‘Right, what are we doing then?’ She flops down on the sofa next to me and rubs her head, as if she has the beginning of a migraine coming on. I pat her on the leg. I know I must do the very best for her as her bridesmaid; this is my gift to her. It has to mean something. I want her to remember me like this after it all.
‘Come on, it’s your wedding, we need to get you focused. Today it’s the choosing of the dress! This is an exciting, monumental day. Then after this, it’s fresh air and water for every meal.’ I joke but I know that Caitlin has lost a significant amount of weight recently; whether it’s intentional, I don’t know.
‘I thought I heard voices. Hi! I’m Wendy. Can I presume this is the bride?’ Wendy hands Caitlin another glass of champagne.
‘You can presume and you would be correct.’ Caitlin takes the glass from Wendy and swallows the amber liquid in two gulps. I watch as Wendy looks on with half horror, half intrigue.
‘Well, hopefully that’s loosened you up a bit. Now let’s find you that dress!’ She lets out a hollow laugh.
Caitlin stands up and follows Wendy through a white door. I pick up our bags and follow behind. We come out into a large circular suite with rails of dresses all around the edges. I’m surprised it’s me who lets out a little gasp, whilst Caitlin just plonks herself in one of two white chairs next to a white large settee in the centre. There’s a small table with another two glasses of champagne, which she goes straight for, ignoring the array of lustrous material around her. I’m still taking small sips from my first glass.
I remind myself how it is that Caitlin has left it this late to choose her dress. As Chuck mentioned the other day, it is the sort of thing that most brides do first, but as soon as Chuck proposed in April, the first thing Caitlin did was book us all a holiday. Me and a handful of Caitlin’s school friends claimed it as her hen holiday, but she refused to refer to it as that. In hindsight, it was the perfect Caitlin thing to do, to want to just get out of the country and get drunk for a week.
‘So who is the lucky man?’ Wendy asks, her eyes almost bulging out her head. This is the most exclusive wedding dress shop in the area and she is dying to know if she knows the groom.
‘Charles Everly-Beckwith,’ Caitlin announces. Caitlin reels off Chuck’s name with such disinterest, I wonder why she is marrying him at all. She doesn’t know how lucky she is.
Wendy smiles. ‘He sounds absolutely delightful.’ I can sense she’s a little disappointed at not knowing the name, but then Chuck is such a private person, it’s no surprise he’s so successful and yet remains almost anonymous.
It’s obvious Wendy is going to have to run this show, with me chivvying Caitlin along. Once upon a time, she revelled at the attention of a big occasion, but ever since Josephine died, it’s as though she has lost all her spark and enthusiasm for the sort of simple celebration that she would have turned into a major event when we were younger.
Wendy begins pulling dresses of all various styles and colours out from rails and placing them on a smaller rail next to the chair where Caitlin sits.
‘I think we might be looking at something conservative, off-white, showing a little shoulder, a little leg maybe, but definitely no cleavage.’ Wendy looks pleased when Caitlin nods enthusiastically at the ‘no cleavage’ part. She sifts through her collection and pulls out an off-white dress.
‘This is a full length off the shoulder, with lace sleeves. On the skirt, there is a lovely split just to the right of the middle, to give it that little extra je ne sais quoi, but overall it’s a lovely subtle look that wouldn’t be replicated by any of your guests.’
Caitlin and I both stare at the dress Wendy is holding. I know both of our minds are working on overdrive. I know we’re both thinking exactly the same thing, that this dress is almost an exact replica of a dress she and I know so well. A dress that I had seen as a child at Saxby. A dress that had belonged to Ava.
Caitlin and I both speak at the same time, but our words do not match.
‘Yes,’ Caitlin says.
‘No,’ I say.
The tones of our voices are polar opposites, mine high and panicky, Caitlin’s firm.
We look at one another.
‘This will be my little homage to Mama on my wedding day. What do you say, Sash?’
Wendy looks forlorn. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, when did she pass?’ Concern firmly etched across her face.
Caitlin lets out a laugh that is loud and brash. ‘Oh goodness no, Mama is alive and well and living in Surrey.’
Wendy looks confused now but clears her throat. ‘Did your mother wear something similar for her wedding?’
‘So she says, I mean she was wearing it in the photo, so I suppose that’s proof enough.’ Caitlin touches the fabric delicately.
I narrow my eyes at Caitlin. I was used to hearing strange things coming from her mouth, because that’s who she is, and I usually got her quirkiness, but even I was struggling with this statement.
‘Yes, yes, yes, that is the one, and look, Sash, I think it could be just my size, what do you say? I could pop it on and we could have this whole thing wrapped up in a jiffy, just in time for a pre-dinner drink.’
My mind flashes back to Saxby, Caitlin with her mother’s wedding dress, the
