Dear Diary,
I still cant shake the memory of his words as I walked away from my mothers house five minutes before I was even introduced to his family: I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said, and then he was gone. It feels like a cold wind has slipped through the cracks of our little flat on the council estate.
Mum, look at this! Isnt it lovely? Maggie burst out, clutching a garish tablecloth splashed with huge, almost fluorescent poppies. It would be perfect on our kitchen tablejust the thing for a celebration!
I, Emily, twentyseven, a nurse on the childrens clinic, forced a tired smile. Mum, its plastic. Its bright and tacky Could we have something simple, like linen? White or beige, perhaps.
Linen! she exclaimed, waving her hands. Did you see the price of linen these days? I found this one on the market at a bargain. Practical, pretty, and cheap! Just a wipe with a rag and its spotless.
I tried to keep the peace. Its not really my taste, Mum. It looks cheap.
Oh, Emily, happiness isnt in the tablecloth, Maggie sighed, though she slid the plastic sheet under the counter anyway. If only we were healthy, the house would be a home. Anyway, lets go, my legs are starting to ache.
We strolled through the bustling Bull Ring market, and I watched my mothersmall, wiry, wrapped in a wellpressed but worn coat. I felt a knot tighten in my chest thinking of the endless pennypinching, the perpetual chase of cheap and practical. I work oneandahalf shifts, take night duties, just so we can keep the lights on in our cramped twobedroom flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. I never complain; I merely dreamdream of the day I can buy Mum not only the medicine she needs, but also a beautiful linen tablecloth, just because, with no special occasion.
I first met my future prince, Edward, in a cafe after a grueling night shift. Id sat alone with a steaming mug of tea when he appeared at the next tabletall, sharply dressed, a confident smile, an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He walked over.
Miss, forgive my forwardness, but your eyes look sorrowful. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
He was charming, chivalrous, his compliments precise, never crass. Your hands are gentle, he said, noticing my nurses uniform. Thats rare these days.
Edward worked for a big construction firm, held a senior position, and drove a sleek foreign car. He whisked me to restaurants Id never seen, gave me bouquets that cost half my weekly wages, regaled me with tales of his travels and future plans. I listened, breath held, feeling as if Id stepped into a storybook.
He told me he was tired of predatory, flashy women who chased his money. In me, Emily, he claimed to have found what hed been searching forpurity, sincerity, decency.
Youre genuine, he whispered, kissing my hand. Unspoiled. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that made me uneasy was that he never visited my flat. We always met in the city centre, or he collected me from the bus stop near my home.
I dont want to inconvenience you, and its late enough to wake your mother, hed say.
I felt a blush of embarrassment about our peeling stairwell, the threadbare carpet at the entrance. I wanted him to see me as a princess, not a scruffy tenant.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream: an elegant restaurant, candles flickering, him on one knee, presenting a velvet box containing a sparkling stone.
Emily, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want you to run our home.
I said yes, tears of joy spilling as I clutched the box to my chest. The fairytale continued.
We decided he would first meet my mother, then wed both visit his parents. The introduction was set for Saturday. Maggie and I prepared as if it were the most important day of our lives. For three days we scrubbed every corner of the tiny flat. Mum hauled out an heirloom tea set shed kept for a special occasion. I spent my last pennies on the white, starchfinished linen cloth wed been dreaming of.
Mum, doesnt it look beautiful? I breathed, laying the cloth on the table. Like a restaurant!
Just hope your fiancé appreciates it, Maggie sighed, putting an apple tart into the oven. Im nervous, love. Hes so respectable, and were just ordinary folk.
Mum, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due at five. By 4:45 I was perched by the window, scanning the street for his car. Dressed in my best dress, I kept fixing my hair, heart thudding as if it might leap out of my chest.
There he is! I shouted as a familiar silver sedan rolled slowly into the courtyard.
I bolted onto the landing, breathless, eyes fixed on the car. He stepped out in an immaculate suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roseslooking like a film star.
He saw me, flashed that dazzling smile, and headed for the stairwell. Then I noticed his expression change, the smile sliding away into a grimace. He hesitated at the doorway of our dim, damp hallway, the peeled plaster, the flickering bulb, the scuffed lift doors.
With each step up the stairs his face grew darker. I stood on the thirdfloor landing, my excitement turning to dread. He stared not at me, but at the shabby door of the neighbour next door, at the crack in the wall.
He stopped a metre away, not looking at my dress or my hopeful eyes. He peered past me into our modest, clean hallway, noting the old coat rack, the worn rug at the threshold. His gaze was cold, like ice.
Emily, come in, weve been expecting you! I stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at me the way one looks at mud on a polished shoe.
This is where you live? he asked softly, his voice dripping with contempt.
Yes here
He sneered, glancing at his expensive suit, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right.
He handed me the bouquet mechanically, as if discarding something unwanted.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said, voice flat, stating a fact. Then he turned and walked down the stairs without looking back.
I clutched the extravagant roses, frozen, hearing his footsteps fade, the door slam, the engine rev, and then silence.
Mum emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Well, love? Wheres the groom? The tart is ready
She saw the pale look on my face, the roses in my hands, and everything clicked. She moved silently, took the flowers from me, grasped my icy hand, and led me into the living room.
Sit down, dear.
I sank onto the sofa, tears held back, a vast black hole inside me.
He hes gone, Mum.
I see, Maggie whispered, sitting beside me, pulling me into her arms. He said were poor.
She held me tighter.
You silly thing, what a happiness this is, Emily.
What happiness? I muttered. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
Happiness is that this happened now, not in ten years, she said firmly. Its a blessing that God kept you from that mana hollow shell in a fancy façade. Did you think he loved you? He could only consume. He didnt see you; he saw an image hed invented: a pure, poor girl he could rescue. When he realised poverty isnt a charming picture from a book but a cracked stairwell and a threadbare rug, he fled. Thank God. The rubbish cleared itself.
She ran her fingers through my hair, as she used to when I was a child, and spoke simple, wise words. Wealth isnt measured in pounds. Decency isnt the price of a suit. True love fears neither poverty nor shabby walls.
Cry, love, let the tears wash the grief away. Then youll rise, wash your face, and carry on. Youll meet someone real, who loves your soul, not your image. He wont care whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic, as long as youre there.
I wept, long and bitter, leaning into my mothers shoulder. I mourned not the man, but the shattered fairytale, the naïve belief in a miracle.
When the tears finally dried, I rose, walked to the table set for a feast that never happened, ran my hand over the white linen cloth.
The tart must be cold by now, I said.
Never mind, Mum replied with a smile. Well put the kettle on and have tea together. Just the two of us. Todays our celebrationour liberation.
We sat down with tea and apple cake, the white linen spread under us. It was the most comforting cake and the warmest evening Ive ever known.
If this little tale about the false glitter of gold and the true worth of human kindness touches you, I hope youll keep it close.
