I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such penury, the groom declared before turning his back, leaving five minutes before he was ever to meet the parents.
Emily, look at this delight! Lillian Harper exclaimed, clutching a gaudy tablecloth splashed with enormous, almost neon poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen table. A feast, not a simple supper!
Emily, a twentysevenyearold nurse from the childrens health centre, forced a weary smile.
Mother, its plastic. And its screaming colour Lets have a plain linen one, white or cream.
Linen! Lillian flapped her hands. Did you see the price of that fine linen? I found this at the market on clearancepractical, lovely, and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless.
What a disaster, Mum. Its tasteless.
Oh, Emily, happiness isnt found beneath a cloth, Lillian sighed, yet she slipped the plastic cloth beneath the counter. If only we were healthy, if only there were peace at home. Come, lets go; my legs are buzzing.
They strolled through the bustling Borough Market, and Emily watched her mothera slight, wiry woman in an old but impeccably ironed coat. How tired she seemed of constant scrimping, of the endless mantra of cheap and practical. Emily worked oneandahalf jobs, took night shifts, just to keep the tworoom terraced house on the outskirts of town afloat. She never complained; she merely dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mother not only costly medicines but also a beautiful linen tablecloth, simply because she could, without any occasion.
Her future prince, Edward Sinclair, had first appeared in a café where she stopped after a grueling night shift for a cup of tea. He sat at the next tabletall, welldressed, with a confident smile and an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He soon rose and approached her.
Miss, forgive my forwardness, but your eyes look so sad. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
He was charming, gallant, his compliments precise and delicate. He immediately recognised her as a nurse. Your hands are gentle, he said. Such kindness is rare these days.
Edward worked for a large construction firm and held a senior position. He ferried Emily in his polished foreignmade car to restaurants she had never entered, presented her with bouquets that cost half her weekly wages, and regaled her with tales of travels and future plans. Emily listened, breath held, feeling as though she had stepped into a storybook.
He confessed he was weary of predatory, paintedup socialites who chased his wallet. In Emily, he claimed, he had found what he had long soughtpurity, sincerity, integrity.
You are genuine, he whispered, kissing her hand. Untarnished. I thought such women no longer existed.
The only thing that made Emily uneasy was that he never attempted to visit her home. Their meetings always took place in the town centre, or he would collect her at the bus stop near her house.
I wont keep you, and its late; Id rather not wake your mother, he would say.
Emily felt a pinch of shame for their shabby courtyard with peeling paint, for the modest décor of their flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a poor, dustcovered girl.
Six months later, Edward proposed. It felt like a dream. An evening at an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He knelt, presented a velvet box set with a gleaming stone.
Emily, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake each morning beside you. I want you to keep house with me.
She accepted, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box to her chest. The fairytale continued.
They agreed Edward would first meet her mother, then they would all go to his family. The day of introductions was set for a Saturday. Emily and Lillian prepared as if for the most important event of their lives. For three days they scrubbed their modest flat. Lillian hauled out from the sideboard an heirloom china set she had saved for a special occasion. Emily spent her last few pounds on that very linen clothwhite, starched.
Mother, how beautiful! she exclaimed, laying it over the table. Just like a restaurant!
May your fiancé appreciate it, Lillian sighed, putting an apple crumble in the oven. Im nervous, dear. Hes such a respectable man, and we are simple folk.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due to arrive by five. At a quarter to five, Emily stood by the window, watching the street for his car. She wore her best dress, fixing her hair repeatedly.
Hes coming! she cried, spotting the familiar silver saloon easing into their narrow drive.
She raced down the landing to meet him. Her heart hammered as if it might burst from her chest. Edward stepped out in an immaculate suit, clutching an enormous bouquet of roses, looking like a film star.
He saw her, smiled that dazzling smile, and headed toward the landing. It was then that Emily first noticed his face change. The smile slipped, replaced by a sneer. He entered the dim, damp corridor that reeked of mildew and old cats. He glanced at the cracked plaster, the dim bulb overhead, the scrawled lift doors.
He ascended the stairs, each step darkening his expression. Emily waited on the thirdfloor landing, her excitement turning to icy dread. He stared not at her dress or bright eyes, but at the shabby, leatherupholstered door of the neighbour next door, at the crack in the wall.
He stopped a metre away, looking not at Emily but at the modest hallway behind heran old coat rack, a worn mat at the threshold. His gaze was cold as ice.
Emily, come in, weve been waiting for you! she stammered, trying to smile.
He looked at her like one looks at street grime stuck to a fine shoe.
This is where you live? he asked quietly, his tone dripping with contempt.
Yes here
He gave a bitter chuckle, glanced at his expensive suit, then back at the shabby corridor.
Understood.
He handed her the bouquet, almost mechanically, as if discarding a trinket.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said, his voice flat, stating the fact as if it were ordinary. Then he turned and walked down the stairs without looking back.
Emily stood, clutching the lavish roses, unable to move. She heard his footsteps recede, the door thud, the engine start, and then silence.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
So, Emily? Wheres the groom? The crumble is ready
Emilys face was as pale as the wall, the roses heavy in her hands, and everything clicked. Lillian moved silently, took the flowers from her, grasped Emilys icy hand, and led her inside.
Sit down, love.
Emily sank onto the sofa. She did not weep; there were no tears, only a vast, black hollow within.
He hes gone, Mother.
I see, Lillian murmured, sitting beside her, embracing her shoulders. He said were that were poor.
Her mother held her tighter.
My dear fool, what a strange sort of happiness this is, Emily.
What happiness? Emily whispered. He abandoned me. He shamed me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not ten years later, Lillian said firmly. The Lord has saved you from that man. He was not a man at all, merely husk in a handsome wrapper. Do you think he truly loved you? He could only consume. He never saw you, only the fantasy he createda pure, penniless girl he could rescue. When he realized poverty was not a pretty picture from a book but a peeling stairwell and a threadbare mat, he fled. Thank the heavens. The rubbish cleared itself.
She stroked Emilys hair as she had in childhood, speaking simple, wise words. That wealth is not measured in coin, that integrity is not the price of a suit, that true love fears neither poverty nor cracked walls.
Cry, my child, let the sorrow flow. Then rise, wash your face, and go on living. You will meet another man, a real one, who will love your soul, not your image. He will care not whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic, as long as you are by his side.
Emily finally wept, a long, bitter sob pressed against her mothers shoulder. She mourned not just the man, but the shattered fairytale, the naïve belief in miracles.
When the tears faded, 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.
Its all right, her mother replied, smiling. Well put the kettle on and sit together. Today is our celebrationour freedom.
They sat, sipping tea with apple crumble, the white linen spread before them. It was the most delicious cake and the warmest evening of Emilys life.
