I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such penury, the wouldbe groom said, and slipped away five minutes before the parents were even introduced.
Katie, look at this! Lydia Johnson beamed, clutching a gaudy tablecloth splashed with oversized, unnaturally pale poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen table. A real celebrationready piece, not just a table!
Her daughter, Katie, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local child health centre, managed a weary smile.
Mom, its vinyl. And its screaming colour Lets get something simple, like linen. White or beige.
Linen! Lydia snapped, waving her hands. Did you see the price of that fancy linen? I snagged this one on discount at the market. Practical, pretty, and cheap! Just a wipe with a rag and its as good as new.
Really, Mom? Thats a disaster of taste.
Oh, Katie dear, happiness isnt measured in tablecloths, sighed Lydia, though she tucked the vinyl under the stalls counter. If only we were healthy, and the house were peaceful. Right, lets go before my feet start humming.
They wandered through the bustling stalls of Camden Market, Katie eyeing her mother a slight, wiry woman in an old but impeccably ironed coat. She was exhausted by the endless thrift, the constant mantra of cheap and practical. Katie pulled doubleshifts, took night oncall duties, just to keep the twobed flat on the outskirts of Manchester afloat. She never complained; she only dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mum not just expensive medicine, but a beautiful linen tablecloth, just because.
Her future prince, Arthur Whitaker, had appeared in a café after a grueling night shift, when she popped in for a coffee. He was seated at the next table tall, sharply dressed, a confident grin, and a gleaming watch on his wrist. He rose and approached her.
Excuse my intrusion, miss, but your eyes look sad. May I tempt you with a pastry? A little sweetness wont hurt.
Arthur was charming in the oldfashioned, gallant way. His compliments were precise, not lecherous. Your hands are kind, he remarked. Thats a rarity these days.
He worked for a major construction firm, held a respectable position, and whisked her around town in his polished foreign car, taking her to restaurants shed never visited. He bought flowers that cost about half her monthly wage. He regaled her with stories of travels and future plans. Katie listened, breath held, feeling as if shed stepped into a fairytale.
He confessed he was weary of predatory, paintedup girls hunting his wallet. In Katie, he claimed, hed found what hed long searched for purity, sincerity, decency.
Youre genuine, he said, kissing her hand. Unspoiled. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that slightly embarrassed Katie was that he never tried to visit her flat. They always met in the city centre, or he collected her from the bus stop a stones throw from her building.
I dont want to impose, and its getting late Id better not wake your mum, he would say.
Katie welcomed the excuse. She felt a twinge of shame for their shabby, paintpeeling hallway and modest décor. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a filthy ragdoll.
Six months later, Arthur proposed. It felt like a dream: an evening in an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He dropped to one knee, presenting a velvet box with a sparkling stone.
Katie, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up beside you each morning. I want you to run my household.
She said yes, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box to her chest. The story continued.
They agreed Arthur would first meet Katies mother, then theyd visit his parents together. The introduction day was set for Saturday. Katie and Lydia set about preparing as if it were the event of a lifetime. For three days they scrubbed their tiny flat. Lydia pulled out an heirloom tea set shed kept for a special occasion. Katie spent her last few pounds on the very linen tablecloth shed been eyeing crisp, white, starched.
Mom, how lovely! she gushed, laying it out. Just like a restaurant!
As long as your fiancé likes it, sighed Lydia, sliding an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, Katie. Hes a proper gent, and were well, were ordinary.
He loves me, not our flat! Katie protested. He loves me for who I am!
Arthur was due at five. At 4:45, Katie stood by the window, scanning for his car. She wore her best dress, fussing with her hair every now and then.
Here he comes! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver saloon easing into the driveway.
She bolted down the stairwell to meet him. Her heart pounded as if it might leap out of her chest. He emerged, impeccably dressed, clutching a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a star from a Hollywood film.
He saw her, flashed a dazzling smile, and headed for the entrance. It was then Katie noticed his expression shift. The smile waned, replaced by a grimace. He hesitated as he stepped into their dim, damp hallway, smelling faintly of wet coats and stray cats. He glanced at the peeling plaster, the flickering bulb overhead, the scuffed lift doors.
With each step up the stairs his face grew darker. Katie, now on her third floor, felt her excitement sour into dread. He stared past her at the shabby door of the neighbour, at the crack in the wall. He stopped a metre away, not looking at Katie, not at her dress, not at her bright eyes. He peered over her shoulder into the modest, yet tidy, hallway. He saw the old coat rack, the worn mat at the threshold. His gaze was as cold as ice.
Arthur, come in, weve been expecting you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her the way one looks at a speck of mud on a polished shoe.
Is this where you live? he asked quietly, his voice dripping with contempt.
Yes here
A bitter smile curled his lips. He glanced at his expensive suit, his shiny shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right.
He thrust the bouquet towards her, as if handing over a useless trinket.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such penury.
He said it flatly, as if stating a fact, then turned and descended the stairs without a backward glance.
Katie stood, clutching the absurdly lavish bouquet, rooted to the spot. She heard his footsteps recede, the door thud, the engine start, and thensilence.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
So, Katie? Wheres the groom? The crumbles ready
She saw the colour drain from Katies face, saw the roses in her hands, understood everything. She moved silently, took the flowers, grabbed Katies icy hand and led her into the living room.
Sit down, love.
Katie sank onto the sofa. She didnt cry; there were no tears, only a vast, black void inside.
He hes gone, Mum.
I see, Lydia murmured, sitting beside her, pulling her onto her shoulder. He said were poor.
She held her tighter.
Youre a fool, my dear. What a splendid bit of luck, that it happened now, not ten years later. Luck that the Good Lord whisked this man away. He was nothing but a shell in a fancy wrapper. He never loved you; he only knew how to consume. He didnt see you, only the image hed invented a pure, impoverished girl he could rescue. The moment he saw a peeling hallway and a scuffed mat, he fled. Thank God, the rubbish cleared itself.
She ran her fingers through Katies hair, speaking simple, wise words. About wealth not being measured in money, about honour not being priced by a suit, about real love fearing neither poverty nor cracked walls.
Cry, love, cry. Let grief wash you. Then stand, wash your face, and go on. Youll meet someone else, someone true, who will love your soul, not your tablecloth be it linen or vinyl. Just be there.
Katie wept, long and bitter, pressed against her mothers shoulder. She mourned not the man, but the shattered fairy tale, the naïve belief in magic.
When the tears ran out, she rose, approached the table set for a feast that never happened, lifted the white linen and ran her hand over it.
The crumble must be cold by now, she said.
Never mind, Lydia replied with a smile. Well put the kettle on and have tea together. Just the two of us. Today is our celebration a celebration of freedom.
They sat, sipping tea with apple crumble, beneath the crisp white linen. It was the most delicious pie and the warmest evening Katie had ever known.
