1985
I lie awake, staring up at this ceiling for the last time, listening to the voices, the laughter and the clink of glasses drifting up from the living room. I’d been limited to one admittedly large glass of sweet sparkling wine, can’t risk a hangover tomorrow, before being told to have a good sleep, to get my beauty sleep and sent up here to bed. Because I’ve got a big day tomorrow. And I have to look my best. Not just for tomorrow, but for the pictures, the video, forever. But I cannot sleep. All I can think about is tomorrow. So I lie here in my familiar single bed and try to calm the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I feel like a wee bairn on Christmas Eve, knowing that if they don’t sleep, Santa won’t come, that’s the deal, yet still lying stubbornly awake, eyes closed, pretending, simply unable to quell the excitement running through their bloodstream.
I must sleep. I have to look fresh tomorrow, more than fresh, radiant. This is my duty. To be a braw, blushing bride. Definitely not a pale, bleary eyed bride. Sleep should come easily. I’m so very tired. It’s been a busy, once in a lifetime, week. There have been arrangements to check, gifts to unwrap and appreciate: two toasters, three kettles, four carriage clocks, a microwave oven. There have been the stag and hen nights, the wedding spree and tonight’s rehearsal, feeling strange, like we were acting, pretending to be adults, my husband-to-be so nervous he got his vows wrong. I hope we get them right tomorrow. Tomorrow will be real. There has been the dress fitting, the final fitting after many minor fittings, to make sure it is perfect. And it is. Or at least I hope it is. I knew this was the one whenever I saw it, love at first sight. But that was so long ago. I’ve tried it on, admired it, dreamt about wearing it so many times that it’s become so familiar to me, maybe I’ve lost perspective. I hope it is perfect. I hope he loves it. It’s hanging on the front of the wardrobe door, so it looks and feels like I’m sharing the room with another person. It’s big personality filling my childhood bedroom. It is gleaming, glittering, pure white, of course, trimmed with lace, sequins and tiny satin bows. The huge skirt sticks out thanks to the hooped underskirt and the lace trimmed train. My princess costume, my superhero outfit, my glamorous alter-ego, the better, bridal me.
I hope I don’t trip as I’m walking down the aisle in this long dress, high heeled shoes, veil covering my face. I hope the sparkling tiara doesn’t slip. I hope tomorrow is perfect, just as we’ve planned. I hope the sun shines. I hope the cars arrive on time. I hope the guests appreciate their seats and the time I spent arranging the seating plans. I hope we are not too nervous. I hope he gets his vows right and doesn’t promise to be a loyal and beautiful husband, dutiful will do fine. I hope he loves my dress. I hope he thinks I look beautiful.
Our parents superstitiously made sure we were separated and taken to our family homes straight after the rehearsal, for one last night before our new, real life begins. Our last night of freedom they joked. But it feels like the opposite. I wonder what he’s doing now. I wonder if he’s sleeping. I wonder if he’s dreaming about tomorrow.
2023
The summer sun is still streaming in through the bedroom window. These long sunny days are simply challenges to get through, in order to reach the comfort and darkness of night, the comfort of sleep, of dreams, of memories, of pretence. I hate these long sunny days now. The long, dark night is all that I want, all that I need, all I can hope for. I close the blinds and pull the heavy curtains together, tight, shutting that light out. Exhausted by this and by so much more, I sit on the too big bed in the middle of the room. I find the energy to pull off my pink t-shirt. I’ve been wearing it for a while now, I’ve lost count of how many days exactly. I push off my faded jeans and throw both into the corner. I pick up the bright blue T-shirt, your favourite, the colour matching your beautiful blue eyes as the American shop assistant told you when we bought it, when you blushed and stammered and I giggled, like a pair of teenagers. She was right though, I’ve got to admit. You do (did) have the most beautiful blue eyes. Slowly, carefully, I put your T-shirt on, the sleeves reaching down to my elbows, the hem almost to my knees. It’s perfect. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. I remember how important it seemed to have all of these things on our wedding day, and I made sure I did. And it worked. They did bring us luck. Disney fairytale perfect luck. Until now.
I am tired, weary, exhausted. All I can think about is sleep. I climb into the cold, empty bed, pull the cover over, wrap it around me and rub the left sleeve, releasing a faint but definite, delicious scent of you. I hope I sleep tonight. I hope I dream of you. I hope I sleep and dream happily ever after.