Why SHOULD you be ashamed of a second marriage!
Convention dictates that second weddings are kept low-key. How absurd, says divorcee JANE COSTELLO
TELLING your parents you’re getting married is a moment any bride-tobe remembers for ever. And when the man I’d fallen for three years earlier whisked me away for a romantic weekend in Italy, mine weren’t at all surprised that he’d been carrying a diamond ring in his hand luggage, ready to propose.
But after they’d toasted our future together and my mum confided, with a suitably wobbly lip, that she’d known Mark and I were made for each other, we got down to practicalities.
‘ I take it you’ll be having a small wedding?’ she said. I squirmed. ‘Probably not . . .’ I replied. I knew I spoke for my fiance and myself when I said our wedding was to be an unashamedly big do — a celebration, i nvolving more than 100 guests, a glorious stately home and the best food, music and flowers we could afford.
Exactly the kind of day most brides dream of when someone asks for their hand in marriage.
The difference was this wasn’t my first time. I was 40. I had three children. And, crucially, I’d been married before. All of which amounted to the inescapable fact I no longer made much of a blushing bride.
It didn’t take long to bring my parents round. But I knew why some people had assumed we’d choose an intimate civil ceremony with a handful of guests or slink off to some exotic island.
Because that’s what we all expect from a second wedding: that it should be lowkey, something not to be fussed over.
It’s almost as if we expect the couple to be mildly embarrassed about the whole endeavour. And that the principal focus of their attention after making this momentous decision should be the prevention of any guests leaving with a sense of deja vu.
But I am not embarrassed about rising from the ashes of a failed relationship to find love with someone else. And no one should be.
So why, when a first wedding can have all the paraphernalia in the world, are people so squeamish about drawing attention to a second marriage?
Part of the logic, I’ll admit, spares a thought for those guests who’ve forked out before for a new outfit and hotel expenses — plus made a substantial hole in a John Lewis gift list.
And it perhaps takes the pressure off parents who made a financial contribution to their child’s first big day (as mine did, though it is Mark’s first marriage).
Predominantly, though, it stems from unease that people have already listened to you solemnly promise to stay with a man for all of eternity . . . only for eternity to turn out to be surprisingly short.
But any friends worth having won’t be sniffy about watching you walk down the aisle again. They’ll be cheerleading from the sidelines, pleased and proud you’ve finally found a happy ending.
That’s how I feel, too. And that’s why I’m not going to compromise, to do things low-key. I’m going to walk down the aisle with my head held high, rejoicing in my newfound — and hard- won — happiness.
When I get wed in July, it will be every bit the traditional, dream wedding and I’m prepared to pay the thousands that most people would usually only consider spending on a first wedding.
We have chosen Knowsley Hall, the elegant ancestral home of the Earls of Derby, as the venue and I asked my best friends, Ali and Nina, to be bridesmaids. My dress will be the most beautiful item of clothing I’ve ever worn: a gorgeous gown by a Spanish designer that cost more than I’ve spent on a car in the past.
The first time I married was in 2004, in a ceremony in the Forest of Bowland, near Lancaster, attended by 12 people, including the bride and groom. It cost a tiny fraction of the amount involved this time and I wore a £150 tea dress from a l ocal boutique. There were no bridesmaids.
I hadn’t been unhappy with a small event at the time, though the absence of so many friends and family weighed heavily on me before and afterwards. But my former husband felt strongly that this was the way he wanted things.
I couldn’t argue with the idea that the most important part of getting married was making the commitment itself.
I still believe that: if you love someone, you don’t need 15 wishing trees and a bespoke gown to prove it.
We went on to live in a renovated 17th- century f armhouse i n the Lancashire countryside and had two gorgeous boys.
But though we were together for nine years, six of those as man and wife, the commitment that was supposed to be so central to our marriage turned out to be flimsier than I’d thought. I’d honestly believed right until the end that we’d be together forever — until, in the first, cold days of 2010 he announced he was leaving.
I was bewildered by how sudden it felt and by his refusal to make a go of things again, despite my pleas.
He was spotted shortly afterwards with a much younger woman and by the time separation escalated into divorce, his adultery was cited.
I honestly never thought I’d ever get married again — I’d become fairly cynical about the idea. All I was concerned with was keeping my head above water, emotionally and financially, and focusing on being the best mother I could to my boys, who were five and one at the time of the split, and developing my career as an author.
Things weren’t easy in the year after my ex left. I moved to be closer to my parents, had to settle the children into a new school and nursery, and took on an extra job at a public relations agency in order to get a mortgage.
I had periods of all- consuming sadness and self-loathing: I couldn’t shake the feeling that my failure to hold onto a husband had denied my children the happy, old-fashioned family life I’d experienced.
Despite all this, I was determined not to let the break-up sink us. And, with the support of family and friends, glimmers of hope and happiness began to re-appear in my life.
My decision to start dating was prompted by the encouragement of friends and by my determination not to sit at home on a Saturday night weeping into a bottle of white wine.
My first date in a decade, with a hunky engineer I’d met online, was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.
We had nothing in common, so it fizzled out after a few dates. But it was the start of something — and over the next few months, I accepted drinks or a coffee with several people I met online. Some of them were extremely nice, but none lit my fire.
Then Mark, a 33- year- old art director at an advertising agency, came into my life. We found each other on a dating website and when we met up those early glimmers of happiness exploded.
I fell in love with such a euphoric rush it felt as though I was tripping over my own feet.
My children adored him when I introduced them a few months later — they became instant friends, bonding over superhero movies and Lego. Mark had endless amounts of time, patience and affection for them — and still does.
Now we have a toddler, Isaac, and life is happier than I ever knew it could be. The home we moved to during my lowest point is now a riot of noise, fun and love.
Everything is so much better now than it once was, so why would I not want to shout it from the hilltops in the form of a fabulous, big wedding, attended by all those who were there for me when times were tough?
I’m sure that’s how most bridesto-be feel the second time around. You don’t re- embrace the idea of marriage unless you’re completely in love and sure you’re doing the right thing. I’ve loved planning our big day. I’ve savoured visiting venues, scouring the internet for fun ideas to involve the children, trying on dresses with my bridesmaids.
My guests, in case you’re wondering, have been told on the invitations that it’s their presence, rather than presents, that we want.
And it goes without saying that the majority of the expense involved will be met by us.
But it comes down to this: I’m proud of the fact that my sons get to witness daily what a loving, happy relationship looks like.
That, it strikes me, is something to celebrate — in as big and bold a way as possible.
The Love Shack by Jane Costello (Simon & Schuster, £7.99).
True friends will be so pleased you’ve found happiness
We want our guests’ presence, not their presents