Tapping the button, Sal checked the result and delighted with the shot, handed me the mobile. “What do you think?” she asked, amused. “Better than your simple tea-style dress?”
Humiliation swept over me. The phone image was worse than the one in the mirror. I visualised my wedding day, but, unlike in my dream, when guests had looked upon me as a vision of beauty, everyone stared at me open mouthed and in shock. Except Mum, who dabbed glistening tears from her joyful eyes. “Why is she doing this to me?” I asked.
Sal started tittering again.
“This is a nightmare,” I said.
Sal’s titters turned into full-blown laughter. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She took another look at me, struggling to speak. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow, reminding her that, in fact, she had, even if it was via a TV screen back in 1981.
Sal bent double in response and full-on guffawing, clutched her stomach. “I mean it, Tess. I can’t take any more.”
“You can’t? How do you think I feel right now? As much as I don’t want to hurt Mum’s feelings, you have to help me, Sal. I need an excuse not to wear it.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. We could tell her that I’m allergic to taffeta?”
Sal laughed some more.
“Or that ivory doesn’t favour my skin?”
“Like she’s going to accept that.”
“Mum’ll never forgive us if she knows we hate it.”
“What’s thiswebusiness?”
“So you’d actually wear this, would you?”
Sal sniggered again. “I don’t have to. I don’t believe in marriage.”
“Yoo hoo!”
We froze at the sound of my mother’s voice.
“Jesus, Sal, what am I gonna do?” Keeping my voice low, I indicated the door. “Mum might’ve been happy to play royalty for a day, but I’m not.”
Sal started to chuckle again. “I think I’m going to wee myself.” Sensing our mother’s approach, my sister suddenly sat up straight. She swallowed, and like a naughty child, did her utmost to compose herself as Mum flounced into the room.
“Oh, Tessa. You look…” She put a hand up to her chest. “…like a princess.”
A squeal escaped my sister’s mouth, and as I willed her not to break down in another fit of laughter, it was clear Sal was on the verge of losing control. Thankfully her mobile rang before she properly let slip her thoughts on the dress. “It’s the school,” Sal said, her voice cracking. She pointed to the door and landing beyond. “I should probably take this.”
“Please, go ahead,” I replied, relieved to have her out of the way.
I turned to Mum, and realising I had no choice but to be straight with her, I indicated we sit. As I prepared to speak, Mum looked at me with a mix of pride and delight. I felt like the shittest daughter on the planet thanks to the conversation I was about to have, but heirloom or not, no way could I get married in a Princess Diana dress. “About this…” I looked down at the mounds of fabric I was cocooned in. “…creation.”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I really appreciate you wanting me to–”
Sal burst back into the room, before I could finish. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, her face serious. “But there’s been an incident. I have to go and collect India.”
“Is she all right?” Mum asked. “What kind of incident?”
“The erm… class gerbil’s died.”
