It was after the phone call informing me of the sixth divorce that I looked into my family history.
Sure enough, my mother confirmed I’m from a long line of bad-omen bridesmaids. We stretch out through time like twisted trees in a forest. Every single union attended by one of us as part of the wedding party has ended, sooner or later, in divorce.
But damn, do we look good in taffeta.
I can only assume that’s why people choose us. There’s no denying it – what looks frumpy on most people frames us perfectly. And however garish the colours, the dresses light our complexions with a soft glow. It makes for stunning wedding photos.
They speak to us. That’s our gift – or curse, depending on which way you look at it. We’re the vessel through which the dresses channel their bitterness. Yes, bridesmaid dresses are resentful creatures. It stands to reason. They’re always playing second fiddle, always in the background, and usually ridiculed.
It isn’t just taffeta of course, although that’s the loudest. Even the slinky, silky numbers whisper dark curses.
I thought I imagined it the first time. I was just a kid, but I was pretty sure that the wedding march wasn’t supposed to be, ‘Here comes the bride, I give it five years…’
The dresses didn’t just look flattering. They whispered compliments and affirmations, and they made me feel so good, inside and out, that I couldn’t turn down a bridesmaid request.
‘Daaaarling, you look faaaaabulous!’ they’d chant. They seemed to know when the brides annoyed me, too, and they were always on my side.
‘She just wants you to look bad. That’s why she’s asking you to attend to her when you haven’t even done your own hair yet. Who does she think she is? Don’t worry, the groom will lose interest once the first child is born.’ Those were the words a little off-the-shoulder midi-dress said to me in 2007.
How do I feel about brides, I hear you ask? I’m happily married myself, and harboured absolutely no animosity towards any of the family and friends whose trains I carried down the aisle over the years. Not more than the usual, anyway.
The first bars of Pachelbel’s Canon in D start up, and I stand with the rest of the congregation. In my defence, I did warn my sister-in-law when she asked my daughter to be bridesmaid.
‘Look, Stace,’ I said. ‘This might sound strange, but the women in my family aren’t lucky bridesmaids. Are you sure you want to…’
‘But Isabelle will look perfect in that soft pink, and her eyes match the chair covers. You can’t say no!’ she said, in that whiny tone only used by brides-to-be.
‘Suit yourself…’ I replied.
Now I watch with a tear in my eye as Stacey passes, Isabelle floating behind in her slipstream.
A faint whisper. The silk train ripples and crackles in her hand.
Isabelle smiles at me. Walks on.
It’s picture-perfect. And so doomed.
