’ve made a mistake.
Because the dress is perfect. So perfect that it hurts.
I’m so bowled over by the overall effect of what I see that tears instantly rise to my eyes. It takes a minute of blinking and deep breathing before I can even see clearly again.
When I can see my reflection once more, I try to analyze the dress in bits and pieces so that I don’t get so overwhelmed again.
