Mammy was giving her and Quinn a very generous contribution toward the wedding but even so, this place reeked of the green stuff in a way that was making her tummy jump about. Especially with Quinn making noises about house buying and the like. And was that a runway? There was a raised platform with curtains leading into the fitting rooms from which, she presumed she’d emerge. A cluster of seats were arranged in front of the stage for the bridal party to pass verdict. Aisling sniffed, detecting the hint of a floral fragrance floating on the air. Chanel No. 5 perhaps? She shook the nerves aside; she’d come this far, now was not the time to worry about her finances. She sniffed again, wondering what the odds were of Madame Mullan using the same air freshener Mammy had been doing the hard sell on lately. Anyone would think she was getting a backhander from the company the way she went on about it. Moira elbowed her. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘That sniffy thing you’re after doing, it makes you look like a gingery seal coming up for air.’
She ignored Moira as she pondered whether she’d made a mistake coming here. She caught sight of her face, pale and slightly drawn, in the reflection of one of the freestanding gilt framed mirrors that seemed to be dotted about the place. They were all set to a flattering angle but still, she wished she hadn’t. Maybe she should have gotten over herself and gone back to Ivory Bridal Couture; at least she knew what to expect there. It didn’t feel right though not after last time. It would be a bit like rendezvousing with her ex. She glanced nervously at Leila who smiled back at her reassuringly and she felt a little better until Moira broke rank and made a beeline for a rack of shimmering sheaths.
‘Oh, Aisling, this is gorgeous, so it is, look,’ she held the wisps of soft lilac fabric up against her and had a delirious look on her face that said she was imagining herself on the red carpet, about to give her Oscars’ night speech, or something like.
It was also microscopic, Aisling noted with alarm. Well not quite, but in Aisling’s experience the less fabric the more expensive it was likely to be. An internal tug-o-war ensued. She wanted to march over and inspect the price tag but at the same time she didn’t want Madame Mullan over there to think she was a penniless hick. She was still wrestling with herself as Moira whipped the same dress in pink and baby blue off the rack and trotted off toward the dressing room. Happy as a pig in muck.
Leila whispered in her ear, ‘Discourage her, no matter how gorgeous she looks. You need to keep three things in mind. Price tag, headlights and Uncle Colm. Alright? Remember this is a winter wedding not a Maldives getaway.’
Aisling nodded obediently.
‘Come on, let’s check out the wedding gowns.’ Leila pulled her toward the headless mannequins posed in a group of three, all draped in sumptuous silks. ‘Oh, these are stunning, Ash,’ she said, pausing in front of a sophisticated ivory dress that had Aisling sighing wistfully. She’d never get away with that, not with her thighs. Leila however put it more tactfully. ‘Ivory’s not your colour. We need diamond white or champagne would be lovely. Have you a particular style in mind?’
They both looked at the row of dresses spanning the length of the emporium. The opposite wall was devoted to the bridesmaids and the back wall catered to the mother of the bride. Aisling hadn’t a clue where to start and was grateful she had her friend here to help her. ‘I suppose I’d like a mermaid trumpet-style dress with lace, lots of lace.’ She wondered why Leila was staring at her sympathetically and then it dawned on her. She’d described the dress she’d chosen the last time. She pressed her lips together in a grim line. ‘What I should have said was I want the exact opposite of a lacy mermaid trumpet dress.’
Before they could even begin their search however, Moira poked her head through the curtains, about to be the first to strut the catwalk as she demanded everybody stop what they were doing. When she was certain she had everyone’s attention she flung the curtains open and struck a hands on hip pose, one shapely leg thrust out of a split between the lilac wisps as though she had indeed stopped for a photo call on the red carpet.
Madame Mullan was a bee to honey as she took the two steps to the platform and homed in on Moira to begin adjusting the straps and pinching the dress in at the waist before looking toward Aisling expectantly.
‘It’s lovely, and you look a picture, Moira. But don’t you think you might be a little cold on the day and that material is awfully sheer. It’s going to be February after all. Madame Mullan do you have anything with long sleeves you could show Moira? In a more, erm, substantial fabric perhaps.’
Moira scowled at her sister, ‘Should we wear our flannelette nighties and be done with it,’ she muttered, stomping back into the fitting room while Madame Mullan fluttered off, a golden butterfly gone in search
