I thought you were respectable, but you live in such squalor, the groom snapped, turning on his heel five minutes before he was due to meet the parents.
Emily, look at this treasure! Lydia Thompson exclaimed, clutching a gaudy tablecloth splashed with enormous, unnaturally bright poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen tablejust right for a celebration, not a simple meal!
Emily, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local childrens health centre, forced a weary smile. Mum, its plastic. Its garish Lets get something plain, like linen. White or beige.
Linen! Lydia flailed her arms. Did you see the price of that fancy linen? I found this one at a market clearance. Practical, pretty, and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless!
Is that really beautiful, Mum? Its tasteless.
Oh, Emily, happiness isnt measured by tablecloths, Lydia sighed, yet she shoved the plastic sheet beneath the stalls counter. If only we were healthy, the house would be peaceful. Come on, my feet are tingling.
They strolled through the bustling market, Emily watching her mothersmall, wiry, bundled in an old but meticulously ironed overcoat. She felt the sting of endless pennypinching, of cheap and practical that had become their mantra. Emily worked oneandahalf shifts, took night oncalls, just to keep the twobed council flat on the outskirts of Manchester afloat. She never complained; she only dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mother not just costly medicine but a beautiful linen runnerjust because.
Shed met her future prince, Arthur Whitmore, in a café after a grueling night shift, looking for a cup of coffee. He was seated at the next tabletall, impeccably dressed, a confident smile, an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He rose and approached her.
Miss, forgive my intrusion, but those eyes look sorrowful. May I tempt you with a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
He was charming, gallant, offering compliments that were precise, not lecherous. Your hands are gentle, he observed. Thats a rarity nowadays.
Arthur worked for a major construction firm, held a senior position, and whisked Emily around town in his sleek foreignmade sedan, taking her to restaurants shed never seen. He gave her bouquets that cost half her monthly wage, regaled her with stories of foreign trips, and spoke of grand plans. Emily listened, breath held, feeling as if shed stepped into a fairytale.
He confessed he was weary of predatory, flamboyant women who chased his wallet. In Emily, he claimed, hed found what hed been searching forpurity, sincerity, integrity.
Youre genuine, he said, pressing a kiss to her hand. Unspoiled. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that unsettled Emily was that hed never visited her flat. Their meetings always took place in the city centre, or hed pick her up at the bus stop near her home.
I dont want to intrude, and its late enough to wake your mother, hed say.
Emily felt a pang of shame for her peelingpainted stairwell and modest flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a threadbare mess.
Six months later, Arthur proposed. It was cinematic: an evening in an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He dropped to one knee, presenting a velvet box set with a sparkling stone.
Emily, will you marry me? I want to wake up with you every morning. I want you to be the lady of my home.
She said yes, tears streaming as she clutched the box. The fairytale continued.
They arranged for Arthur to meet her mother first, then for the families to meet. The introductory day was set for Saturday. Emily and Lydia prepared as if for the most important event of their lives. For three days they scrubbed the tiny flat. Lydia hauled out an heirloom china set shed saved for a special occasion. Emily spent her last £30 on the perfect white, starched linen runner.
Mother, look how lovely it is! she cooed, laying it out. Just like a restaurant!
Just hope your fiancé likes it, Lydia sighed, sliding an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, love. Hes quite a respectable fellow, and were modest.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am! Emily protested.
Arthur was due at five. By quarter to five, Emily stood by the window, scanning the street for his car. Dressed in her best dress, she kept adjusting her hair, nerves tightening her jaw.
Here he comes! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver sedan easing into the courtyard.
She bolted down the landing, heart hammering as though it would burst. Arthur stepped out, immaculate in a tailored suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roses. He looked like a film star.
He saw her, flashed a dazzling smile, and headed toward the stairwell. Then Emily noticed his expression falter; the smile slipped, replaced by a scowl. He entered the dim, damp hallway scented of mildew and cats, eyeing the cracked plaster, the flickering bulb, the graffitiscarred lift doors.
With each step upward, his face grew harsher. Emily, now on the third floor, watched her excitement melt into dread. He stared at the shabby, leatherupholstered neighbours door, at the crack in the wall.
He stopped a metre from her, not looking at her dress or her bright eyes, but peering past her into the modest, spotless entryway. He noted the old coat rack, the worn mat at the threshold. His gaze was icy.
Arthur, come in, weve been expecting you! Emily stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her as one might look at mud on a polished shoe.
This is where you live? he asked quietly, contempt thick in his voice.
Yes here she whispered.
A bitter smile curled his lips. He glanced at his expensive suit, his polished shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right, he said, handing her the bouquet mechanically, as if discarding something useless.
I thought you were respectable, but you live in such squalor, he said, voice flat, stating a fact. He turned and descended the stairs without a backward glance.
Emily stood, clutching the absurdly lavish bouquet, frozen. She heard his footsteps fade, the door slam, the engine roar, then silence.
From the kitchen, Lydia emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
Well, love, wheres the groom? The crumbles ready
She saw Emilys face, pale as a wall, the roses limp in her hands, and understood. She slipped beside her, took the flowers, grasped Emilys icy hand, and led her inside.
Sit down, sweetheart, Lydia said.
Emily sank onto the sofa, tears not flowing, only a black void inside.
He he left, Mum.
I see, Lydia murmured, sitting beside her, wrapping an arm around Emilys shoulders. He said were poor.
She held Emily tighter.
Youre my dear fool. What a happy thought, Emily.
What happiness? Emily whispered. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
Blessed that it happened now, not in ten years, Lydia replied firmly. Blessed that God kept you from that man. He wasnt a man at all, just a hollow shell in a fancy coat. Do you think he truly loved you? He only knows how to consume. He never saw you, only the image he inventeda pure, poor girl he could rescue. When he saw the peeling stairwell and the threadbare mat, he fled. Thank God, the rubbish cleared itself.
She stroked Emilys hair, speaking simple, wise words about wealth not being money, integrity not measured by a suits price, and love that fears neither poverty nor cracked walls.
Cry, love, cry. Grief will wash away with tears. Then youll rise, wash your face, and go on. Youll meet a true person who loves your soul, not your appearance. He wont care whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic. Hell just want you beside him.
Emily finally broke, sobbing into her mothers shoulder, mourning not the man but the shattered fairytale, the broken belief in miracles.
When the tears ceased, she rose, approached the table set for a feast that never came, ran a hand over the white linen.
The crumble must be cold by now, she said.
Never mind, Lydia replied, smiling, well put the kettle on and sit down together. Today is our holiday. A holiday of freedom.
They poured tea, sliced the apple crumble, and ate beneath the crisp white linen. It was the most comforting slice of cake and the most heartfelt evening Emily had ever known.
