The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 12

  ‘The thing to remember at this stage is that we are just getting an idea of what shapes look good on you.’ Helen is removing the fishtail from its hanger, preparing to help Dolly into it.

  ‘Josh will love this dress.’ Dolly is beaming. ‘It’s just like the one Jennifer Lawrence wore on the cover of Glamour last month. He shot that image and he didn’t shut up about how good she looked for weeks.’

  ‘Well, this one is far too big for you, Dolly, but let me see if I can recreate the silhouette.’ Helen pulls the dress in tight across Dolly’s narrow back, using giant bulldog clips to hold it in position, her usual pins incapable of gathering so much excess fabric together. When she’s finished, the gown is tighter to Dolly’s body but has somehow lost all of its intended sex appeal. Having nothing to fill it, the strapless bodice is gaping open across her chest, crying out for some plump womanly boobs to fill it. With no curves to cling to, it’s dropping straight to the floor appearing much longer than it should, ruining the shape of the fishtail that should be fanning out beautifully at her feet but is instead pooling shapelessly there. Despite Helen’s best efforts, the gown is ruching in all the wrong places, tragically missing the hips and bum that would transform it into the showstopper it wants to be.

  Dolly looks at herself in the unforgiving full-length mirror.

  ‘It’s awful. I look awful.’ She’s imagining the look of utter disappointment crashing all over Josh’s face as he turns over his left shoulder at the altar to see her for the first time.

  ‘The shape isn’t right for you, that’s all,’ Helen consoles her. ‘This dress is designed for a girl who is at least a size twelve, you’re more like a very small eight.’

  Helen slides the dress easily off her, readying the satin column.

  Ping! Another email lands in Dolly’s inbox as Helen is lifting the next dress up her tiny frame – but Dolly is distracted by the response:

  * * *

  I’m so sorry, Dolly, but we called Josh several times last week, he said he was on a shoot and couldn’t chat but promised he would make the payment. When it didn’t come, we emailed him again and heard nothing so I’m afraid we had to assume you’d changed your mind.

  * * *

  One fucking thing. That was it. Book. The. Band. I’ve done all the hard work finding them. Spent hours watching shit YouTube videos of naff wedding performers, hating every single one of them until I found these guys. They played at the Brides Designer Ball. I’ve told the Brides PA they’re booked. How could Josh screw this up for me?

  Now the shimmering satin dress is swamping her, like she’s decided to play dress-up in her mother’s expensive nightie. It’s flapping open at her armpits revealing the pathetic curve of her tiny bud-like breasts and hanging far too low at the neckline, exposing her bony décolletage. It’s creepy almost, like a child wearing a woman’s wedding dress. She looks scrawny, not sexy, the last thing that’s going to ignite Josh on their wedding night.

  ‘I hate it, Helen. Why does everything look so dreadful on me?’

  ‘Can I make a suggestion? I know you love these dresses and I do too, but something so slinky is always going to be tricky on such a petite body. We need to create some curves for you.’

  ‘What? Make me look bigger? That’s the last thing I want.’ Dolly is going to have to forgive Helen’s ignorance on this one. She doesn’t know Josh and therefore can’t possibly understand the value he places on a woman’s physical perfection. Dolly has had enough reminders of that in recent weeks – whenever she came close to cracking and headed in the direction of the fridge, only for Josh to jump in with some put-down about her waddling up the aisle or not being able to do up her dress on the morning. Both scenarios played in loop in her nightmares for weeks.

  ‘No, but we need to create the illusion of curves. It will make the dress look more interesting and will flatter you so much more than these dresses do. Maybe something that’s cut on the bias; the curving side seam will give you plenty of va-va-voom. Or maybe a ball gown that cinches in at your naturally small waist then descends into a full, flowing floor-length skirt. It will capitalise on your slenderness but also camouflage your lack of hips. Or we could try a bodice with some detailing to create volume there. The extra fabric up top will help fill out your upper body, as will some of my lightly padded halter neck styles.’

  ‘So much for skinny meaning you can wear what you want! I need to look sexy. I think Josh will want to see me in the sort of dress most women can’t wear. Isn’t that what all men want? You tell me, Helen, am I missing something here? What kind of wedding dresses do men love? What do they want to see coming up the aisle towards them?’ This sounds so much more desperate than Dolly intends. Urgh, she’s become one of those tragic women who dress for men, not themselves. To be honest, she loves the softer, less-structured silhouettes of the pretty tulle overlay dresses, but knows Josh won’t. He’ll think they’re shapeless and boring. Bloody hell. Maybe she should just refix the appointment for when Tilly is free.

  ‘In my experience, most men just want something recognisable on their bride, no mad departure from their everyday style.’ Well, that might be as far as most men’s vision of their bride goes but Dolly knows Josh won’t be that easily pleased. She’s lost count of the number of times he’s banged on about how a woman should look her absolute best on her wedding day, reaching a level of grooming and style that she’s unlikely to ever equal again. And let’s not forget how high that bar has been set for him – and therefore for Dolly.

  ‘Also, remember you’re going to be in church, Dolly, so you’re probably not going to want to feel like you’re dressed for a night out with the girls in front of the vicar. Come on, I’ll show you. I’ve dressed a lot of women with your sort of figure and if you trust me, I think I know what will look best.’

  Helen briefly steps out of the dressing room to select some more gowns, leaving a deflated Dolly wondering how much she’ll need to increase the lingerie budget to compensate for everything she’s naturally lacking – and to get somewhere near to meeting Josh’s expectations.

  When Helen returns she is carrying every dress in the boutique that Dolly would never choose because Josh would never rate it; something that looks like a t-shirt, an enormous puff ball of a skirt and (seriously?) something with lace all over it.

  ‘Kate Halfpenny is going to be the designer for you, I think, Dolly. She’s known for her bridal separates, which means we can build your look together piece by piece, until we get something that works exactly for your shape.’

  ‘Well, given that everything I’ve chosen looks crap so far, let’s give it a go.’ With the clock ticking, Dolly has no choice but to at least try.

  She stands still as Helen lifts a skinny slip with thin spaghetti straps over her head. So far, so unimpressive, there’s disappointment sagging across Dolly’s face.

  ‘That’s just our base, we’re going to add to it from here. Now, what we need are layers.’

  Helen sweeps a silk, full circle skirt around Dolly’s body, tying it sharply at her tiny waist, pulling her in beautifully but adding a touch of width across her hips. Then she pulls the slip gently out from under the skirt, just enough to blouse it across Dolly’s middle. The skirt doesn’t meet at the front so one of Dolly’s long, lean legs is exposed from just above the knee, confirming her slenderness, once a six-inch heel is added. The skirt isn’t clinging to her like the others, it’s more billowing, just waiting to lift on the air as soon as she moves – and the extra metres of luxurious fabric have created the faintest hint of a butt where there isn’t one.

  ‘OK, this is more like it.’ Dolly is beaming again. ‘But what can you do about these?’ She points at her schoolgirl cleavage.

  ‘Let’s try this.’ Helen drapes a light cap-sleeve lace jacket across Dolly’s narrow shoulders, adding some wedding-worthy detail and immediately drawing eyes away from her practically concave chest.

  ‘I like it, I really do! You knew those other dresses w
ere going to look dreadful on me, didn’t you?’ Dolly feels so silly, like she waltzed in here this morning expecting to look supermodel sexy without any of the raw ingredients to pull it off, cringing at the thought of Josh being privy to any of what just happened.

  ‘It’s important that you see everything for yourself,’ says Helen warmly. ‘I can’t dictate to you what you should wear, it’s your wedding day and ultimately your choice. I am here to advise you, to lend you the benefit of my expertise. I have dressed hundreds of brides, Dolly, so I like to think I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘What about accessories then? Shall we go enormous?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dolly. With your frame, if we put something big on your head, you’re in danger of looking like a lollipop.’

  ‘I read that Victoria Beckham always carries a massive handbag because it makes her legs look thinner.’

  ‘Good grief, what nonsense. I’m sure she has far more important things to think about than looking thin. How about we try a veil instead?’

  ‘Bit trad isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s the one single time in your life you’ll ever be able to wear one. And since you’ve asked, I know grooms love them – something about the great reveal he gets to play a part in on the day when he helps to gently lift it from your face.’ Dolly tries to stop it but she can’t halt the image of Josh demanding a quick powder or lip gloss touch-up the second her veil is raised.

  ‘OK, let’s do it!’ It’s probably not the most feminist thought Dolly’s ever had, but she loves the idea of Josh claiming her on their wedding day. Lifting that delicate piece of fabric, loving what he sees and sealing their future with an approving kiss.

  Helen takes a fingertip-length veil, dotted with delicate crystal beads and pins it at the back of Dolly’s head, then flutters it out so it catches the light, sending mini spotlights of crystal reflections darting around her like paparazzi flashbulbs.

  ‘I feel fabulous! I love it! And more to the point I think he will love it too.’

  ‘You look incredible, Dolly, you really do.’

  ‘Yes! Now, where’s my selfie stick?’

  The celebrations are interrupted by the loud trill of the boutique’s telephone and Helen excuses herself to answer it.

  ‘It’s for you, Dolly.’ Helen pops her head back into the changing room, catching Dolly pouting seductively towards her iPhone. ‘A man, he wouldn’t give his name.’

  Odd, only Josh knew she was coming here today. Perhaps she hadn’t heard her mobile go and he’s calling to apologise for screwing up the band booking? Lucky for him she is now in such a giddy mood or he would be for it. Still wearing the full bridal ensemble, Dolly glides out into the boutique, confidence soaring and lifts the receiver to her ear.

  ‘You will not believe what I am wearing.’ She’s all breathless and excited, mind briefly flicking to her wedding night when Josh will be peeling this lot off her.

  ‘Is it a wedding dress by any chance?’ The male voice is angry, seething even, barely controlled, ready to explode. Dolly is momentarily sideswiped. This is not Josh.

  ‘Two things, Dolly, if I may intrude upon your precious time for a moment.’

  Oh good fucking God, no! The Dick.

  ‘Number one, if you’re going to bunk off work like you don’t give a toss about your job, then don’t leave Post-it notes all over your desk with dates and times and contact numbers clearly revealing where you are.’ He’s not pausing for breath and clearly not interested in any lame explanation she may have. ‘It’s bloody insulting to me, and every one of your colleagues who does care. And number two…’ His tone is different now, sarcastic and enjoying the moment more, one step ahead of her on something. ‘I enjoyed your cupcake tasting notes, I’m just curious as to why, nowhere in your copy or strategy did you once mention that they are all sugar-free – the one single thing that marks this product out as different from all their competitors. But you can explain that to me, Dolly, when you get here, because I have cleared my diary for the afternoon so you and I can have a very serious chat in my office. If you’ve got any plans after work tonight cancel them, you’ve got some hours to make up.’

  The call disconnects and Dolly is left clutching the handset, heart pounding in her ears, mind jumping between the utter joy at the prospect of losing her job and the raw panic of how she will pay for this wedding without it.

  All thoughts of the beautiful dress she’s wearing have been well and truly pissed all over.

  Ping! Another email briefly distracts her from the tears that are inevitably bubbling their way up to the surface. No, this cannot be right. She can see the name right there, in bold black type, unopened. Annabel Coutts, PA to the editor of Condé Nast Brides.

  Dolly’s finger hovers above it, terrified of what one tap is about to reveal.

  12

  Emily

  Twelve weeks to go

  Everything is white. The colour of the moment. The colour of happy times. White clouds dotting a promising spring morning sky. A beaming smile. Fresh paperwhites trailing their sweet scent. A dreamy wedding dress.

  Not today.

  The walls. The floors. His desk. His chair. Even the computer and the keys on his mini wireless keyboard are all clinically white. And the name badge. Dr David Stevens. There are no pens or paper, no personal effects, no brown-stained coffee mugs. Nothing cluttering his desk except one clear plastic file with Emily’s name printed in Times New Roman in the top left hand corner, her age following it. Twenty-seven. Far too young to be having this conversation.

  ‘The MRI was a useful procedure, Emily, but I can see from your subsequent CT angiogram, which of course gives us a much clearer view of your blood vessels and their shape and dimensions, that your aneurism is going to be incredibly difficult to operate on.’ Dr Stevens is holding direct eye contact, studying Emily, needing to see she is taking this in.

  ‘OK.’ Emily looks tiny in the large white padded leather chair across the desk from him. She is using her tiptoes to gently swivel from side to side, like a child unsure of the protocol, desperate to alleviate the uncomfortably sterile environment of the neurosurgeon’s office. It’s not like she’s ever thought about how she might behave or act in a place like this. It isn’t the stuff of anyone’s idle daydreams.

  ‘There are a number of issues complicating surgery as an option right now. You should think of your aneurism as like a blister on the wall of your blood vessel, but I can also see from your results that there is a second smaller aneurism attached and growing from it. As they grow together, the wall of each is getting thinner and thinner, much like the effect of blowing up a balloon, making them both more fragile and more likely to rupture.’

  ‘And if they do rupture?’ Emily’s not sure why she even asks the question. She doesn’t want to contemplate the answer, let alone have Dr Stevens deliver it to her with all the factual brutality that only a total stranger can.

  ‘There are a great many factors that affect the answer to that, but if you’re asking me if it can be fatal, then I’m afraid the answer is yes. Some ruptures can also result in permanent brain damage.’

  Dr Stevens has had this conversation many times before, Emily can see that. He doesn’t flinch, or stumble over his words. There is not the slightest hesitation or awkwardness as he delivers one crushing fact after another and he maintains eye contact throughout. Emily’s mind drifts briefly to the other blows he would be brilliant at delivering: ‘You didn’t get the job, you’re not good enough’, ‘No, I don’t want to marry you’ or ‘You’ve missed the last two payments so we are repossessing your house next Thursday’. In the right circumstance, he could be a really useful bloke to have around.

  ‘But there is something we can do to stop them rupturing, right?’ There is no panic in Emily’s voice. No tears. She is all business-like calm. Shouldn’t there be an epic meltdown of emotion pouring out of her about now? It feels as if this conversation is about someone else, that this can’t be relevant
to her. The headache has gone, it eased off weeks ago. Perhaps the aneurism and its friend will do the same, just shrink back into the mass of her brain tissue, taking every worry with it, freeing her to focus on the edible favours and floral chair backs that really should be ticked off her wedding list by now. Perhaps Dr Stevens’ methodical and strictly factual approach is rubbing off on her. She has a feeling there is no room for emotion in his office. Perhaps patients are expected to show that later, out in reception with the pretty assistant behind the desk.

  ‘Your aneurism is growing from the internal carotid artery, that’s the main blood vessel supplying your brain. What concerns me most is that it also has normal healthy blood vessels attached from it, making it very difficult for me to block them off during surgery without serious risk of causing a fatal stroke.’

  There is a long pause while Dr Stevens lets that information work its way into and through Emily’s apparently now quite vulnerable brain. She can see he is in no way inclined to fill the gaping hole in their conversation.

  ‘Why me? Why is this happening to me? Did I do something to cause this?’ Emily is aware this sounds like a bit of a whine – the toddler stamping her foot and complaining that life’s not fair because she didn’t get the packet of sweets or the later bedtime she wanted – but in the circumstances, she reckons he’ll have to let her have that. Anyway, she’s a bride-to-be, she can be as stroppy as she likes, right?

  ‘The fact is you’re incredibly unlucky. You have none of the obvious risk factors – no family history of it, you don’t smoke and your blood pressure is reading as normal. You’re just one of the thousands who develop aneurisms every year without any known clinical reason why.’

  ‘Where do we go from here? You never said if you can stop them rupturing. ’ Emily is still searching for the positive in all of this, but so far Dr Stevens has failed to deliver. Some wonder drug? An experimental procedure they just happen to be looking for willing volunteers to try?