height and refused to go to ballet any more.
‘You can always get the skirt dyed and shortened and wear it again,’ suggested Yvette. ‘With a cashmere cardie, for the Grace Kelly look.’
‘I love that!’ nodded Lauren, as if the Grace Kelly look was something she regularly aimed for. Bridget was pretty sure Lauren had no idea who Grace Kelly was, apart from as some vague fashion style that involved big skirts.
‘Are you OK with the camera, Mum? Do you need me to show you how it works?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ said Bridget, raising it to eye level. What was the point in spoiling Lauren’s lovely trying-on session? She didn’t have to get that actual one. I’ll have a quiet word with her later, she told herself. Show her the budget again.
Lauren immediately adopted a serious expression, and when Bridget had taken one snap, turned ninety degrees.
‘Come on, Mum,’ she said, as Bridget hesitated. ‘I need all the angles. And from behind too.’
‘That’s where your lace detailing comes in,’ elaborated Yvette. ‘You’ll need some wow factor there for the congregation, won’t you, because that’s what they’ll be looking at for most of the ceremony.’
Bridget mentally added ‘The Wow Factor’ to ‘Your Special Day’ on her list of irritating wedding phrases, but bit her tongue because Lauren was nodding in delighted agreement.
‘Aw. Making you all nostalgic, Mum?’ asked Yvette.
Lauren stopped twisting and turning in front of the mirror. ‘Awwww. Did Nanna go with you to choose your dress?’
‘Um, no. No, I went with Dawn, my chief bridesmaid,’ said Bridget. In those days, she wanted to say, it wasn’t the same three-ring circus it is now: it was about the vows, not the favours. But she held her tongue and only said, ‘Took all of one hour, if I remember, from Laura Ashley, and then we went to the cinema.’
Lauren and Yvette both made an indulgent clucking sound, then Lauren said, ‘Still, I suppose you didn’t have the same sort of choice,’ as if clothes rationing had just finished.
Bridget sighed. ‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Cool! OK, dress two!’ And Lauren vanished into the changing room again, tugging the curtain so hard two of the rings pinged off.
Yvette and Bridget looked at the dislodged rings, then at each other.
‘She’s very excited about her wedding,’ said Bridget, apologetically. ‘And she’s always been a little bit . . .’
Her brain scrambled for the polite adult adjective – she wanted to say ‘malco’ like the children at school. ‘Fingers and thumbs,’ she finished.
‘I can tell. Shall I get you a cup of tea while she’s changing, while . . .’ Yvette dropped her voice, ‘there’s nothing for her to spill it on?’
‘Good idea,’ murmured Bridget.
Lauren tried on three more dresses – a tall satin column that Bridget thought made her look like Nicole Kidman, a strapless meringue that Lauren decided was ‘the most gorgeous dress ever, ever, ever’, and a dramatic lace flamenco-ish dress that plunged to an alarming degree at the back ‘for church wow factor’.
The biggest ‘wow factor’ for Bridget was that real, everyday girls in Longhampton could afford to spend thousands on one dress, for one day, in the least flattering colour known to woman.
‘Do you two girls mind if we have a break for lunch?’ asked Yvette at one o’clock. She was clutching an armful of veils that Lauren had requested to ‘complete the effect’.
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Bridget. ‘I think we could all do with a pause.’ She turned to her daughter, who had returned to normality in a pink velour tracksuit top and tight jeans. It was startling, but quite reassuring to see the normal Lauren again. ‘Shall we pop round the corner to that deli place?’
‘So long as you don’t let me eat a whole pudding,’ warned Lauren.
Bridget didn’t think an armed guard could stop that happening. The chocolate biscuits at home had started
‘You can always get the skirt dyed and shortened and wear it again,’ suggested Yvette. ‘With a cashmere cardie, for the Grace Kelly look.’
‘I love that!’ nodded Lauren, as if the Grace Kelly look was something she regularly aimed for. Bridget was pretty sure Lauren had no idea who Grace Kelly was, apart from as some vague fashion style that involved big skirts.
‘Are you OK with the camera, Mum? Do you need me to show you how it works?’
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ said Bridget, raising it to eye level. What was the point in spoiling Lauren’s lovely trying-on session? She didn’t have to get that actual one. I’ll have a quiet word with her later, she told herself. Show her the budget again.
Lauren immediately adopted a serious expression, and when Bridget had taken one snap, turned ninety degrees.
‘Come on, Mum,’ she said, as Bridget hesitated. ‘I need all the angles. And from behind too.’
‘That’s where your lace detailing comes in,’ elaborated Yvette. ‘You’ll need some wow factor there for the congregation, won’t you, because that’s what they’ll be looking at for most of the ceremony.’
Bridget mentally added ‘The Wow Factor’ to ‘Your Special Day’ on her list of irritating wedding phrases, but bit her tongue because Lauren was nodding in delighted agreement.
‘Aw. Making you all nostalgic, Mum?’ asked Yvette.
Lauren stopped twisting and turning in front of the mirror. ‘Awwww. Did Nanna go with you to choose your dress?’
‘Um, no. No, I went with Dawn, my chief bridesmaid,’ said Bridget. In those days, she wanted to say, it wasn’t the same three-ring circus it is now: it was about the vows, not the favours. But she held her tongue and only said, ‘Took all of one hour, if I remember, from Laura Ashley, and then we went to the cinema.’
Lauren and Yvette both made an indulgent clucking sound, then Lauren said, ‘Still, I suppose you didn’t have the same sort of choice,’ as if clothes rationing had just finished.
Bridget sighed. ‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Cool! OK, dress two!’ And Lauren vanished into the changing room again, tugging the curtain so hard two of the rings pinged off.
Yvette and Bridget looked at the dislodged rings, then at each other.
‘She’s very excited about her wedding,’ said Bridget, apologetically. ‘And she’s always been a little bit . . .’
Her brain scrambled for the polite adult adjective – she wanted to say ‘malco’ like the children at school. ‘Fingers and thumbs,’ she finished.
‘I can tell. Shall I get you a cup of tea while she’s changing, while . . .’ Yvette dropped her voice, ‘there’s nothing for her to spill it on?’
‘Good idea,’ murmured Bridget.
Lauren tried on three more dresses – a tall satin column that Bridget thought made her look like Nicole Kidman, a strapless meringue that Lauren decided was ‘the most gorgeous dress ever, ever, ever’, and a dramatic lace flamenco-ish dress that plunged to an alarming degree at the back ‘for church wow factor’.
The biggest ‘wow factor’ for Bridget was that real, everyday girls in Longhampton could afford to spend thousands on one dress, for one day, in the least flattering colour known to woman.
‘Do you two girls mind if we have a break for lunch?’ asked Yvette at one o’clock. She was clutching an armful of veils that Lauren had requested to ‘complete the effect’.
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Bridget. ‘I think we could all do with a pause.’ She turned to her daughter, who had returned to normality in a pink velour tracksuit top and tight jeans. It was startling, but quite reassuring to see the normal Lauren again. ‘Shall we pop round the corner to that deli place?’
‘So long as you don’t let me eat a whole pudding,’ warned Lauren.
Bridget didn’t think an armed guard could stop that happening. The chocolate biscuits at home had started
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