When I was planning my wedding, I tried to make an appointment with a well-known wedding dress maker.
But he wouldn’t see me.
As the woman with the haughty voice on the other end of the phone told me, “Frances doesn’t ever see clients until seven months out from the wedding. He’s concerned brides might change their mind, and he doesn’t have the time to remake dresses.”
Right then. Silly old me, expecting old Frances to accept my patronage a mere nine months out from the big day!
I called around to find another boutique. And only got in at the fourth place I tried; they all had a four-month waiting list.
I begged — literally begged — to get on a list on the basis that my mum was flying from interstate for the occasion.
And that’s how, when the boutique had a last-minute cancellation, I ended up in one of those beautiful, Tiffany-blue coloured boutiques in inner-eastern Sydney the following weekend.
It was like a dream in that place. Raw silk corsets and mountains of soft Italian tulle hugged size-6 mannequins. Dreamy French lace headpieces matched perfectly with the whimsical hand-stitched petticoats. Deco hair pins and emerald-cut drop earrings set off delicately embroidered sweetheart necklines.
And then a sour-faced woman handed me a pair of white gloves — and told me not to touch a thing until I had them on.