Chapter 18: Say Yes to the Dress

We saw little of Ilse for the next few weeks. She and Sandor seemed to hit it off, and they were off, shamelessly behaving like tourists, doing touristy things. One day Sandor gave her a tour on the Zr.Ms. (Zijner Majesteits, “His Majesty’s”) De Ruyter. On this marine ship he had travelled with half around the world. Ilse came home to her mother with red cheeks and could not stop telling her how great that ship was and how cool this country was. She stared at Sandor with an expression that suggested he was more than human, an almost religious adoration as if he were the returned Christ, Jesus, back on Earth.

Somehow it’s difficult to think of your child, the one you have changed its diapers, to be in the lifestyle. Ilse had been very outspoken and explicit in her shopping list for her new husband. Still, he had his father’s genes and his grandfather’s military way of taking command of the situation. All the ingredients were there. My son wouldn’t have trouble with his future mother-in-law; she adored my youngest son as much as her own daughter. The warmth between them was palpable. But it was early days, and what would happen in the long term was anybody’s guess.

I tried to contact Peter and even called Natasha’s number. Probably both had caller ID installed on their phones, because neither of them answered or called back. The knowledge that my son, my own child, didn’t want to talk to us anymore caused me an immense amount of emotional pain and sadness. Koen and Jutta were each confident things would work out. I could only hope. Two months had passed. Not a word from Peter. My other son was opting for a desk job. My father would turn in his grave. Smile. Different times. It’s commonplace for young people now to have multiple jobs throughout their careers, unlike the typical career path of previous generations. I am glad and thankful that he will settle down here. It would be great to see him more often. I knew for a fact that Koen was missing him as well.

Understanding that your divorce is final and that your former husband is marrying someone else is one thing, but it is a separate matter to fully process all the emotional implications involved. I needed to collect myself when they got back from City Hall and finally share the good news that they’ve secured a wedding date. It was hard, but I made an effort to be happy for them. I am sure they noticed, but they ignored it. Focusing determinedly on their own well-being and contentment, they apparently consciously have chosen to set aside my sadness and concentrate on their own happiness. As they should.

That night I slept in the cage in the attic. The attic was nowhere as equipped as the dungeon, but at least twice a week, Jutta and I spent a part of our day there. It was rare that Koen fucked me anymore, but Jutta fucked me at least twice a week, sometimes daily. Maintenance training, Jutta called it when she fucked my mouth with a strap-on. Sometime a thick cock, sometimes long and thin. A butt plug had become a standard accessory, like make-up. It wasn’t the same as Koen’s wonderful cock, but I understood she wanted to keep him mostly for herself.

Ilse was very excited about the wedding. Or, more precisely, the wedding prepping. She was going with us to buy a wedding dress. Yes, with US. I had to go with them. To a bridal fashion store and help the woman my ex was marrying pick out her wedding dress. At the same store I had bought mine, many years ago.

A bridal shop is a weird place. Isabella’s was the place to go if you needed a ‘special’ wedding dress. I know every dress a bride wears is special for her. Say yes to the dress, right? Isabella is a relatively small shop in the centre of Delft and you had to make an appointment for a time-slot so ‘we can give you our undivided attention’. Although Isabella’s store may appear small from the outside, appearances can be deceptive, and these houses are deep and contained passageways to nearby buildings that were also part of the store. It was brightly lit, filled with mirrors reflecting the soft shimmer of lace and satin. Rows of dresses in every imaginable style hang on racks, from dramatic ball gowns to sleek, modern silhouettes. Fresh flowers and new fabric perfume the air, and a quiet hum of conversation punctuated by gasps of delight filled the room.

The clientele varied as much as the dresses themselves. Brides-to-be roam the store, their faces a mix of excitement and nerves. Some have brought entourages of friends, sisters, and mothers, each member offering enthusiastic opinions. Others wander alone, quietly taking it all in, perhaps overwhelmed by the enormity of the decision ahead. I know I was at their age. Brides glowed with anticipation, their cheeks flushed as they step out of dressing rooms, shyly asking, “What do you think?” They twirl in front of mirrors, imagining the moment they’ll walk down the aisle. Tears often glisten in their eyes as they find the one—the dress that feels like a second skin, like a dream come true. Perhaps Ilse was more excited than her mother was.

“It’s different for the second time”, Jutta murmured to me.

“Of course, mistress.”

“I long to wear that pristine white dress, but I hesitate, unsure if it’s the right choice. Wouldn’t a white wedding gown at my age be considered unusual, perhaps even inappropriate, by some?”

“This is your day, mama. Don’t worry about what anyone else thinks. Just do what feels right to you,” Ilse said.

Jutta looked at me. “You should listen to your daughter, mistress.” Jutta took a step closer towards me and whispered in my ear, “If I wear the white dress, you will have to wear to the exact same dress in black.” A chill ran down my spine as the horrifying truth dawned on me, leaving me ashen-faced.

“My family will be there as well, mistress.”

“Can I help you ladies? Who is going to be the lucky one?” A saleslady, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, interrupted, clearly assuming Jutta’s daughter was the bride, and we were the busybody mothers. Jutta and Ilse were quiet as a mouse.

“My mistress is getting married, and she is looking for a romantic white dress.” I said, looking at Jutta. In my simple dress, more like a robe made of natural burlap sackcloth, perhaps I looked like a servant girl. The women in this shop cater stupid young girls and mature goth women alike, so they are used to your odd customer. “Of course, milady, follow me please,” she said without blinking in eye.

“It’s Jutta, please. I’m incognito today.” The words flowed from Jutta with the polished grace of a woman who had mastered the art of charm, a true mistress of her domain.

Jutta was fond of the Sissy dresses, which featured abundant layers of tulle and lace, and a wide skirt supported by a petticoat underneath. Ilse commented on every dress until they both agreed that this was the ONE. I remained in the background and helped my mistress dress in the dressing room.

“Do you have this dress a size smaller?” Jutta asked the saleslady.

“I do not recommend that you buy it smaller, Jutta. The dress you are holding now is the right size for you.” The saleslady protested.

“The second dress is hers, not mine.” Jutta nodded in my direction.

“Oh, you are getting married as well?” the saleswoman crowed. Twice the commission. A good evening for her.

“No.” I said. A wave of intense heat spread across my face, colouring my cheeks into the bright, deep red of a perfectly ripe apple.

“Oh. But you do want the dress?” The saleslady asked, confused.

“I want you to describe to this kind woman precisely what alterations you would like made to the dress,” Jutta said, addressing me directly. Unlike her typical habit of adding the term ‘slut’ as a concluding remark to her sentences, she decided against it this time. Thank God for small favours.

“I want the exact same dress as my mistress in my size. And in black.” It’s not easy to leave a saleswoman of a bridal fashion store speechless, but I was able to add that achievement to my resume.

“In black?” the saleslady piped.

“The darkest black you can find. In the event that black isn’t in your collection, I will accept a slightly higher price.” I said generously.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll discuss the options with my supervisor.” And the saleswoman fled to safer places.

Ilse giggled loud. She threw her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss on the lips. “You are so lucky to have her as a mistress.” She whispered against my lips. Her whisper brushed my lips. “Don’t forget you owe her ruthlessness to me.”

“Good evening. My name is Isabella van Dijk. I understand from Petra there is a problem with a dress?” She extended her hand, but when she realised I was not the one she was supposed to shake hands with, she lowered her hand.

“I hope there is not a problem,” said Jutta, always the diplomat. “We simply want the same dress, each in our own size, but in a different colour. Surely that is possible?”

“An unusual request of course, but it is possible, I suppose,” Isabella said.

“And it will be ready at my wedding date? Both of them?”

“You need them on the same day?” Isabella just kept wondering.

“Of course,” mistress Jutta said, as if that was self-evident.

We sent the invitations. Ilse was busy making lists of guests. My sisters Sybil and Petra were among the guests that had accepted the invitation. We also invited Peter and Natascha. There has been absolutely no response of any kind whatsoever. The realisation that he would rather ignore me than confront the rift between us hurts. I know of course who was behind it—Natasha, with her cold, possessive grip, keeping Peter away like a prize hoarded from its rightful owner. Was the mother that raised him really so unbearable that he couldn’t even send a simple reply?

Still, despite everything, I longed for him to walk through the door, just once, and remind me I hadn’t lost him forever.