I stared at myself in the tall mirror, awkwardly positioned just adjacent to the door of the female toilets. The five minutes that I had stolen away for some calm were quickly draining away. My self-induced ceasefire was hastily disappearing and soon I would be back in the midst of friendly fire filled with ‘you make a very couple’ or something idly similar, accompanied with bombardments of ‘where is the honeymoon?’ and possibly the odd ‘next comes a little baby’ will break through my very high defences.
I did not recognise my reflection in the mirror. The off-white ball gown dress suffocated with too many diamantes that nipped and bit at my arms was not how I had pictured this day. My boot bearing feet ached from the discomfort of high heeled shoes designed for a five-minute runway show and not the miles of tip toeing and steps that come from being the bride at an over the top, people filled wedding. When he proposed two years ago on a beach just outside a small town while we toured New Zealand, that is where I pictured saying I do. In a beach dress, barefooted and just the two of us. It had been just the two of us for 6 years travelling and seeing the world. And now it is me and them. A mother-in-law who planned every inch of a wedding I did not want, a brother-in-law that was more into the stag party than the actual stag, and a father-in-law who felt the cheque book answered all his problems.
Just outside my barricade that is the toilet door, I could hear the music starting to gather momentum. My time was up. The first dance. In the next few minutes, I would be paraded out not only to my new husband, but in front of a family that I did not realise I was also committing to. I fixed and smoothed at my over inflated hair, dabbed the make up on a face that I no longer knew and pulled the door open again. My eyes watering as intense disco lights blinded my way to find him. The overwhelming commotion from the room along with a mixture of conversations and music beat in my chest. The past few months had been a prison of song suggestions, wedding cake tasting and studying different shades of the same colour for floral bouquets. A tightness swelling in my throat. My hands growing warmer yet clammy. The sting from the jewels and course lace of the dress pulled at my arm. Asphyxiation from a wedding dress, is that even possible? My chest heaved as I tried to draw in a breath. The faces appearing before me as I tried to walk free from my sanctuary that was the women’s bathroom. I smiled, or at least I think I did. I was trying to haul my way through the waves of leering, laughing faces mouthing words of congratulations in my direction. So many faces. So many people. So many strangers. It had always just been my dad and me. And then just me. Then it was Tom and me. That stage I liked. That stage I had screamed yes to and couldn’t wait to say I do too. But now it was me, Tom and them.
A barrage of hands pulled at me; his family and friends led me towards a blurry shadow waiting in the middle of the dancefloor. While we sat laughing and sharing the last of the garlic bread in that university bar on Castle Avenue, I knew he was the one I was going to spend the rest of my life with. And as his face came into focus, my eyes clamped on his and now there was a calm. The colourful dancing lights dimmed and the forceful beating of eighties pop music lowered. I could see his face clearly. There was a fear in his eyes. I could see him reaching towards me. The music was gone replaced by a shrill scream. I wanted to take another step to him, but every part of my body felt tight. The pinching from the diamantes pricked harder at my arm. A searing pain burned and crushed at my chest, my throat tighter and tighter. Then nothing. Nothing at all.
Wee Bubble of Books 