I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such want, the groom said, turning on his heel five minutes before they were to meet the parents.
Emily, look at this charm! cried Mrs. Lillian, cradling a gaudy tablecloth splashed with enormous, unnaturally yellow poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen tablejust right for a celebration, not a meal!
Emily, a twentysevenyearold nurse from the childrens clinic, managed a weary smile.
Mother, its a plastic sheet, and its shouting colours Lets have a simple linen one, white or beige.
Linen! the mother flapped her hands. Did you see the price of proper linen? I snagged this at a market discount. Practical, pretty, and cheap! A wipe with a cloth and its spotless!
Is that really beauty, Mum? Its tasteless.
Oh, darling, happiness isnt woven into cloth, sighed Mrs. Lillian, yet she shoved the plastic under the counter. If only we were healthy, if only peace reigned at home. Come, my legs are humming.
They drifted through the bustling market, Emily watching her mothera slight, wiry woman in a wellpressed, though threadbare, coat. She felt the weight of endless frugality, the constant mantra of cheap and practical. She worked oneandahalf jobs, took night shifts, just to keep the tworoom flat on the edge of Manchester afloat. She never complained; she merely dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mother not just expensive medicine but a beautiful linen tablecloth, just because.
She had met her future prince, Simon, in a café after a grueling night shift, when she stopped for a coffee. He sat at the next tabletall, sharply dressed, smile confident, a gleaming watch ticking at his wrist. He rose and approached her.
Miss, forgive my intrusion, but your eyes look sorrowful. May I tempt you with a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
He was charming, courteous, offering compliments that were precise, not lecherous. He instantly recognised her as a nurse. Your hands are kind, he murmured. Thats a rarity nowadays.
Simon worked for a large construction firm, held a respectable position, and ferried Emily around the city in his polished foreignmade car, taking her to restaurants shed never known. He presented flowers that cost as much as half her wages. He spoke of his travels, his plans, and Emily listened, breath held, feeling as though shed stepped into a fairy tale.
He confessed he was tired of predatory, paintedup suitors hunting his wallet. In Emily he found what hed long soughtpurity, sincerity, decency.
Youre genuine, he whispered, kissing her hand. Untarnished. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that uneasy Emily noted was that he never tried to visit her home. Their meetings always occurred in the town centre, or he collected her from the bus stop near her flat.
I dont wish to impede you, and its late; Id disturb your mother, he would say.
Emily felt a sting of shame for her shabby entrance, its peeling paint, the modest furnishings of her flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a smearedhanded girl.
Six months later he proposeda scene like a dream. An evening in an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He dropped to one knee, extending a velvet box set with a glimmering stone.
Emily, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake beside you each morning. I want you to run my household.
She accepted, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box. The fairy tale unfurled.
They decided he would first meet her mother, then they would go together to his family. The introduction was set for a Saturday. Emily and Mrs. Lillian prepared as if for a lifechanging event. For three days they scrubbed their tiny flat. Mother retrieved from a cupboard an antique tea set shed saved for a special occasion. Emily, with her last few pounds, bought the very linen cloth she had dreamed ofwhite, starchtight.
Mother, how lovely! she marveled, laying it out. It looks like a restaurant!
If only your fiancé appreciates it, sighed Mrs. Lillian, placing an applepie in the oven. Im nervous, dear. Hes a proper man and were simple folk.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loved me for who I am!
Simon was to arrive by five. At a quarter to five Emily stood by the window, scanning for his car. She wore her best dress, adjusting her hair nervously.
Here he comes! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver saloon easing into their narrow culdesac.
She sprinted to the landing, heart pounding as though it might leap from her chest. Simon stepped out, impeccably dressed, holding a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a star from an overseas film.
He spotted her, flashed his dazzling smile, and headed toward the entrance. Then Emily saw his face shifthis smile slipping into a scornful grimace. He entered the dim, damp hallway that smelled of mildew and cats, his eyes flicking over the peeling plaster, the dim bulb, the scrawled lift doors.
With each step up the stairs his expression grew darker. Emily, standing on the thirdfloor landing, felt her excitement melt into icy terror. He stared at the shabby neighbours door, at a crack in the wall, at the threadbare coat rack, at the worn mat.
He halted a metre away, not looking at Emily, at her dress, at her bright eyes. He turned his gaze over her shoulder, into the modest, but clean, entryway. His stare was cold as ice.
Simon, come in, weve been waiting for you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her as one might glance at a muddy patch on a polished shoe.
This is where you live? he asked softly, his tone dripping with contempt.
Yes here
A bitter smile curled his lips. He glanced at his costly suit, at his polished shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right, he said, extending the bouquet mechanically, as if handing over a useless trinket.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he declared, voice flat, stating a fact. Then he turned and descended the stairs without a backward glance.
Emily clutched the absurdly elegant bouquet, unable to move. She heard his footsteps fade, the door slam, the engine start. Silence draped the hallway.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
Well, Emily? Wheres the groom? The pies ready she asked.
Emilys face was as pale as the walls, her hands still holding the roses, and she understood everything. Her mother quietly took the flowers, grasped her icy hand, and led her inside.
Sit down, love, her mother said.
Emily sank onto the sofa, tears dry, a yawning black void inside.
He hes gone, Mother.
I see, murmured Mrs. Lillian, sitting beside her, pulling her into an embrace. He said were poor.
Her mother held her tighter.
You silly thing. What a piece of luck, Emily.
What luck? Emily whispered. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not ten years later, her mother said firmly. The Lord spared you from that man. He was nothing but husk in a pretty wrapper. Do you think he loved you? He only knew how to consume. He never saw you, only the image he inventeda pure, penniless girl he could rescue. When he glimpsed the cracked stairwell, the worn mat, he fled. Thank God. Trash cleans itself out.
She stroked Emilys hair, speaking simply, wisely. About wealth not being measured in coin, about honour not tied to a suits price, about love that fears neither poverty nor cracked walls.
Cry, dear, let your grief flow. Then rise, wash yourself, and go on. Youll meet another man, a true one, who loves your soul, not your façade. He wont mind whether your table bears linen or plastic. All he wants is you beside him.
Emily wept, long and bitter, pressed against her mothers shoulder, mourning not the man but the shattered fairy tale, the naïve belief in miracles.
When the tears ceased, she rose, approached the table set for a feast that never happened, brushed her hand over the white linen.
The pie must be cold by now, she said.
Nothing, her mother replied, smiling. Well put the kettle on and sit together. Today is a celebrationour freedom.
They sipped tea with apple pie under the white linen cloth, and it was the most satisfying pie and the most heartfelt evening Emily had ever known.
