didn’t you? Give her some hands-on style tips.”
Clover grins. “Got it in one, Beanie. Sometimes I think you can read my mind. But you’re coming too, my friend. It’ll have to be in a couple of weeks, though. I’m afraid I’m up to my tonsils before that.”
“Perfect.”
“Speaking of perfect.” She lowers her voice. “Or maybe not so perfect.” Mum is swishing through the velvet curtain in a dress not unlike the one in the first clipping I pulled out of our folder — a big white meringue of a dress with an off-the-shoulder bodice and a puffy ballerina skirt.
“Dress number one,” Cassandra says in a clipped fashion-show voice. “The ‘Angelica.’ What do you think, girls?”
It does nothing for Mum. In fact, it makes her hips look big, and the bodice is slipping off her chest.
I wince and Clover shakes her head. “The Dublin jury is not impressed, I’m afraid, Sylvie.
Nil points
.”
Next Mum appears in an ivory-lace dress with cap sleeves and a rather odd high neckline at the back. For some reason the bodice reminds me of a Spanish matador’s jacket. The sweeping skirt is nice, though, very delicate.
But Cassandra tut-tuts. “As I suspected, lace is not very flattering on you, Sylvie. It definitely ages you. Let’s try another style.”
The next dress — the “Eliza,” a white-silk sheath with a drape of material at the front and back, and a material rose on the waist — is nice but nothing special. Meanwhile, gown number four — a pale-coffee-colored number with two spaghetti straps on each shoulder and a frothy layered skirt — is wrong on so many levels. Clover sums it up nicely.
“You look like a cappuccino, Sylvie!” she shrieks. “Take it off, quick, before someone drinks you.”
“Don’t hold back, Clover,” Mum says with a grin.
“I do admire your honesty, Clover,” Cassandra says, her carefully plucked eyebrows lifting. “Brides need someone they can trust, don’t they, Sylvie?”
“You can certainly trust Clover to speak her mind,” Mum says.
Monique bustles through the front door of the shop while Mum is changing yet again. “I am so sorry, girls.” She gives us a kiss on each cheek. Her lips feel cool against my skin and her perfume smells dark and exotic. “I am most dreadfully late,” she adds in her delicious French accent, settling her black bob behind her ears with her fingers. “I got caught on the phone with my agent, and you know how it is. Chat, chat, chat.” She waves both hands in the air as she speaks.
“You look
wunderbar
, Monique,” Clover says admiringly. And she’s right. Monique looks extraordinary. She’s wearing a cherry-red woolen cape over a black polo neck and neat black cigarette pants teamed with teetering red stilettos, which make her look even taller than she already is. With her customary slash of red lipstick, she looks every inch the superstar.
There’s a squeak of delight from the back of the room. “Monny!” Mum cries. “What do you think? Isn’t it dreamy?”
Mum is wearing the “Celtic Princess,” or should I say the “Celtic Princess” is wearing Mum. I now get what Clover was saying — with all the sparkles and embroidery, you barely even notice Mum.
“That dress is certainly something,” Monique says. She looks at Clover and then me, and we both shrug.
Mum does a twirl in front of the mirror. Then she sighs.
“It’s frightfully expensive,” she says. “But if we cut back a bit on other things, like a wedding car and the flowers, I think we can just about afford it. Now, Clover, I want your honest opinion. Is this the dress for me or not?”
“Does it make you feel special, Sylvie?” Clover asks carefully.
“Oh, yes!” Mum says emphatically. “Monique, what do you think?” She looks at her best friend.
Monique’s eyes are welling up. It takes a lot to make Monique cry — she’s pretty tough. “Sylvie, you really are getting married, my dearest friend. Ooh-la-la.” She wipes
Clover grins. “Got it in one, Beanie. Sometimes I think you can read my mind. But you’re coming too, my friend. It’ll have to be in a couple of weeks, though. I’m afraid I’m up to my tonsils before that.”
“Perfect.”
“Speaking of perfect.” She lowers her voice. “Or maybe not so perfect.” Mum is swishing through the velvet curtain in a dress not unlike the one in the first clipping I pulled out of our folder — a big white meringue of a dress with an off-the-shoulder bodice and a puffy ballerina skirt.
“Dress number one,” Cassandra says in a clipped fashion-show voice. “The ‘Angelica.’ What do you think, girls?”
It does nothing for Mum. In fact, it makes her hips look big, and the bodice is slipping off her chest.
I wince and Clover shakes her head. “The Dublin jury is not impressed, I’m afraid, Sylvie.
Nil points
.”
Next Mum appears in an ivory-lace dress with cap sleeves and a rather odd high neckline at the back. For some reason the bodice reminds me of a Spanish matador’s jacket. The sweeping skirt is nice, though, very delicate.
But Cassandra tut-tuts. “As I suspected, lace is not very flattering on you, Sylvie. It definitely ages you. Let’s try another style.”
The next dress — the “Eliza,” a white-silk sheath with a drape of material at the front and back, and a material rose on the waist — is nice but nothing special. Meanwhile, gown number four — a pale-coffee-colored number with two spaghetti straps on each shoulder and a frothy layered skirt — is wrong on so many levels. Clover sums it up nicely.
“You look like a cappuccino, Sylvie!” she shrieks. “Take it off, quick, before someone drinks you.”
“Don’t hold back, Clover,” Mum says with a grin.
“I do admire your honesty, Clover,” Cassandra says, her carefully plucked eyebrows lifting. “Brides need someone they can trust, don’t they, Sylvie?”
“You can certainly trust Clover to speak her mind,” Mum says.
Monique bustles through the front door of the shop while Mum is changing yet again. “I am so sorry, girls.” She gives us a kiss on each cheek. Her lips feel cool against my skin and her perfume smells dark and exotic. “I am most dreadfully late,” she adds in her delicious French accent, settling her black bob behind her ears with her fingers. “I got caught on the phone with my agent, and you know how it is. Chat, chat, chat.” She waves both hands in the air as she speaks.
“You look
wunderbar
, Monique,” Clover says admiringly. And she’s right. Monique looks extraordinary. She’s wearing a cherry-red woolen cape over a black polo neck and neat black cigarette pants teamed with teetering red stilettos, which make her look even taller than she already is. With her customary slash of red lipstick, she looks every inch the superstar.
There’s a squeak of delight from the back of the room. “Monny!” Mum cries. “What do you think? Isn’t it dreamy?”
Mum is wearing the “Celtic Princess,” or should I say the “Celtic Princess” is wearing Mum. I now get what Clover was saying — with all the sparkles and embroidery, you barely even notice Mum.
“That dress is certainly something,” Monique says. She looks at Clover and then me, and we both shrug.
Mum does a twirl in front of the mirror. Then she sighs.
“It’s frightfully expensive,” she says. “But if we cut back a bit on other things, like a wedding car and the flowers, I think we can just about afford it. Now, Clover, I want your honest opinion. Is this the dress for me or not?”
“Does it make you feel special, Sylvie?” Clover asks carefully.
“Oh, yes!” Mum says emphatically. “Monique, what do you think?” She looks at her best friend.
Monique’s eyes are welling up. It takes a lot to make Monique cry — she’s pretty tough. “Sylvie, you really are getting married, my dearest friend. Ooh-la-la.” She wipes
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