I often recall how I once believed you were respectable, yet you lived in such penury, said the groom as he slipped away five minutes before meeting the parents.
Emily, look at this marvel! exclaimed Margaret with delight, holding up a gaudy tablecloth splashed with enormous, unnaturally bright poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen tablejust right for a celebration, not merely a meal!
Emily, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the childrens clinic, forced a weary smile. Mum, its plastic and garish. Could we have something simpler, perhaps linenwhite or beige?
Linen, my dear! her mother flapped her hands. Did you see the price of that fine British linen? I found this bargain at the market. Practical, lovely, and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless!
Lovely? Its tasteless, Mum, Emily muttered.
Oh, Emily, happiness isnt measured by tablecloths, sighed Margaret, though she tucked the plastic sheet beneath the stall counter. If only we were healthy, the house would be peaceful. Come, lets go, my legs are aching.
They walked through the bustling market. Emily watched her mothera slight, wiry woman in a wellpressed, though threadbare, coat. She felt the endless strain of constant frugality, of cheap and practical choices. Margaret worked oneandahalf jobs, taking night shifts so they could scrape by in their tiny twobed flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. Emily never complained; she simply dreameddreamed of a day when she could buy her mother not only expensive medicine but also a beautiful linen cloth, just because.
She first met her future prince, Edward, in a café after a grueling night shift. He sat at the next tabletall, sharply dressed, a confident smile, an expensive watch flashing on his wrist. He approached her.
Miss, forgive my intrusion, but your eyes look weary. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
He was charming, courteous, offering compliments that were precise, not crass. He immediately recognised she was a nurse. Your hands are gentle, he said. Such kindness is rare these days.
Edward worked for a prominent construction firm and held a respectable post. He whisked Emily around in his polished foreign car, taking her to restaurants she had never seen. He gave her bouquets that cost half her weekly wage, spoke of his travels, and of grand plans. Emily listened, breath held, feeling as though she had stepped into a fairy tale.
He confessed that he was tired of predatory, flamboyant women hunting his wallet, yet in Emily he found what he had long soughtpurity, sincerity, integrity.
You are genuine, he whispered, kissing her hand. Unspoiled. I thought people like you no longer existed.
The only thing that unnerved Emily was that he never visited her home; they always met in the town centre, or he collected her from the bus stop near her flat.
I wont keep you, its late, and Id disturb your mother, he would say.
Emily felt a touch of shame about her peelingpainted stairwell and modest flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a shabby girl.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream: an evening at an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He knelt, presented a velvet box set with a sparkling stone.
Emily, will you be my wife? I want to wake up beside you each morning. I want you to run my household.
She accepted, tears of joy streaming as she clutched the box. The story seemed to continue on a high note.
They arranged for Edward to meet Margaret first, then for the families to meet. The introduction day was set for Saturday. Margaret and Emily prepared as if for the most important event of their lives. They scrubbed the modest flat for three days. Margaret retrieved a vintage china set she had kept for special occasions. Emily spent her last pounds on a crisp white linen cloth, starchfinished.
Mother, how beautiful! she exclaimed, laying it on the table. Just like a restaurant!
May your fiancé appreciate it, sighed Margaret, placing an apple crumble in the oven. Im nervous, dear. Hes such a proper gentleman, and we are simple folk.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due at five. By 4:45 Emily stood by the window, watching the street for his car. Dressed in her best dress, she kept adjusting her hair, nerves palpable.
Hes arriving! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver sedan turning slowly into the courtyard.
She rushed down the landing to greet him. Her heart hammered as if it would leap from her chest. He stepped out, immaculate in a tailored suit, a massive bouquet of roses in hand, looking like a film star.
He smileda dazzling grinand headed toward the entrance. Then Emily saw his expression shift; the smile faded, replaced by a sour grimace. He entered their damp, mouldsmelling stairwell, eyeing the peeling plaster, the dim bulb overhead, the scuffed lift doors.
As he climbed, each step seemed to darken his face further. Emily, waiting on the third floor by the open door, felt her excitement turn to icecold terror. He paused a metre from her, not looking at her dress or bright eyes, but peering behind her into their modest, tidy hallway. He saw the old coat rack, the worn welcome mat. His gaze was as cold as ice.
Edward, come in, weve been expecting you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her as one might glance at a speck of mud on an expensive shoe.
This is where you live? he asked softly, his voice dripping with disdain.
Yes here
A bitter smile curled his lips. He glanced at his expensive suit, his polished shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right.
He handed her the bouquet, as if it were a meaningless token.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said, his tone flat, as if stating a fact. Then he turned and descended the stairs without a backward glance.
Emily stood, clutching the absurdly lavish bouquet, frozen. She heard his footsteps recede, the clatter of the stairwell door, the rumble of the engine, and then silence.
From the kitchen emerged Margaret, wiping her hands on her apron.
So, Emily? Wheres the groom? The crumble is ready
She saw her daughters pale face, the roses in her hands, and understood instantly. She moved silently, took the flowers, grasped Emilys icy hand, and led her inside.
Sit down, love.
Emily sank onto the sofa, no tears fell, only a yawning void within.
He hes gone, Mother.
I see, murmured Margaret, sitting beside her, embracing her shoulders. He said were poor.
Her mother held her tighter.
Youre a silly one, my dear. What a happiness, Emily.
What happiness? Emily whispered. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not in ten years, Margaret replied firmly. The Lord has spared you from that manjust an empty shell in a fancy coat. He never loved you; he only knew how to consume. He saw not you, but an image he inventeda pure, penniless girl he could rescue. When he realised poverty was not a pictureperfect cottage but a cracked stairwell and a scuffed mat, he fled. Thank God, the rubbish cleared itself.
She stroked Emilys hair as she had as a child, speaking simple, wise words about wealth not being measured in coin, about integrity not costing a suit, about true love fearing neither poverty nor worn walls.
Cry, my child, let your grief flow. Then rise, wash your face, and go on. Youll meet another manreal, who will love your soul, not your appearance, and care little whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic, as long as youre by his side.
Emily wept, long and bitter, pressed against her mothers shoulder. She mourned not just the man, but the broken fairy tale, the shattered belief in magic.
When the tears finally ceased, she rose, approached the table set for a feast that never happened, ran her hand over the linen cloth.
The crumble must be cold by now, she said.
Never mind, her mother smiled. Well put the kettle on and sit down. Just the two of us. Today is our celebrationour liberation.
They sipped tea with apple crumble, the table dressed in a crisp white linen cloth, and it was the most delicious cake and the warmest evening Emily ever remembered.
