I was never a girl who dreamt of weddings. My Barbie dolls were pilots and Olympians, not brides. Don’t get me wrong, when Niall asked me to marry him, I was happy. We’d been together four years, had good jobs and a mortgage on a 2-bed flat in Clapham. We were talking about kids. It was time.

It was Niall’s mother who wanted to go dress shopping. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it– my own mother had gotten married in a skirt suit from Marks & Spencer’s – but Paula had squealed like a little girl at the idea.

“I know it’s not your thing, but it would mean a lot to her,” Niall said as we walked back to the train station after Sunday lunch at his parents. “You don’t have to buy anything if you don’t want to. Just give her the day out.”

The boutique Paula chose was in East London, recommended by one of her friend’s daughters. It was a converted warehouse: the concrete walls were draped with lengths of white tulle and blank-faced mannequins modelled dresses in different styles. One seemed to be constructed entirely of soft white feathers. Another fit tight against the body, the sequins shimmering like snakeskin. The Shop Assistant, a small, fine-boned woman dressed in black, brought us glasses of pink Prosecco.

“I like to get to know my brides before a consultation,” the Shop Assistant said. “Get a sense of the look and feel of your big day, so I can curate a selection of gowns for you.”

I’d wanted a simple wedding. Islington Town Hall and a nice meal afterwards with Niall’s parents, my dad and a few close friends. But then Paula got involved and started adding people to the list. We couldn’t leave off Niall’s great-uncle, his cousins in Ireland, Steve and Gillian, whose son had got married last year and invited them.

“Our venue’s a country house, in Hertfordshire,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. I passed her my phone so she could swipe through the pictures.

“Oh gorgeous. Very period drama. So, are we thinking ballgown?”

The woman stared at me expectantly. I wanted to be honest.

“Not really. I’d feel a bit silly in a big dress.”

“Don’t say that, Emily,” Paula interrupted, clasping my hand in hers and pulling me closer so our bodies were pressed against each other on the white suede couch. “Every girl is a princess on her wedding day.”

The Shop Assistant wheeled out a large screen for me to change behind and instructed me to strip down to my underwear. Once her cold fingers had finished buttoning and zipping me into each dress, I was to step up onto a marble plinth set against a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

The first dress she brought was a disaster, the silky fabric clinging to my fleshy stomach and thighs. The second had a wired bodice that made my chest looked flattened and misshapen. I barely remember the three that followed. They all had girl’s names. The Shop Assistant made the introductions in a reverent whisper.

“This is Felicity. This is Cecilia. This is Eleanor.”

In my mind, they mutated into a singular mass of lace and taffeta.

She comes in ivory. In cream, in blush, in champagne, in bone.

Paula clapped and cooed each time I emerged from behind the screen, her glass sparkling with fresh bubbles. Getting in and out of the heavy dresses made me sweat and the shapewear I was wearing dug a deep groove into my waist. When I booked the appointment, they’d said there would only be time to try six dresses. It would all be over soon.

I barely glanced at the final dress on the rack. As the Shop Assistant laced up the back, I thought about work emails I had to follow up on, how much getting the boiler serviced would cost and what to do for dinner. Then I was on the other side of the screen staring at my own reflection.

I always knew I was average in terms of looks. Life has its trade-offs and I had other advantages, a head for figures that had helped me at school and uni and then the corporate world. I made more than most people my age. More than Niall.

I still did my best to look well. I brushed my hair and wore decent clothes, avoided junk food and used sunscreen. Sometimes, I’d see a photo of myself dressed up for an event and think I looked quite pretty. I’d never felt the way I did wearing that dress.

It flowed across my body like water, so light and delicate I could almost see the skin beneath. The pearly cast of the fabric made my face clearer, my hair shinier, the contours of my hips and chest firmer. Even the whites of my eyes looked brighter.

Tears ran down Paula’s face.

“That’s it, that’s the one,” she sniffed.

The dress cost almost £6000, more money than I’d ever spent in one go. Still, I nodded to the Shop Assistant, who handed me an iPad with a digital contract. I signed with the tip of my nail.

“We’ll order it in a size up,” she said. “So, you can have it altered after it comes in from the designer.”

My stomach dropped. “But the dress fits. You said this was a ten. I’m always a ten.”

The Shop Assistant pursed her lips.

“Bridal sizing is different. And I think you need a bit of extra room in some places.”

She ran her finger across my back. I flinched as she touched the small swell of fat that spilled over the edge of the dress.

“You should listen to her, Emily,” Paula whispered. “This is their business. She would know.”

But I didn’t want a different dress. I wanted this one. The woman in the mirror was radiant. The dress caressed her body, hugging every curve, shaping the raw meat of me into someone better. I could see her in the pictures we’d hang on our wall and the photo album we’d show our children. Years from now, when I was older and fatter and greyer, people would see her and think “wasn’t Emily beautiful when she was young?”

A bigger dress wouldn't look the same, fit the same, feel the same. A few inches of extra fabric and it could all be ruined. I couldn’t risk losing her.

I handed the Shop Assistant my credit card.

“Order the ten. I’ll make it fit.”

*

I tried to do it the conventional way. I gave up bread, dairy, alcohol and processed sugar, bought expensive running shoes and protein supplements. I hired a personal trainer, a muscular Polish man who yelled at me to work harder as I jumped over boxes and swung kettlebells. The numbers on the scale went down but not fast enough.

Niall didn’t understand. “I don’t know why you’re pushing yourself so much. You’re fine as you are.”

I didn’t listen to him. I knew he would eat his words when he saw the woman from the mirror walking down the aisle towards him.

Three months into my project, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a measuring tape. I had committed the size chart to memory. Bust: 35 inches. Waist: 28 inches. Hips: 38 inches. I had lost half an inch around my chest, and a quarter from my waist but the size of my hips hadn’t reduced at all. In fact, all the squats had made my glutes bigger. I pinched and squeezed the offending flesh, leaving it red and raw.

I’d watched a documentary, years ago. More a reality show really, about plastic surgery in Beverly Hills. The doctor had used a big black marker to draw lines all over a woman’s body to show where to make the incision. I wished I had the money to pay for someone to do the same to me. Then I had an idea.

We had quite a selection of implements in our kitchen. Neither of us enjoyed the act of cooking, but Niall liked the aesthetics of it. The year before, he’d got really into sushi and spent almost a grand on a set of knives made from premium Japanese steel. I chose one with a long thin blade and a sharp point and sliced into my side.

The pain was intense. I had to bite down on my hand to stop myself screaming. But I staunched the blood with a cold cloth, bandaged myself up with the First Aid box, took some painkillers. When I measured myself again the next day, the tape read 39.

*

I waited a few days before even-ing out the other side. I didn’t want to clog the toilet at home, so I brought my supplies with me to the gym and threw the flesh I removed into the sanitary bin. Now that my hips were as they should be, I got to work on the other parts I didn’t like.

I left pieces of myself all over London, the pooch of my belly in a skip in Canary Wharf, the bottom of my left breast in Regent’s Canal. I stuffed a tissue-wrapped sliver of my upper arm into a bin at Burgess Park and watched as a passing dog circled it hungrily.

When Niall asked about the bandages, I told him my eczema was flaring up.

“Probably all the wedding stress, Em,” he’d said, kissing my forehead. “Try and relax, yeah? This whole thing, it’s supposed to be fun.”

He wasn’t going to bother with a new suit. The navy wool one he’d bought for his grandfather’s funeral would do fine.

The girls at work said I looked great.

“Your body is goals,” they gushed over lunch. “You’re giving Pilates instructor vibes. So lean but strong.”

I smiled modestly. I’d taken so much codeine I was on the verge of collapsing into my kale salad. I ordered a double espresso and shaved down my waist another inch in the accessible bathroom.

The email from the boutique came two months before the wedding. My dress had been delivered, could I come in for another fitting?

When Paula and I arrived, the same Shop Assistant was waiting for us. She looked at my body approvingly.

“It should be a good fit. You might not even need to take it to a seamstress.”

She took me behind the curtain again. I wasn’t wearing a bra. It was uncomfortable with the bandages underneath and in any case, I didn’t have much to fill it anymore. I muttered my usual excuses about a skin condition, but the Shop Assistant acted like she didn’t hear me. She did up the buttons and fastened the clasp at the top, helping me step into a pair of gold heels.

“Now for the finishing touches.” She came back with a long white veil trimmed with lace and a pair of gauzy, diamond-studded gloves.

“Perfect,” she said, and I like to think I saw the tiniest glint of moisture in her eyes.

I stepped up onto the plinth. I was so excited, I stumbled over my shoes and had to grab the Shop Assistant’s hand to right myself. I couldn’t wait to see her again after all this time. The woman in the mirror. The bride. She smiled as if to welcome me. She was even more beautiful than the last time. Her pale skin and sharp cheekbones gave her an ethereal quality. My goddess, who I’d worshiped and sacrificed for.

Paula clapped a hand over her mouth. “Emily, your dress...”

The goddess in the mirror swished her skirts. My voice came from her throat.

“I know, it’s even better than I remembered.”

“No, it’s....” She turned to the Shop Assistant, her features twisting in panic. She pointed at my back. “What...what is that?”

I looked over my shoulder. A dark red stain was seeping through the fabric. The clasp was caught in the bandages. When I’d tripped, they must have come lose. I tried to undo the buttons, but my hands were shaking too much. The stain was growing by the second. It crept across my back, collecting at my belly button and running down my legs in bloody rivets.

I pulled at the top of the dress, but it only served to further tear the wrappings.

“Do something,” Paula screamed. “Get it off her!”

The Shop Assistant disappeared into a back room and came back brandishing a pair of scissors. All the colour had drained from her face. “Stay still for me, please. The ambulance is coming”

The blade slashed my palm as I stole the scissors out of her grasp.

“No!” I shouted. “Don’t touch her.”

I was getting lightheaded from the blood loss. Paula was wailing and the Shop Assistant had one hand against the brick wall, bent over and vomiting. Far away, I thought I heard the sound of sirens.

The last thing I saw before everything went dark was the bride in the mirror. She was still beautiful, in scarlet, in crimson, in vermillion, in maroon.