heart filled up with love, just as it had the moment she’d held her extraordinary bundle in her arms at the hospital. ‘Don’t be daft! I just can’t find the words. You look like . . .’
‘She looks like a princess ,’ supplied the shop assistant, with a knowing nod to Lauren. ‘If I had a pound for every mum who’s been all choked up the first time they’ve seen their daughter in a wedding dress, I’d have enough for my own special day.’
Bridget tried not to grimace at the Special Day.
‘Well, plenty of time to get used to it, Mum,’ said Lauren cheerfully. ‘This is just dress number one. Do you mind if she takes a quick snap, Yvette?’
Lauren seemed to be on first-name terms with every bridal shop in the county, thought Bridget, pulling herself together.
‘Go ahead. Do you want me to pull you in a bit more?’ asked Yvette, grabbing the silver strings of the corset. ‘I’ve pinned it at the back. Of course, when you order your own dress, they’ll make it to your own measurements.’
‘I’m planning on losing a bit of weight before the wedding, though,’ Lauren pointed out with a quick glance at her mother.
‘I keep telling you, you don’t need to, Lauren . . .’
‘Ah, well, if I had another pound for every bride who said that , I’d be honeymooning in Barbados!’ Yvette gave Lauren a mighty tug. ‘It falls off anyway, in the run-up . . .’
‘Mum? Can you take a picture?’
Glad of the distraction, Bridget rummaged in her big handbag – past tatty packets of paper hankies, her phone, an apple, a marker pen, the swatch of satin Lauren had liked for bridesmaids’ dresses, a sock – until she found Lauren’s digital camera and her own notebook.
‘Let’s be methodical about it,’ she said, opening it up at a new page. Irene wasn’t the only one who could make notes.
Not, she reminded herself, that she was getting into a competition with Irene.
‘Dress one is called?’
‘What’s this one called, Yvette?’ asked Lauren, adjusting the crystal tiara stuck into her pinned-up hair as she looked at herself in the 360-degree mirror.
Those lovely shoulders, thought Bridget. Like a china milkmaid. She has no idea how lovely she is. But then does any twenty-two-year-old? Did I?
‘It’s Margarita, by Chanelle l’Amour. The bodice is twelve five oh, and the skirt is seven nine five. It’s the detailing, you see, all that hand embroidery.’
‘That’s not too bad, Mum,’ said Lauren, as Bridget’s hand wobbled. ‘Look, it’s even got a little loop for the train, so I don’t fall over it when we do our first dance.’
She demonstrated with a graceful step, which ended abruptly as she trod on the other side of the dress, nearly bringing down a display of table favours.
‘Careful now!’ said Yvette.
‘So, what do you think?’
Bridget felt flattered that Lauren wanted her opinion, and tried to come up with something fashion-orientated, even though it wasn’t really her thing. ‘I think it’s very . . . fairy-tale. Romantic. I can see you waltzing in that one. The skirt would swing beautifully when you do your big reverse turns.’
Lauren’s forehead creased doubtfully. ‘Reverse what?’
‘I’m sure we’ll get on to those,’ said Bridget, hastily. ‘It’s very Cinderella, that one!’
‘Yeah, totally. I like the way the bodice gives me a proper waist. Look!’ She put her hands on her hips to demonstrate. ‘Tiny!’
‘Mmm. Did we decide on a budget for the dress?’ Bridget asked with a discreet lowering of her voice, although she already knew the answer.
‘Under two,’ said Lauren. ‘Dad did say if there was something really special . . .’
Under twelve hundred, thought Bridget, though it was hard to say that when Lauren was twirling and smiling at herself like she used to do when she went to her ballet classes in that pink tutu Frank’s mum had made for her. Back in the days before Lauren had got all self-conscious about her
‘She looks like a princess ,’ supplied the shop assistant, with a knowing nod to Lauren. ‘If I had a pound for every mum who’s been all choked up the first time they’ve seen their daughter in a wedding dress, I’d have enough for my own special day.’
Bridget tried not to grimace at the Special Day.
‘Well, plenty of time to get used to it, Mum,’ said Lauren cheerfully. ‘This is just dress number one. Do you mind if she takes a quick snap, Yvette?’
Lauren seemed to be on first-name terms with every bridal shop in the county, thought Bridget, pulling herself together.
‘Go ahead. Do you want me to pull you in a bit more?’ asked Yvette, grabbing the silver strings of the corset. ‘I’ve pinned it at the back. Of course, when you order your own dress, they’ll make it to your own measurements.’
‘I’m planning on losing a bit of weight before the wedding, though,’ Lauren pointed out with a quick glance at her mother.
‘I keep telling you, you don’t need to, Lauren . . .’
‘Ah, well, if I had another pound for every bride who said that , I’d be honeymooning in Barbados!’ Yvette gave Lauren a mighty tug. ‘It falls off anyway, in the run-up . . .’
‘Mum? Can you take a picture?’
Glad of the distraction, Bridget rummaged in her big handbag – past tatty packets of paper hankies, her phone, an apple, a marker pen, the swatch of satin Lauren had liked for bridesmaids’ dresses, a sock – until she found Lauren’s digital camera and her own notebook.
‘Let’s be methodical about it,’ she said, opening it up at a new page. Irene wasn’t the only one who could make notes.
Not, she reminded herself, that she was getting into a competition with Irene.
‘Dress one is called?’
‘What’s this one called, Yvette?’ asked Lauren, adjusting the crystal tiara stuck into her pinned-up hair as she looked at herself in the 360-degree mirror.
Those lovely shoulders, thought Bridget. Like a china milkmaid. She has no idea how lovely she is. But then does any twenty-two-year-old? Did I?
‘It’s Margarita, by Chanelle l’Amour. The bodice is twelve five oh, and the skirt is seven nine five. It’s the detailing, you see, all that hand embroidery.’
‘That’s not too bad, Mum,’ said Lauren, as Bridget’s hand wobbled. ‘Look, it’s even got a little loop for the train, so I don’t fall over it when we do our first dance.’
She demonstrated with a graceful step, which ended abruptly as she trod on the other side of the dress, nearly bringing down a display of table favours.
‘Careful now!’ said Yvette.
‘So, what do you think?’
Bridget felt flattered that Lauren wanted her opinion, and tried to come up with something fashion-orientated, even though it wasn’t really her thing. ‘I think it’s very . . . fairy-tale. Romantic. I can see you waltzing in that one. The skirt would swing beautifully when you do your big reverse turns.’
Lauren’s forehead creased doubtfully. ‘Reverse what?’
‘I’m sure we’ll get on to those,’ said Bridget, hastily. ‘It’s very Cinderella, that one!’
‘Yeah, totally. I like the way the bodice gives me a proper waist. Look!’ She put her hands on her hips to demonstrate. ‘Tiny!’
‘Mmm. Did we decide on a budget for the dress?’ Bridget asked with a discreet lowering of her voice, although she already knew the answer.
‘Under two,’ said Lauren. ‘Dad did say if there was something really special . . .’
Under twelve hundred, thought Bridget, though it was hard to say that when Lauren was twirling and smiling at herself like she used to do when she went to her ballet classes in that pink tutu Frank’s mum had made for her. Back in the days before Lauren had got all self-conscious about her
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