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Kier

Devon, July 2018

‘You look beautiful.’ I nearly spill my glass of champagne as Mila emerges from the changing room, gives an awkward turn. She looks at me anxiously, cheeks flushed, as if waiting for a criticism.

There’s none to give.

Her wedding dress is stunning. White silk and lace and tiny embroidered flowers. She looks bold and beautiful. It suckers me in the solar plexus.

The cynic in me would say this is a hardwired response, something society and hundreds of films and books have primed in me to find emotional, but it’s not. I don’t do sentimental. It’s something visceral.

Studying her, I realise that it’s not the fancy shop and the mood lighting and the dress that I’m reacting to, it’s her . It’s what a thousand mothers and sisters of the brides and everyone else responds to: the look on the bride’s face. Not the dress itself. It’s how it’s making them feel.

Radiant. Hopeful. Full of love. Joy.

‘Not too much?’ Mila toys with the bodice. ‘I wasn’t sure if this was too fussy compared to the simplicity of the skirt. ’

‘No. You look stunning.’

Beside us, the assistant smiles, indulgent, used to nerves, self-deprecation. She tops up our glasses as I take too many photos while promising not to send them to Penn.

‘So, your turn?’ Mila heads back into the changing room.

‘The bridesmaid’s dress?’ I feel my heart jolt.

‘Yeah, can’t wait to see you in it.’

Flushing, I hesitate, ready to give an excuse, but there’s none to give. I’m not travelling, sick, or any of the other reasons I’ve given before as to why I couldn’t try on the dress in person. I’ve got to go through with it.

‘Me either,’ I force a smile.

‘It’s already in the changing room.’ The assistant gestures to the one next to Mila’s. ‘Let me know if you need a hand.’

Steeling myself, I head inside. Every part of me recoils at the sight of the dress against the wall, but I force myself to peel off my clothes, take it from its hanger.

‘How is it?’ Mila calls anxiously through the curtain. ‘I know you haven’t been able to make all the fittings, but your measurements should have a good starting point.’

Tugging the zip up at the back, I drag my eyes to the mirror, take a long breath in, and then exhale. The dress itself is nothing groundbreaking – almost nineties in design, spaghetti straps over a loose column of pale-green silk – but for me, it’s seismic.

Dresses … they’re a big thing for me, after that Halloween. I haven’t worn one, even tried one on, since that day.

I train my eyes on my reflection.

I almost don’t recognise myself. My hair’s a mess, straggly at best, but the dress, the cut, the fabric itself, it makes me look … not polished, that cheesy word, just lighter. Like someone’s taken a layer off me.

‘Kier?’

‘Coming.’ Taking a breath, I jerk back the changing room curtain, step outside.

‘You look so diff—’ Mila gives a little gasp before smothering it, hand over mouth, as if aware it might come off as rude. ‘It’s gorgeous, Kier. I can just see the flowers against it.’

‘It’s beautiful on you,’ the assistant echoes.

‘Gives me the inside track on what you’ll be like as a bride,’ Mila says softly.

I force a smile. ‘If it does, I think it’ll be you accompanying me down the aisle, not Penn.’ Picking up my champagne, I take a sip. ‘I don’t think he’s that keen on Zeph.’

Mila looks conflicted. ‘He’s overprotective, that’s all. I don’t think anyone would be good enough. The fact that you’re so close … makes it hard for him to be objective.’ She smiles. ‘The most important thing is how you feel about him? Right?’

I hesitate. They’re there, on the tip of my tongue. My worries, concerns.

‘I love him,’ I say finally.

‘And that’s all Penn needs to know.’ Mila catches my eye. ‘It’s been rough, hasn’t it? With you and guys in the past?

My heart starts to beat a little faster.

This is why I don’t come home.

This … s crutiny.

‘Do you want to grab a coffee by the harbour?’ Mila asks as we leave the shop. ‘I need to talk bouquets. I think Penn’s had it now on the floral front. Looks pained every time I bring them up.’

‘Peak flower?’

She grins. ‘Peak flower.’

We walk down the narrow steps and onto the high street.

The view of the harbour has been eclipsed by the summer throng, aggrieved locals trying to go about their daily business together with meandering tourists clad in cliché coastal.

Among the crowd, I spot a familiar face: the woman who runs past the van in the morning. She comes past more or less every day, same time, same pace .

This time, though, she’s with her boyfriend. They’re holding hands, talking animatedly. Despite their carefree laughter, there’s a tension to her features and a definite emptiness in her eyes. I recognise it. She’s there, but not there, her mind on something else.

I put up my hand to wave, then draw it back, thinking it might be odd. She probably sees lots of people when she is running, no reason to think she’d recognise me.

We walk for a few minutes before stopping outside a café just short of the harbour.

‘Want to sit outside?’ Picking up a menu, Mila then passes one to me. ‘Iced lattes are pretty good here.’

I nod, about to sit down, when my phone buzzes. A message from Zeph.

When are you back?

I tap out a reply. Not for a bit. We’re just stopping for coffee.

R u sure? Thought we could prep dinner together?

I don’t reply.

Taking a seat, I pick up the menu. As the waiter weaves his way towards us, my phone buzzes again.

This time, I don’t even look at it. Switching it off, I push the phone deep inside my bag.