“Thank you, Ingrid. That will be all. Now Evelyn, let’s get you into this foundation garment,” she said, extending something gray.
“I will not wear that.”
“It’ll help with your tummy,” Greta said, shaking it at me.
“Can’t she try the dresses on without it?” my mother asked. Finally.
“Well, I suppose so. But with your bust you’re definitely going to need something. I figured you’re around a size fourteen or sixteen.”
“I am definitely NOT a size sixteen! I’m not even a fourteen!”
“Hush, Evelyn, people will hear you,” Mom whispered loudly. I could hear muffled laughter coming from the dressing rooms on either side of us. Poor twin-setters. They were probably having trouble finding dresses small enough.
“Let’s not get bogged down by a number. Wedding dresses are made small. Most brides have to buy a size larger than they normally wear. That’s why they make most samples in a size eight,” Greta reassured me.
“How horrible. Imagine how all those poor size sixes must feel.”
“How ’bout we try this one, first,” she said, freeing a dress from its plastic bag. “I thought this one would suit you because of the sweetheart neckline—it will draw attention up to your face. And you have such a pretty face.”
It was hideous. The exact antithesis of every wedding gown I’d clipped out, dreamed about. Instead of thin, elegant spaghetti straps there were puffy, stiff sleeves dotted with rhinestone-studded rosettes. Instead of a smooth, sleek bodice there was a wide trunk covered in the tackiest sort of lace-and-pearl appliqués. Instead of an elegant A-line skirt, there was a shiny satin tablecloth covering so many crinolines that it stuck out at right angles from the waist. And it was stark white, almost fluorescent (Bridal Guide, Fall: “Why Off-White Is Right-On”).
Perfect. I’d show them. “Mom, I’d like to surprise you, if you don’t mind. Let me try it on, and then we’ll call you in.”
She seemed to like that idea, and obligingly trotted out of the room. Alone with Greta, I took off my clothes and let her help me into the dress.
The first time you see yourself in a wedding gown is supposed to be an experience you never forget. We’ve all heard those stories about the brides who buy the first dress they try on because they can’t get that heavenly, haunting first image of themselves out of their minds, and nothing else can compare. You’re supposed to feel like a goddess, a virgin and a model all rolled into one. But what I saw in the mirror was beyond horrible, beyond my wildest nightmare—a blur of bulges and rhinestones and flounces and fabric. A pregnant white hippopotamus, with sausage links for arms and shiny balloons for breasts. In the mirror, I could see Greta’s pointy face light up in a twisted yellow smile. She clasped her hands together and sucked in her breath.
“You see? I told you! I do have a knack for this!” she shrieked. “Mrs. Mays, Mrs. Mays! Come in and see!”
Mom pushed the door open and froze. Now she would see how wrong she was to make me do this, how evil Greta was, how horrid I looked, how ashamed I was.
“Oh, Evelyn,” she breathed, her bottom lip trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes. “You’re beautiful.”
At that moment, I made three very serious vows—to never go wedding dress shopping with my mother again, to lose more than forty pounds, and to go home and smack Bruce for making me go through all of this. If he hadn’t proposed, I would never have been publicly humiliated in so many different ways in so little time.
A few days after her little tantrum, Bertie finally got over her selfishness and came through with the wedding plans. Through a grand concession of my own—agreeing to give up my dream of a June wedding—we were booked in for August 18 at the posh Fairfield Inn on the Connecticut shore. It was absolutely perfect—a grand, white, colonial-style mansion with an elegant ballroom and a newly renovated Bridal Suite (Bridal Guide, Winter: “Finding the Perfect Venue: Five Features You Can’t Live Without”). Bertie’s friend Cookie had two of her daughters’ weddings there, so it passed the snob test, too. It had been reserved, of course, but by a brilliant stroke of luck, Bertie popped in on the very day when one Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe called to cancel her daughter Sukey’s wedding, due to the unfortunate suicide of the groom-to-be.
Even Bruce liked the place when we popped in for a look, and whistled when he saw the four-poster bed.
“So this is where it’s all gonna happen,” he whispered into my ear while Bertie discussed the merits of veal versus roast beef with the event manager. “After all these years, you’ll finally be unable to resist my charms.”
“Yeah right,” I snorted. “I don’t know how we’ve waited so long. Oh, wait—weren’t those your charms I succumbed to on our first date?”
He snickered, and Bertie shot me a mean look. “Yes, Brucie dear,” I said loudly. “This is where we’ll spend the most romantic night of our lives. The only thing that could possibly make it any more perfect would be knowing that our guests had thoroughly enjoyed the milk-fed veal in the mushroom-cream sauce.”
The event manager raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement.
Despite a few minor glitches, Bertie and I were getting on remarkably well. Thanks to her years on the Palm Beach charity ball circuit, she’s the type of person you really want on your side if you’re planning something big—she acts fast, she has good taste and she won’t take no for an answer (unlike Mom, whom I was very happy to leave out of the entire process). Bruce, on the other hand, wasn’t dealing well with his mother at all—and we’d barely been engaged three weeks. He almost lost it when he heard she wanted to have 150 people at the engagement party (tentatively scheduled for January 20), and threatened not to show if she invited more than ninety.
Mercifully, Bruce and I were to be spared most of the remaining meetings with florists and photographers, although we felt it was important to step in and approve any final decision, in case we wanted to veto something. But I have to hand it to Bertie; she knows how to get things done. She indiscreetly prodded the event manager at the inn into telling her exactly who else Mrs. Pimbleton-Smythe had hired for her daughter’s ill-fated nuptials, and then booked them immediately.
Although it was shaping up to be the event of the season, I have a feeling poor Sukey Pimbleton-Smythe would not have wanted to be a guest at our wedding. By all rights, it should have been hers, were it not for a few handfuls of Xanax and a very fine bottle of cognac.
5
The morning after Thanksgiving, I swore to Bruce that I didn’t want to see our families in the same room again until the wedding. And quite possibly, not even then.
“Your mother was a shrew,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “While you and your dad were watching football, she was lecturing my mom about the importance of buying a new dress for our engagement party. You didn’t hear her. She was cruel. Christ! Did you use the last Sweet’n Low?”
“I’ve never tried that stuff in my life. Just use sugar. It won’t kill you.”
“Are you trying to sabotage me?” I growled as I jealously eyed Bruce’s bagel.
“Evie, get a grip. It’s not a reason to be upset. This is not a big deal.”
“Oh, so you’re saying it’s okay for your mother to treat mine like she’s an embarrassment? It’s obvious she’s worried what her friends will think if my mom wears a ratty old dress. Like she’s the help, or something.” For all his intellectual wisdom, Bruce has a surprisingly limited understanding of the subtleties of class politics.
“No, I’m saying it’s okay to use sugar instead of aspartame for once in your life. And you’re putting cream