By bridal magazine standards, my husband Luke and I moved fast. We got engaged in June 2012 and set a date for the following December. We were to be married in a small Norfolk church, followed by a party at my cousin’s house nearby.
The theme (awful term, but accurate) was Christmas. We planned a candle-lit service, evergreen flowers, festive food and invited 130 guests. In other words - though I had never dreamed of a big white wedding - it was all happening.
I’d also never really thought about wedding dresses. Only two of my friends were married, so my main references were the 2012 Royal Wedding, Richard Curtis films and bizarre bridal chat-rooms – where people insisted your wedding must reflect ‘you’. Tricky, if you’ve never imagined yourself as a bride.
I knew the dress I didn't want (a Disney meringue), but there was a weird lack of chic alternatives. The big Vera Wangs engulfed me, the elegant sheaths looked strangely drab (the same way Cos makes me look ill). Everything was also priced in a wild alternative currency, starting at £2000. The most I had ever spent on a dress was £200. It was like a luxury parallel universe.
Then, in Browns Brides, I found a dress by Lebanese designer Reem Acra. It had glittery cap sleeves (Christmassy!), a stunning crepe-de-chine skirt, and was just the right ratio of virginal : sexy. The fact Olivia Wilde had worn it on the red carpet swayed me. The only issue was the price - £5,500 (about £8000 today). I had enough, in savings, but only just. So I decided, sadly, to forget it.
Except, there was no going back. I ordered cheaper wedding dresses from Net-A-Porter, and returned them. I asked a seamstress to make a Reem Acra imitation, but at the firstfitting I looked like Bo Peep. As the clock ticked, the stress intensified. In hindsight, I had begun to pin all my pre-nuptial anxiety on ‘the perfect dress’.
This was unsurprising. Anyone I asked insisted that, when the day came, it was vital I felt more beautiful than ever before - in my entire life. If that meant spending a nauseatingamount some silk, so be it. I suspect they knew what I wanted to hear.
I went back to Browns Brides, where I was now an irritating regular. I reminded myselfwe were saving on the venue and various other expenses: no bridesmaids, no make up artist and no beribboned car. The DJ was our friend! The ice cream cake was the pudding! Then I shut my eyes, prayed, and handed over my bankcard.
Initially I felt relief. The money was gone, the dress was mine. I assured my mother that I would somehow transform it for future use (who says brides go mad?), or bequeath it to a hypothetical daughter.
And yes, on the day I did feel great. The fact that one sparkly sleeve came away from the bodice was a minor glitch. I still feel happy when I look at photos, and remember how confident I felt.
But then, real life resumed. I had a baby boy, and then two more. One day I tried the dress on, and found pregnancy had permanently expanded my ribs. The faff and expense of having it remodelled seemed absurd now, and I had no daughters to inherit it.
Still, I couldn’t bear to part with such sentimental value. It hung in my bedroom for years, like an accusing 8ft body bag. Eventually, when it began to scare my children, and I wanted a sofa more than an un-wearable dress, I decided to sell it.
First I tried bridalreloved.com, which specialises in re-selling wedding dresses. It spent months on the site, without a single enquiry. Recently, I took it to a second hand designer boutique, where I will get half of a sale. If that fails, it’s eBay.
There’s such pressure on brides to find The Dress and to blow the budget, as if economising will ruin ‘your special day’. But at those prices it’s insanity. You can’t wear it again, you won’t alter or dye it, and you’ll feel torn about selling (assuming anyone wants it).
I remember dismissing rentals at the time, having swallowed the myth that I needed _my_dress with bespoke alterations. But I would rent if I could go back - it makes so much sense for a one-off occasion.
Now I have children, and an erratic income as an author, I can’t fathom spending thousands on a dress. That said, my wedding inspired my new novel So Good To See You, so perhaps the madness wasn’t all in vain. I just wish my royalties allowed me to splurge that way, today.
So Good To See You by Francesca Hornak £20, amazon.co.uk