I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such squalor, the groom said, turning his back just five minutes before meeting the parents.
Emily, look at this! Margaret Hughes beamed, clutching a gaudy tablecloth splashed with enormous, unnaturally yellow poppies. Itll be perfect on our kitchen table. Itll make the feast, not the table!
Emily, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local childrens clinic, forced a weary smile.
Mother, its plastic and it screams for attention. Cant we get something plain, like linen? White or beige would do.
Linen! Margaret snapped, waving her hands. Did you see the price of that linen? I found this one at a bargain at the market. Practical, pretty, and cheap! Just a wipe with a cloth and its spotless.
Well, what a masterpiece, Mum. Its tasteless.
Oh, Emily, happiness isnt found in tablecloths, Margaret sighed, yet she tucked the plastic cloth under the counter. If only we were healthy, the house would be peaceful. Right, Im getting a cramp in my leg.
They walked through the bustling Borough Market, and Emily watched her mothera slight, wiry woman in a threadbare but neatly pressed coat. She was exhausted by endless pennypinching, by the constant mantra of cheap and practical. Emily held two jobs, took night shifts, just to keep them afloat in their tiny twobedroom flat on the outskirts of London. She never complained; she simply dreamed. She dreamt of the day she could buy her mother not only expensive medicine but also a beautiful linen clothjust because.
She met her future prince, James, in a café after a grueling night shift, when she went for a quick coffee. He was at the next tablea tall, welldressed man with a confident smile and an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He walked over.
Miss, forgive my intrusion, but your eyes look sad. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness wont hurt.
He was charming, courteous. His compliments were precise, not lecherous. He instantly guessed she was a nurse. Your hands are kind, he said. Thats rare these days.
James worked for a major construction firm, held a respectable position, and drove a sleek foreign car that took her to restaurants shed never seen. He bought her flowers that cost about half her monthly pay. He regaled her with stories of travel and future plans. Emily listened, heart pounding, feeling as if shed stepped into a fairy tale.
He complained that he was weary of goldplated pretenders hunting his wallet. In Emily he found what hed long searched forpurity, sincerity, decency.
Youre genuine, he whispered, kissing her hand. Untarnished. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that slightly unsettled Emily was that he never tried to visit her flat. Their meetings were always in the town centre, or he picked her up at the bus stop a short walk from her door.
I dont want to keep you, hed say, and its late enough to wake your mother.
Emily felt a blush of shame for their shabby entrance with peeling paint, for the modest furnishings of their flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a shabby girl.
Six months later he proposed. It was like a dream. An evening in an expensive restaurant, candles flickering. He dropped to one knee, presenting a velvet box 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 of joy spilling as she clutched the box to her chest. The fairy tale continued.
They agreed James would first meet her mother, then they would both visit his parents. The introduction day was set for Saturday. Emily and Margaret prepared as if for the most important day of their lives. They scrubbed the tiny flat for three days. Margaret hauled out an heirloom tea set shed saved for a special occasion. Emily spent her last few pounds on that very linen clothwhite, starched.
Mother, its beautiful! she exclaimed, laying the cloth on the table. It looks like a restaurant!
As long as your fiancé likes it, Margaret sighed, sliding an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, Emily. Hes a solid sort, and were just ordinary folk.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
James was due to arrive by five. At a quarter to five Emily was already at the window, scanning the street for his car. She was in her best dress, constantly fixing her hair.
Hes coming! she shouted, spotting the familiar silver sedan rolling slowly into the courtyard.
She sprinted to the stairwell to meet him. Her heart hammered as though it might leap out of her chest. He stepped out in an immaculate suit, a massive bouquet of roses in hand, looking like a film star.
He saw her, flashed his dazzling smile, and headed for the entrance. Thats when Emily first noticed his expression change. The smile slid away, replaced by a scornful grimace. He entered the dim, damp hallway that smelled of mildew and cats, eyeing the cracked plaster, the dim bulb, the graffiticovered lift doors.
He climbed the stairs, and with each step his face grew darker. Emily stood on her thirdfloor landing, the door to her flat ajar, her excitement turning to icy dread. He stared not at her dress or her bright eyes, but at the shabby door of their neighbour, at the crack in the wall.
He stopped a metre away. He didnt look at Emily at all; he looked past her, into the modest, tidy hallway they shared. He saw the old coat rack, the worn rug at the threshold. His gaze was cold as ice.
James, come in, weve been expecting you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her like one looks at mud on an expensive shoe.
This is where you live? he asked quietly, his voice dripping with contempt.
Yes here
He gave a bitter grin, glanced at his pricey suit, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right.
He handed her the bouquet, almost mechanically, as if discarding something unwanted.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such squalor, he said, his tone flat, as if stating a fact. Then he turned and walked back down the stairs without a backward glance.
Emily stood, clutching the absurd, lavish bouquet, unable to move. She heard his footsteps recede, the door thud, the engine start, and then silence.
From the kitchen Margaret emerged, wiping her hands on her apron.
So, Emily? Wheres the groom? The crumbles ready
She saw the pallor on her daughters face, the roses in her hands, and understood everything. She silently took the flowers, grasped Emilys icy hand, and led her inside.
Sit down, love.
Emily sank onto the sofa. She didnt cry. No tears fell, only a huge, black void inside.
He he left, Mum.
I see, Margaret whispered, sitting beside her, pulling her into an embrace. He said were poor.
She held her tighter.
Poor thing you are. What a blessing, dear Emily.
What blessing? Emily whispered. He dumped me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not ten years from now, her mother said firmly. The blessing is that God has taken this man away from you. He was nothing but empty packaging. A hollow shell in a fancy box. Do you think he loved you? He only knows how to consume. He never saw you, only the image he imagineda pure, poor girl he could rescue. When he realised poverty meant a peeling hallway and a scuffed rug, he fled. Thank God. The rubbish cleared itself.
She stroked Emilys hair as she had when she was a child, speaking simple, wise words. She talked about how wealth isnt measured in cash, how decency isnt a price tag, how true love doesnt shy from poverty or cracked walls.
Cry, love, cry. Grief will wash out with tears. Then youll rise, wash your face, and carry on. Youll meet another man, a real one, who loves your soul, not your façade. He wont mind whether your table has a linen or a plastic clothjust that youre there.
Emily finally wept, long and bitter, pressing her face into her mothers shoulder. She mourned not him, but the shattered fairy tale, the lost belief in miracles.
When the tears finally dried, she rose, walked to the table set for a celebration that never happened, ran her fingers over the linen cloth.
The crumble must be cold by now, she said.
Its all right, Margaret replied, smiling. Well put the kettle on and sit down together. Today is our own little feast. A feast of freedom.
They sat down with tea and apple crumble, the table covered in white linen, and it was the most comforting meal and the most heartfelt evening Emily had ever known.
