Don't Tell the Groom Read online

  ‘It will calm down once the wedding is over, I promise.’ Two more months and counting.

  ‘Well, perhaps we should make more of an effort to borrow Bouncer,’ says Mark.

  ‘I’d like that.’

  And just like that we have our excellent date back on track. And the silly thing is, instead of feeling guilty about the secret wedding I’m planning, it has reminded me of why I am doing it in the first place. I love Mark more than anything. I’ve just got to man up, and anytime I get stressed I need to remember why I’m doing it.

  ‘I love you, honey,’ I say.

  ‘I love you too.’ he says, kissing me.

  Yes, I just need to remember that I get to become Mrs Robinson and that makes it all worthwhile.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’ve been really good at going to my Saturday volunteering slots at the museum. So far I’ve been to all of them. Today is the first Saturday I haven’t wanted to go. Not because I don’t want to volunteer, but because I want to get as far away from here as I possibly can.

  Today is the day I am going dress shopping. The day I’ve dreamt about since I was a little girl and I used to play dressing up. I used to wear an elasticated pink dress of my mum’s and I would play bridesmaid to my sister, the bride, who always got to wear my mum’s actual wedding dress.

  Only instead of being elated about the dress-shopping experience, I’m thoroughly miserable. I can’t tell my mum that my budget for the wedding dress is about two hundred pounds, so I’m going to have to pretend that I don’t like any of the beautiful dresses I try on today.

  It’s going to be torture. Like going into the Häagen-Dazs factory with a spoon and being told that you can only stir the ice cream and not eat it.

  ‘Hello, Penny dear,’ says Betty, as I sit down at the table.

  ‘Hi, Betty.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? You don’t seem your usual cheery self today,’ she says.

  ‘Just wedding stuff,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  Cathy is explaining to us that today we’re making tunic bags. I get to be in charge of the pinking shears and I’m cutting the fabric that Betty is measuring and marking up. Nina is then pinning Velcro to the fabric and Lilian and Marjorie are over on the other side of the room with what seem to be antique Singer sewing machines.

  ‘I don’t understand these modern weddings,’ says Betty. ‘In my day it wasn’t like this. There wasn’t as much fuss. We practically organised them overnight. In fact, in many cases during my sister’s generation, during the war, they did. Their fiancés came home on a weekend leave pass and they went back to the Front married.’

  They had it easy. Wait, not in the war they didn’t. I didn’t mean that at all. I just meant that maybe that is the best way to do it. Getting married in a short space of time. No time to fritter the money away or get sucked into deciding which made my forehead look bigger, a side tiara or a front tiara.

  ‘What was your wedding like, Betty?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, my wedding wasn’t very grand. My Malcolm and I didn’t have a lot of money. We both worked at the aircraft factory. I was a secretary in those days, before we had children.

  ‘We got engaged not long after Christmas and were married in the February. Valentine’s Day it was, just by coincidence. We got married at the church and then we went back to my mother’s house for sandwiches after and people popped round all afternoon.’

  ‘So you didn’t have a formal reception?’

  ‘No, Penny. Not many did in those days. We put a bit of a spread on at my mother’s house. People generally called all week in the run-up to the wedding and brought us presents. Then that evening we took the train down to Portsmouth and went to the Isle of Wight for our honeymoon.’

  I didn’t think it was possible for Betty to smile any more than she did normally, but now, talking about her wedding, she is positively beaming.

  ‘He was so handsome that day. When I turned up at the church Malcolm was there in his National Service uniform. I tell you, Penny, I still catch my breath when I remember the look on his face when we first made eye contact as I walked down the aisle.’

  ‘What were you wearing?’

  ‘I had the most beautiful dress. It was a long white dress with lace sleeves. Not unlike the type of lace that the Duchess of Cambridge had. Of course mine didn’t have a train like hers. It was just a plain white dress and my mum had stitched the lace on to it. Don’t forget that clothing rationing hadn’t long been finished. We were still into the “make do and mend” mindset. Not that I’ve ever really stopped.’

  ‘It sounds perfect.’

  ‘It was, dear. But it was only the start of it. Sixty-two years we’ve been married now. Can you believe it? And we’re still as happy as we were then.

  ‘Of course, Malcolm’s not as fit as he used to be and his mind is often elsewhere. But I know we’ve been blessed with our marriage.’

  I wonder if Mark and I will be happily married sixty-two years from now. I’m glossing over the fact that will mean that I’d be ninety-one and Mark would be ninety-two. I hope that we are. I hope that one day I’m telling the story of my wedding to some whippersnapper who will probably be getting married on a spaceship or something equally futuristic.

  ‘That’s incredible, Betty. You’re really lucky.’

  ‘I know. My Malcolm and I think so. But enough with the past. Tell me about your dress. Have you picked one out yet?’ asks Betty.

  ‘Not yet. Funnily enough I’m going shopping for one with my mum after this.’

  ‘How lovely.’

  ‘Just keep your fingers crossed for me, Betty, that I don’t lose my mind.’

  ‘Don’t you worry. I have two married daughters. Believe me, when you try the one on, you know it’s the one.’

  I don’t tell Betty that that is exactly what I’m afraid of. I’m scared stiff that I might actually try on my dream dress with my mum and, thanks to my new budget, I never in a million years have any chance of owning it.

  I think I severely underestimated just how excited my mum was about the dress shopping.

  I’d agreed in the week that it was OK for her to go ahead and book appointments. What I wasn’t prepared for was the military operation she’s planned for us. We have three bridal shops to go to and she’s worked on the assumption that I’ll try on up to three dresses in each shop, which would take around forty-five minutes, and then we’ll have fifteen minutes of travelling time between them.

  I hope that I am like Jack Bauer in 24 and I don’t need to take a bathroom break or do anything else that would require me to go off schedule. I’ve faced the wrath of my mother on many an occasion and now I am old enough, and wise enough, to try to avoid it at all costs.

  ‘So have you had any thoughts on the style we’re looking for? Or the colour?’ my mum asks.

  ‘I haven’t given the style much thought,’ I say, lying as I try to banish all thoughts of the latest Vera Wang dresses that appeared at the trunk show a few weeks ago. Not that I’d taunted myself by going on the Browns website looking at the event photos, or read the blog of a bride-to-be that had had an appointment, or anything. ‘And I want a white dress, nothing too untraditional.’

  I definitely don’t want a red or black dress. That would probably see Nanny Violet off out of this world.

  ‘White? I meant, did you want a white white or an ivory or more of a cream?’

  Really? Is my mother actually going to describe fifty shades of white?

  ‘I think it’s probably best if I just start looking. See if any inspiration hits.’

  ‘Good idea, Penny. Keep an open mind,’ she says.

  I hope she remembers those words when I take her to the high street later on to see what in reality I can afford.

  I’m beginning to wonder what sort of shops she’s picked and when we pull up outside the small traditional looking bridal boutique, I get my answer. One that I would have chosen if I’d had my original budget and one that
I won’t now be able to afford.

  Just stepping in the shop I practically go weak at the knees. I am giddy with the sort of excitement that I used to get as a child when my mum gave me twenty pence to spend at the sweet shop.

  ‘Hello there,’ says the impeccably neat sales assistant.

  ‘Hello, we’re here to look for my daughter. I made us an appointment. The bride is Penelope Holmes.’

  ‘Of course, we were expecting you. Why don’t you have a browse around, Penelope, and let us know if there is anything you fancy? If you struggle, I’d be more than happy to suggest a couple to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mum.

  It feels wrong to be let loose next to all these wonderful dresses. I reach out to touch the first one and it feels exactly how I imagined it would. It’s like it’s been woven by fairies. And the little studded diamantes sparkle in the light as I pull it out and have a look at it.

  I’m fighting the impulse not to download a bingo app on my phone just to try my luck. Surely if it was fate, and I was supposed to have one of these dresses, luck would be on my side?

  Who am I kidding? I’d probably shrink the two hundred pounds dress budget into a tenner.

  ‘What about this one, Pen? This is lovely.’

  I turn round and catch my breath. My mum is holding the most beautiful dress I have ever seen.

  It’s a strapless dress that is cut straight across the top and then it goes out from the waist like the layers of a tiered cake. It’s perfect. A perfect princess dress.

  ‘Try it on. I can see you love it,’ says the sales assistant.

  I nod, still too giddy to speak or to stop myself.

  The sales assistant brings the dress in behind me. I want to wait for her to leave the cubicle before I strip and get into the dress, but she’s just standing there looking at me. Not actually looking at me, but she’s still standing in here with me.

  I don’t think she’s going to leave. I think I’m going to have to strip in front of her. I start removing my clothes carefully, not to make it look like I’m performing a striptease. On the one hand I’m pleased that I’m not wearing my usual comfy underwear, aka Simon Cowell pants, as Mark affectionately calls them, but I’m simultaneously embarrassed that I’m only wearing a lacy thong and strapless bra. I feel practically naked. I only put them on as I didn’t want my old, tired underwear to show through the sheer high-street dresses.

  But the sales assistant doesn’t bat an eyelid. She just holds the dress open for me to step into and before I know it she’s pulling the corset strings tight behind me. If I’m honest it is just a little on the tight side and I can barely breathe, but that doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’m going to have the most amazing cleavage ever as I can almost feel my boobs grazing my chin.

  ‘There you go,’ says the sales assistant, as she draws back the curtain. ‘Go and stand on the podium,’ she says, giving me a little nudge, as I’m frozen in the cubicle.

  I walk slowly on tiptoes so that I don’t trip over and I stand on the podium and look in the mirror.

  I look amazing. I was so born in the wrong era. I was made for wearing big dresses.

  ‘Oh Penny, you look stunning. You look just like a princess,’ says my mum, crying. There are proper tears and everything.

  ‘How much is it?’ she asks.

  ‘This one works out at nine hundred and fifty pounds and then alterations are on top,’ says the sales assistant.

  That is fairly reasonable for such a lovely dress. Looks like I was wrong to budget three thousand pounds for a dress – this would suit me perfectly at a third of the cost. If only I still had the old budget, the one that I flushed down the toilet.

  ‘It is lovely, but this is the first dress I’ve tried on. I should look for more.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve got one that I think would suit you perfectly.’

  Ten minutes later I’m back on the podium and I’m in another equally stunning dress. This one is completely different. Instead of looking like a wedding cake, I look like … well, like a mermaid. This one is a fishtail dress, the type of dress I thought would make me look horrendous and fat-thighed, but you know what? It really looks great on me.

  By the time we’ve visited all three dress shops, I’ve reached the conclusion that every wedding dress is designed to make you feel special and beautiful. I could have bought nearly all the dresses I’ve tried on so far. Dress number one is still my favourite, but there isn’t much in it.

  We’re just stopping for a quick coffee – all in the timetable, of course. This has been scheduled in as a refreshment and comfort break before going back to one of the shops if we need to. I’m just trying to pluck up the courage to tell my mum that I think we should go and see what the high street has to offer. Maybe I should drop in the whole Money Saving Expert forum; my mum has a bit of a thing for Martin Lewis, which might just convince her it’s a good idea.

  ‘Which one was your favourite then? Have you seen the one?’ asks Mum.

  I had. But I wasn’t going to tell her.

  ‘Not yet. I think we need to keep looking,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I was hoping you were going to say the first one. I thought you were glowing in that one.’

  I was glowing. I knew it. It could have been me sweating from hyperventilating over the fact that I am never going to wear that dress. But still.

  ‘Well, I think I should explore all of my options. I was thinking that perhaps we could look on the high street. I know that department stores these days have some nice alternatives,’ I say.

  ‘The high street?’ My mum looks like she is going to break out in hives at the suggestion.

  ‘Yes, you know the Money Saving Expert forum posts all suggest having a look.’

  I’m staring at my mum to work out if I’ve played my trump card too early.

  ‘The high street? Well, your father would be pleased at the money we’d save but honestly, that first dress …’

  I stop listening to my mother after the first bit. I think I might have been hearing things but I could have sworn that Mum was suggesting that she and Dad were paying for the dress. I just need to be clear about this before we go any further.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, are you expecting to pay for the dress?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course. We bought your sister’s and we’ll buy yours.’

  I want to reach over the table and hug my mother. I am going to be able to be a princess after all. It might not be Vera Wang, but I reckon dress number one is the next best thing. I’m going to look super amazing in my wedding-cake dress and Mark is not going to be able to take his eyes off me.

  Then it hits me: Mark. I can’t get the dress of my dreams when I’m compromising every single aspect of our wedding. I feel lousy enough as it is, but I can’t have budget everything else, then waltz or float down the aisle in my princess dress.

  I start to try to tell Mum that she can’t buy my dress, but it takes me three whole swallows before I can get a single word out.

  ‘You can’t buy my dress, Mum. Mark and I always said we’d pay for the wedding ourselves,’ I say.

  ‘I know, and we’ve always respected that. But a dress is different; that is just like our last present to our daughter.’

  This really isn’t the time for me to start hoping that she means it metaphorically and that in reality I will still get presents from her at Christmas. My mum does the best stockings.

  ‘It’s really kind of you,’ I say, hoping that I won’t regret the next words for ever and ever, ‘but I really can’t accept the offer. I’d rather you put the money towards a present for me and Mark.’

  Even though the dress would technically have been a present for Mark as I would have looked pretty damn sexy and hot in it.

  ‘Let’s just go and look at what they have to offer on the high street,’ I squeak.

  ‘OK. If it’s suggested on MSE then it would be worth checking out.’

  Yes! I knew the Money Saving Expert card would work.
/>
  ‘I can’t believe how nice these dresses are,’ says Mum, fifteen minutes later.

  I can see that my mother is genuinely surprised by the range of dresses on offer. It’s also much less stressful looking at the dresses without the sales assistants following behind you and offering to help you out of your clothes.

  These dresses are different. For starters, they fit on normal hangers. They’re also not meringue-shaped, and there isn’t even a hint of a ruffle. But they are all pretty in their own right.

  I end up taking three dresses into the changing room with me. All are a variation on a theme: straight-cut dresses with different details around the bust. One is a V-neck, the next has a cowl neck like Pippa Middelton’s infamous bridesmaid dress, and the last is a simple dress with ivory lace detail on the straps and under the bust.

  Luckily, each time I leave my fitting-room cubicle my mum looks at me with the same look of wonder that she had in the bridal shops.

  When I come out in the third dress she visibly reaches up and clasps her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Now, that one rivals the wedding-cake dress,’ she says. ‘It is absolutely gorgeous.’

  There’s no escaping the fact that it isn’t a princess dress in the traditional sense. But it is understated, sophisticated and, above all, simple. It reminds me of how Betty described her dress to me. Elegant, yet functional. Did I actually need a dress that I could barely sit down in all day and that took three people to lift up while I peed?

  I didn’t have a podium to stand on but I spun round in the aisle of the changing rooms.

  ‘That dress was made for you,’ says a woman, as she walks out from behind a curtain.

  I look up embarrassed; I’d forgotten we weren’t alone in the shop like we had been in the bridal boutiques.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, blushing.

  ‘When’s the wedding?’ says the woman.

  ‘Eighteenth of May’

  ‘Good luck for then. You’ll knock him dead in that dress.’

  The woman leaves the changing rooms and I take one final look in the mirror. I trace my fingers over the lace at the shoulders. It really is pretty.