27

We peel into the little car park at seventeen minutes past nine, practically on two wheels. Majella has the door open before I even have the handbrake on and is flat out running for the entrance of Bridal Sweet. I race around to the boot and fish out the bag with the plastic champagne flutes and bottle of Buck’s Fizz. This could be the day Majella gets her dress and I don’t want to be taking chances that the boutique might not have any bubbly. Plus, the Buck’s Fizz is only 3 per cent alcohol so half a glass won’t hurt.

I make it to the door a good two minutes after Majella has disappeared inside, pulling it open and fully expecting to see a near-fatal crush. Maybe two women fighting over the same dress, ripping off sleeves. A bride-to-be sitting under the rails crying, possibly eating some doughnuts. A frazzled yet glamorous store owner with a clipboard, begging for mercy and order.

Instead, there’s just Majella, already methodically flipping through the hangers in the section marked ‘Sale’ in black marker on a heart-shaped cardboard sign. There’s not a sinner in the shop besides her and a bored-looking and distinctly unglamorous teenager sitting at the till painting her nails, the stench of the polish filling the small space.

‘Are we too late?’ I ask both of them, panic rising in my belly. The teenager looks up from her nails and smiles like her life depends on it. ‘Welcome to Bridal Sweet, where we make dreams come true,’ she drones, and then the smile drops like a lead balloon and her attention goes back to the lurid red nails.

‘We’re the first ones here, Ais!’ Majella calls excitedly from behind the sale dresses. ‘The only ones.’

‘Is it not the first day of the sale?’ I ask the teen, making her once again lift her head, which she does like she’s on her deathbed and being forced to open her eyes to say a final farewell.

‘We have a sale, like, every month. It’s never that busy.’

This is news to me. I used to be fairly well up on the comings and goings of all the bridal boutiques in a four-county radius, between keeping an eye out for my own theoretical Big Day and assisting various friends and acquaintances in finding The One. The one dress, that is. But I’m out of practice and Majella is new to the circuit so Bridal Sweets wasn’t on my radar. A hidden gem, I suppose I’d have to call it. I make a mental note to add that detail to my bridesmaid’s speech. I already feel sick at the thought of it, but Majella has begged me to do one – I think mostly because she wants the story of how she brought the entire town to tears the time she performed ‘The Streets of Ballygobbard’ to the tune of ‘The Streets of Philadelphia’ at the Pride of BGB ten years ago. She was narrowly beaten by Simon Ruane who – to be fair to him – had trained his dog to say ‘hup BGB’, but it was a memorable day. I’m the only one who can truly do it justice and Maj knows that.

I drop my bags on the artfully banjaxed chaise longue. I recognise it as the same one I got for BallyGoBrunch in IKEA but someone has gone to the trouble of ageing the MDF frame with some gold spray paint and vigorous rubbing. It’s a technique I’m considering for the flower crowns I’m planning on making for Majella’s hen. I can forage for some pliable twigs and branches and fashion them into forty-eight crowns and boho them up with some spray paint and steel wool. I saw something similar on Colette Green’s blog and noted that Maj had given it a like. That reminds me, I must see about getting a bigger case. Between the flower crowns and the Prosecco pong and the hangover recovery bags I’ll be bursting at the seams.

Majella is still rummaging when I find her amid the layers of froth and lace. ‘You know the one, right, Ais?’

‘It’s seared into my brain.’ I start to pull back hanger after hanger.

‘No. Nope. No.’

‘Nope. Nope.’

We both work methodically, flip, flip, flipping through dresses. I almost go past it but suddenly the beaded neckline catches my eye and I backtrack. ‘Maj. I think I have it.’

She stops mid-flip and her eyes widen. ‘Go on so.’

I reach in deep and grasp the top of the hanger, pulling the fullness of the dress towards me, catching sight of the Krystal Ball tag. We both gasp as I reef it all the way out.

‘Oh my God, it’s gorgeous, Maj.’

‘It is,’ she replies tearfully, ‘it’s gorgeous.’

‘Gorgeous,’ the teen drones from her spot behind the counter, not looking up from the nails. I breathe in deeply through my nose to stop myself from roaring and turn my back on her.

‘Well. Go on. Try it on.’

‘Are you wearing the good knickers I got you?’

Part of this dress-shopping experience I planned for Maj was getting her some new holdy-in knickers and a strapless bra to wear for the fitting. No point putting a new dress over old pants, was my reasoning. And, anyway, it’s just what you do. It’s special.

‘Of course I am.’ Majella huffs and puffs from behind the curtain. We managed to rouse the teen from her stupor long enough to show us where the changing room was and hang the dress up for Maj to try on. ‘It’s off the rack so try not to get tan on it,’ were her only words of encouragement.

‘As if I’m wearing transferable tan like some kind of amateur,’ Majella hissed after her, and I pulled the curtain across and asked Shannon, who had grudgingly given up her name, would she not light the nice scented candle on the counter and to bring out any veils she might have in the back.

‘How’s it going in there?’ I call nervously to Majella. All our hopes are pinned on this dress fitting and suiting. She doesn’t answer but instead the curtain is pulled back and my breath is taken. She looks so beautiful. My eyes instantly fill with tears. ‘Oh, Maj. It’s gorgeous.’

‘Is it really? Will you do up the back for me?’

The back is a long line of tiny buttons and she spins around and I set to work, cursing my fingers as they battle with the delicate little pearls. I give up trying to do them all and settle for every fifth one, reaching the top and turning her back around to me. Shannon makes a reappearance and throws some boxes down onto the chaise longue. Without being asked, she pulls a box forward and instructs Majella to stand on it, like a ballerina in a jewellery box, and flings a pair of heels at her and then slouches back to her post.

Maj holds onto my hand and steps into the heels and up onto the box and looks at herself in the full-length mirror for the first time, smoothing and twisting. The boat neck sits across her collarbone and the slightly full skirt swishes as she turns.

‘Ais,’ she whispers, peering around at the desk where Shannon is carving something into the counter. ‘Take a few snaps there.’

Taking photos in bridal shops has always truly tested my moral compass. The signs tell me it’s not allowed because they don’t want you going off and getting the dress made by somebody’s auntie for a third of the price. But I must admit I have whipped out the phone for a sneaky photo in the past, beads of sweat running down the back of my neck in fear of getting caught. I have a strong feeling Maj is going to buy this dress, though, and I know that Shannon couldn’t care less if she just walked out of the store wearing it, so I slip my phone out of my pocket and surreptitiously slide it into position.

As if Satan himself was watching me, no sooner have I snapped the first photo than the bell on the shop door tinkles and a woman bustles in with armfuls of garment bags, hissing at Shannon as she does. ‘Shannon, a hand, please?’

As soon as Shannon has sullenly relieved her of her burden, the woman’s face transforms into smiles and warmth as she sails towards us, arms outspread. She’s got a real Cilla-Black-in-her-sixties vibe and is wearing a pussy-bow blouse and tight black trousers, and if she’s Shannon’s mother then the apple has fallen kilometres from the tree.

‘Oh, sweetheart, you look gorgeous, give me a twirl there.’ She flits around Majella, tucking and pulling and expertly doing up the buttons on the back that I missed.

‘I think …’ I look at Maj with my eyebrows raised. ‘I think we’re going to take it?’

Maj takes one more look at herself in the mirror as Mrs Bridal Sweet fixes a veil to the top of her head and spreads it out behind her. This is the kind of treatment I was after. I hope Shannon is out the back somewhere preparing a bottle of bubbly.

‘We’ll take it,’ Majella announces with a sigh.

‘Excellent choice,’ the woman declares as she whips the price tag off the back of the dress and scurries over to the till, rabbiting, ‘Now, it’s a sale dress so no returns, no exchanges, no alterations, sold as seen, full payment due immediately.’

Majella steps off the plinth and rummages in her handbag for her wallet. ‘Give her my card there, Ais, you know the number.’ Majella has such a history of losing her card and forgetting her PIN that every time she gets a new one she tells me the details as a security measure.

Madame Bridal Sweet has the payment processed before Majella even has the dress off. As she hands me the receipt, I hover, hoping a pair of flutes might appear, inwardly raging that this woman isn’t falling over herself to mark this special moment. However, she just busies herself getting a garment bag ready for the dress, so I dig out the Buck’s Fizz and the two glasses and clink them together as Maj emerges from the changing room.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I challenge your one, who cluelessly chirps, ‘Work away, darling,’ and I make a mental note to find Bridal Sweet on TripAdvisor and let loose. They didn’t even try to gussy Majella up in an overpriced headpiece and then give her the hard sell on it. They didn’t even try to persuade her to invest in the dreadful shoes. These are rites of passage for a bride. Even a dress-on-sale bride.

I squeeze the cork out of the bottle and get Majella to hold the glasses while I pour the Buck’s Fizz. She smiles as we cheers.

‘Thanks, Ais, you’re the best. This is the best.’

It’s far from the best but it makes me even more determined to make the rest of Majella’s bridal journey as perfect as possible.

‘You’ll have a fab day,’ Bridal Sweet goes as she zips up Majella’s garment bag. ‘And you’re in good company. Did you hear Emilia Coburn is renting a French chateau for her wedding to the James Bond lad? I heard it on the radio on the way in.’

‘Go ’way! The glamour. That will be some do!’ Maj is on a high as she slings the dress over her shoulder, bottle of Buck’s Fizz in her other hand. I throw a cold ‘bye’ over mine as we exit and head for the car.

‘Your dress is next, Ais. Then we’re sorted.’ Maj sinks into the passenger seat contentedly as the email tone sounds on my phone.

‘Sorry, I’ll just get that before we head off.’

I fish it out and see Mandy Blumenthal’s name on the screen. The NDA and the final contract! She said she’d be sending it this week. Majella is flat out sending pictures of the dress to Sadhbh so I open the email and click on the document, scanning it quickly.

‘This Non-Disclosure Agreement is entered into by BallyGoBrunch Catering of Ballygobbard and Mandy Blumenthal Inc. of New York City … confidential information … sensitive nature … held in the strictest confidence for the sole and exclusive benefit of the Disclosing Party (Miss E. Coburn) …’

My eyes go past the name and then fly back to it. E. Coburn. Emilia Coburn. Is Emilia Coburn having a birthday party? And I’m doing some of the catering? Oh my God!

‘What is it, Ais?’ Majella swigs from the bottle and puts her feet up on the dashboard.

‘Eh, nothing. Just Mammy wanted to know about, eh –’ I cast my eyes wildly around ‘– about, eh, air fresheners for, eh, goats.’ Luckily Maj is too preoccupied to notice. I drive home right at the speed limit, frantic for a chance to read it all properly, feeling like my heart is going to beat right out of my chest.