Chapter 1
NOW
‘If you say the C word in front of my wedding dress, you’re uninvited,’ I said, with a bit more edge to my voice than was strictly appropriate in a shop that self-identified as an ‘atelier’.
‘I didn’t say anything, Rebecca!’ Mum protested, all faux innocence. ‘But even you’ve got to admit that your wedding planning has been a bit... What’s another word for “disastrous”? I mean, your photographer got cataracts. Your venue burned down. And now...’ She waved her hands towards me.
I re-examined myself in the ornate gold-rimmed mirror. Apparently the seamstress had been having a perimenopausal day when she’d taken my measurements at the previous fitting. (Mum, a GP specialising in women’s health, had asked many hormone-focused follow-up questions.)
‘Though,’ Mum continued, ‘if they don’t finish rebuilding the venue in time we could always use your dress as the marquee.’
I ignored her, wishing again that Dad was here.
He’d generously offered to pay for my dress, so I’d invited him to the final appointment.
But he’d had to work. In Dad’s absence I’d been very happy to do the fitting on my own, but I’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Mum and next thing I knew, she’d cancelled her afternoon clinic.
Of course it was thoughtful that Mum had dropped everything for wedding admin.
But Dad wouldn’t have made the joke that my fiancé, Matt, and I (plus a handful of our guests) could fit into this iteration of my gown.
‘They’ve apologised a million times and said they can take it in,’ I said, feeling the knots in my shoulders tighten. Today I was meant to cross ‘Wedding dress’ off my list.
I wished that my two best friends, Lily and Stella, had been able to come to the fitting to diffuse Mum’s energy.
But Lily and Stella both had young kids and I knew that for them just getting to the wedding was going to require a military-style operation.
In our thirties, weddings had transfigured from ‘bacchanal’ to ‘logistics’.
‘Or,’ I continued, ‘they’ve got five weeks to make a new one.’ I stepped off the pedestal they’d placed me on to pin in my dress.
‘So you don’t think the wedding is starting to feel a bit...’
I could see Mum casting around for a synonym for ‘cursed’. I cut her off before she could find one. ‘Do we have to go over the agreed-upon “Rules of Rebecca and Matt’s Wedding” again?’ I asked. I didn’t wait for her to reply. ‘Number one: you’ll try to get on with Matt’s mum.’
Mum pouted. ‘But she’s just so... nice!’ she said. ‘I’m convinced she’s secretly a serial killer.’
I suppressed a giggle. Matt’s mum was unrelentingly lovely. Jane was the kind of woman who’d drive across town to drop off some windfall lemons from her tree.
‘Number two: there will be no mentions of the curse. Because there is no family curse. Curses aren’t a real thing.’
‘I’m just being silly, darling. And of course, “curse” isn’t quite the right word.’
‘Exactly,’ I said.
‘Though it is interesting that all the women in our family didn’t marry their first fiancé.’ Mum counted on her fingers. ‘There’s Grandma Evelyn, her sister, my cousin – and me.’
When I was a teenager, my grandma had sat me down and told me that it was family lore that all the female members of our family were doomed to never marry our first fiancé.
But that wasn’t all! No, she went on – our engagements would break off and, in a fit of unbridled passion, we would marry another man instead.
And that other man would be all wrong for us.
Some teenage girls got a bat mitzvah or a confirmation service. In our family we got a curse.
‘Who believes in curses anyway? Apart from Greek yiayias and people in Disney movies?’ I asked.
‘Many people believe there are things in the world beyond their understanding. That they aren’t in control of everything .’ She gave me a pointed look.
Before I could reply, a woman emerged from a fitting room wearing an ivory silk dress with a corset top and princess skirt.
When her mother, who’d been waiting nervously on the edge of a white suede couch, saw her daughter, her hands flew to her mouth and tears began to stream down her face.
Though she tried to speak she was clearly overcome. The bride’s lips were now wobbling too.
‘Do you love it?’ the mother finally managed to get out as she pawed at the mascara that had welled under her eyes.
‘I do. It’s perfect. I just... know this is the one,’ the bride said, her own eyes now glistening. ‘This. Is. It. I feel it. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of!’
‘Oh, my darling girl!’ She threw her still-shaking arms around her daughter. Then, entwined like an emotional DNA strand, they both jigged up and down, joy radiating off them.
Mum and I pretended not to watch, but we had both fallen silent, transfixed.
‘You do love your dress, don’t you?’ Mum asked.
I pulled my gaze away from the Gilmore Girls.
‘Of course they’ll alter it. But you love it, right?
Because you’re meant to wear something that makes you feel like the best version of you on your wedding day, not just something that.
.. you think will do the job. You can’t be sensible about your wedding dress – you have to fall madly in love with it,’ Mum said, her voice laden with meaning, as she hitched up one of the too-long silk straps that had fallen off my shoulder.
‘Did you love your wedding dresses?’ I asked.
Mum had married Dad in an eighties meringue that would have done Princess Di proud.
Then she’d married her second husband, Hamish, at a simple town hall ceremony – a move that was very out of character for a woman who felt the urge to celebrate everything.
I hadn’t been there but had seen the photos.
Mum, whose favourite colour was the rainbow, had worn a simple duck-egg-blue shift dress.
‘This isn’t about me, darling,’ Mum said. ‘All I’m saying is that it’s never too late to change your mind.’
‘This dress ticks everything on my list. One, I can wear a proper bra under it; two, I won’t have to go on a juice cleanse to fit into it; and three, I’ll be able to sit down.’
‘I’m not sure that happiness is as simple as ticking off everything on a list,’ she said.
I took a deep yin-yoga breath.
‘I am happy, Mum. The dress is great. And in five weeks, I’m going to marry Matt in it. Well, in a version of it that doesn’t make me look like an “after” shot in an ad for Ozempic,’ I said, as I began to swish towards the dressing room to get changed back into my navy suit.
‘Then I’ll be the one who breaks the family curse,’ I added under my breath. In just over a month, I was marrying my first (and last) fiancé. There were going to be no broken engagements.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re in love with the dress!’ Mum called after me as I yanked the coral velvet curtains shut, wishing my bridal boutique energy was more elegant, chic lady than petulant teenager.
As I shimmied back into my silk camisole and suit skirt, I checked my phone and smiled when I saw that Matt had messaged.
Ready to woo celebrant number two?
Love you.
I made a mental note not to mention to Mum that our original wedding celebrant had cancelled on us.
That evening Matt and I met in Northcote for an appointment with Belinda, our second-choice celebrant. She’d asked us to meet her in a wine bar, which was filled with the type of people who own rescued greyhounds, and clearly doubled as her office.
‘Now, I only agree to marry couples when I feel confident about the strength of their relationship,’ Belinda said. ‘I’m not one of those celebrants who will marry just anyone .’
I caught Matt’s eyes and swallowed a smile.
‘If we decide we want to work together, I like to start each ceremony by telling the guests your love story,’ Belinda continued as she scrutinised us. ‘So perhaps you could tell me how you met?’ She ran her slightly nervy hand through her long, grey hair.
We nodded respectfully; this was Belinda’s test.
When we’d set out to book a celebrant, the person who would bind us for life, we’d agreed we wanted someone without a trace of insipidity and ideally with a sense of humour.
Now, with just weeks to go until our ceremony, the main quality we were looking for was availability.
After many frantic phone calls, we’d found Belinda, who, despite having the aura of someone who’d been repeatedly disappointed by love, met this brief.
The clock was ticking. The law required that our Notice of Intended Marriage be lodged at least a month before our wedding date.
And to complete this official document we needed a celebrant.
If we didn’t submit it soon, we wouldn’t be able to get legally married at our wedding ceremony.
We needed Belinda more than she needed us.
‘We really respect that position,’ I said with the pacifying smile that I used when clients made outrageous demands.
I looked at Matt to get the ball rolling.
He was a great storyteller. He wasn’t gregarious, but because of his gentle yet sharp wit he would find himself holding court at any event we ever attended.
And telling stories was his job – he was head of communications for a giant wine company.
Plus, older women loved Matt – I think it was the winning combination of the perennial twinkle in his eyes, broad shoulders and a genuine interest in other people.
Matt took a sip of his drink – a blush-pink cocktail.
One of Matt’s special skills was that no matter what cocktail he ordered at any bar, it turned up in a shade of pink (and was invariably put in front of me).
But whether his drink was fuchsia or baby pink he wasn’t bothered – he knew what he liked and didn’t care what anyone thought.
He placed his highball glass back on the table.
‘When we met, we were both working in the same building in the city, one that has faux-Grecian columns that hold up the fragile egos of the people who work inside,’ Matt began in his typically self-deprecating style, with an easy smile at Belinda.
‘Next to the building is a food court, which has a cinema in it. And cinemas are my favourite places in the world. So sometimes when I need to focus at work, I take my laptop and buy a ticket to whatever cinema is empty in the middle of the day. Then I set up in the back row, dim my screen and quietly work away.’
Belinda nodded. Matt had her hooked. I exhaled.
‘So, one day I was working in the back row. And I was the only person there until, about twenty minutes into this terrible French film, a woman walked in. She went straight to the front row and fell asleep.’
‘In my defence,’ I interjected, ‘I’d worked through the night but didn’t have time to go home before a client presentation. Sometimes when I need a few hours’ sleep I go down to the cinema to have a cat nap before I go back to the office.’
Belinda’s forehead creased. Evidently exhaustion from overwork didn’t have a place in her version of a fairy-tale romance.
‘I was meant to be writing an important speech for our CEO,’ Matt continued. ‘That’s the whole reason I was there. But I couldn’t focus. All I could think about was the glimpse I’d had of this beautiful woman.’
Belinda’s expression softened. Matt turned towards me and smiled. I felt my cheeks warm. Would his smile, the one that lit up the golden specks in his deep-brown eyes and made a small crinkle at the top of his left cheek, always have this effect on me?
‘I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder,’ I said, picking up the story.
‘The movie had finished, even the credits, and the house lights had come on, but I was so tired I’d kept sleeping.
A man was standing over me, holding a cup of coffee.
That was the first time I saw Matt – a handsome, thoughtful angel, bearing caffeine.
If he hadn’t woken me up, I would have missed my presentation. ’
Matt went on: ‘We walked back to our building’s lobby together, talking the whole way. And not only was she beautiful, she was smart and funny too. I asked her out, gave her my number. And that was it.’
Had it been that simple for Matt? Had he just seen me – panda rings under my eyes after working for ten days straight, scuffed ballet flats kicked off under the cinema seat, no doubt some dribble – and known I was the one? Or was he such a natural raconteur that he’d turned us into a story?
I watched Belinda closely to see if we’d cleared her hurdle.
Another couple, who I assumed were Belinda’s next appointment, already hovered awkwardly nearby.
They were younger than us, in their late twenties I’d guessed, but looked like they’d been together forever.
He held her bag, as she offered him a taste of her white wine, though I could tell they were watching us too.
It was a bit like that on the wedding circuit, as you ran into other couples at venue viewings and stationery shops – a performative show of togetherness and adoration was expected.
I leaned into Matt and he put his arm around me.
I took a deep breath and felt heady for a moment.
How did he always still smell good after a full day’s work – an intoxicating mix of the spices and citrus in his aftershave (a present he’d been genuinely happy to receive for his birthday), the wool wash he used on his cloud-soft jumpers and original–flavoured Fisherman’s Friends?
Belinda rummaged in her enormous cotton tote and pulled out a stack of documents.
‘Over the next week I’ll need you to fill out the official paperwork, and I also require my couples to complete a detailed questionnaire to help me write my script,’ she said as she handed the forms to Matt.
I exhaled a sigh of relief. We were on! One wedding crisis averted, just the rest of them to solve.