I thought you were respectable, and youre living in such poverty, he said, then walked off five minutes before meeting the parents.
Ellie, look at this, isnt it lovely! Margaret burst out, holding up a gaudy tablecloth splashed with huge, unnaturally bright poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen table. Itll be a proper celebration, not just a meal!
Her daughter, Kate, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local childrens clinic, forced a tired smile.
Mum, its plastic. And its screaming colour Lets just get a plain linen one. White or beige.
Linen! Margaret flailed her hands. Have you even seen the price of that fancy linen? I snagged this at a market discount. Practical, pretty and cheap! Just wipe it with a rag and its spotless!
Thats not beautiful, Mum, thats tasteless.
Oh, Kate, happiness isnt found in tablecloths, Margaret sighed, but she still shoved the plastic cloth under the counter. If only we were healthy, and the house was peaceful. Right, lets go, my legs are getting tingly.
They walked through the bustling market, and Kate watched her mum a small, wiry woman in a wellpressed but old coat. She felt sorry for her, exhausted by endless pennypinching, by the constant cheap and practical. Kate was pulling double shifts, doing night duties, just so they could scrape by in their tiny twobed flat on the outskirts of Manchester. She never complained; she just dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy Mum not just the pricey meds, but a lovely linen tablecloth for no special reason.
Shed met her future prince, Edward, in a café after a grueling night shift, when shed stopped for a coffee. He was sitting at the next table tall, welldressed, with a confident smile and a flashy watch on his wrist. He walked over to her.
Miss, excuse my forwardness, but your eyes look a bit sad. May I treat you to a pastry? A little sweetness wont hurt.
He was charming, chivalrous. His compliments werent lewd, just precise and finetuned. He instantly recognised she was a nurse. You have gentle hands, he said. Thats rare these days.
Edward worked for a big construction firm, held a senior position. He drove her around in his shiny foreign car to restaurants shed never been to. He bought her flowers that cost half her monthly wage. He talked about his travels, his future plans. Kate listened, breath held, feeling as if shed stepped into a fairytale.
He told her he was tired of predatory, flashy women hunting his wallet. In Kate, he claimed, hed found what hed been looking for purity, sincerity, integrity.
Youre genuine, he said, kissing her hand. Unspoiled. I thought people like that were extinct.
The only thing that made Kate a little uneasy was that he never tried to come to her flat. They always met in the city centre, or hed pick her up at the bus stop near her house.
I dont want to keep you, and its late, I shouldnt wake your mum, hed say.
Kate actually felt a pinch of shame about her ageing block with flaking paint, about the modest décor of her flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a poor mess.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream. Evening, an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He dropped to one knee, slid a velvet box with a sparkling stone across the table.
Kate, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want you to run the home with me.
She said yes, tears streaming as she clutched the box to her chest. The story kept going.
They decided hed first meet her mum, then theyd all go to his parents. The meetup was set for a Saturday. Kate and Margaret prepared like it was the biggest event of their lives. They scrubbed the flat for three days. Mum pulled out an old tea set shed kept for a special occasion. Kate spent her last cash on that perfect white, starched linen cloth.
Mum, its gorgeous! she cooed, laying it out. It looks like a restaurant!
As long as your fiancé likes it, Margaret sighed, sliding an apple pie into the oven. Im nervous, Kate. Hes a proper gentleman, and were just ordinary folk.
Mum, he loves me, not our flat! He fell for me as I am!
Edward was due to arrive by five. By a quarter to five Kate was at the window, scanning for his car. She was in her best dress, fidgeting with her hair.
Hes coming! she shouted, spotting the familiar silver saloon easing into their culdesac.
She bolted down the landing to meet him. Her heart hammered as if it might burst. He stepped out in an immaculate suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a film star.
He saw her, flashed that dazzling smile, and headed for the entrance. Thats when Kate first noticed his expression change. The grin slipped, replaced by a scowl. He hesitated as he entered their dim, damp hallway that smelled of wet socks and old cat litter. He took in the peeling plaster, the flickering bulb, the graffitiscarred lift doors.
He climbed the stairs, each step making his face grow darker. Kate, standing on her third floor by her open flat door, felt her excitement turn to a cold dread. He stared at the shabby neighbours door, at a crack in the wall.
He stopped a metre away, not looking at Kate, her dress, her shining eyes. He glanced behind her, into their modest yet tidy hallway, noting the worn coat rack, the scuffed mat at the threshold. His gaze was icecold.
Kate, come in, weve been waiting for you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her like a rich man sees street dust on his shoes.
Is this where you live? he asked quietly, his tone dripping with contempt.
Yes here
He sneered, glancing at his expensive suit, his polished shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
I see.
He handed her the bouquet, as if handing over a useless trinket.
I thought you were respectable, but you live in such poverty.
He said it flatly, without raising his voice, then turned and walked down the stairs, not looking back.
Kate stood, clutching the absurdly lavish bouquet, frozen. She heard his footsteps recede, the door slam, the engine start, then silence.
From the kitchen, Mum emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
So, Kate, wheres the fiancé? The pies ready
She saw Kates face, pale as a wall, the roses in her hands, and understood. She slipped beside her, took the flowers, grasped Kates icy hand, and led her into the living room.
Sit down, love.
Kate sank onto the sofa, not crying, just feeling a huge black void inside.
He hes gone, Mum.
I see, Margaret whispered, sitting next to her, pulling her into a hug. He said were poor.
Mum held her tighter.
You silly thing. What a blessing, Kate.
What blessing? Kate murmured. He dumped me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not ten years later, Margaret said firmly. The good Lord saved you from that man. He was nothing but a hollow shell in a fancy coat. Do you think he loved you? He couldnt love; he could only consume. He didnt see you, he saw an image he inventeda pure, poor girl he could rescue. When he realised poverty wasnt a pretty illustration from a storybook but an old block and a scuffed mat, he bolted. Thank God, the rubbish took itself out.
She stroked Kates hair like she used to as a child, speaking simple, wise words. About wealth not being measured in money. About integrity not having a price tag. About real love not fearing poverty or cracked walls.
Cry, love, cry. Tears wash away grief. Then youll get up, freshen up, and move on. Youll meet someone truly worthy. Someone who loves your soul, not a picture. Hell mind whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic, as long as youre there.
Kate wept, long and bitter, pressing her face into her mums shoulder. She wasnt mourning the man, but the broken fairytale, the naïve hope.
When the tears dried, she stood, walked to the table set for a feast that never happened, ran her hand over the linen cloth.
The pie must be cold by now, she said.
No worries, Mum smiled. Well put the kettle on and have tea. Just the two of us. Todays our celebration. A celebration of freedom.
They sat down, sipping tea with apple crumble, the white linen cloth spread before them. It turned out to be the tastiest pie and the warmest evening Kate had ever known.
