I thought you were a decent sort, yet you live in such squalor, the wouldbe husband muttered, turning his back on us a few minutes before we could even meet the parents.
Emily, look at this beauty! exclaimed Margaret, brandnew with the house, clutching a garish tablecloth dotted with enormous, unnaturally bright poppies. Itll be perfect on our kitchen tablejust right for a celebration, not a simple meal!
Emily, a twentysevenyearold nurse from the local childrens clinic, offered a weary smile. Mum, its vinyl and it screams. Lets get something plain, a linen onewhite or beige.
Linen, indeed! Margaret flapped her hands. Did you see the price of that fine linen you like? I found this at a market discount. Practical, pretty and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless.
Emily winced. Its terrible, Mum. Its tasteless.
Oh, dear Emily, happiness isnt measured in tablecloths, Margaret sighed, yet she pushed the vinyl under the counter. If only we were healthy, if only peace filled our home. Right, lets gomy feet are buzzing.
We strolled through the bustling market, and Emily watched her mothersmall, wiry, wrapped in a wellpressed, though faded, coat. How tired she was of constant pennypinching, of the endless mantra of cheap and practical. Margaret worked oneandahalf jobs, taking night shifts so they could keep the roof over their heads in a cramped twobed flat on the outskirts of Manchester. She never complained; she simply dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mother not only expensive medicines but also a beautiful linen cover, just because.
Emily had met her future prince, Edward, in a café after a grueling night shift, seeking a quick coffee. He sat at the next tabletall, sharply dressed, a confident smile, an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He approached her.
Excuse me, miss, but your eyes look sad. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness wont hurt.
He was charming, gallant, his compliments precise and gentle. Your hands are kind, he said, something rare these days. He guessed her profession instantly.
Edward worked for a large construction firm in a senior role. He whisked Emily around in his gleaming foreign car to restaurants shed never entered, gifting her bouquets that cost about half her monthly wages. He spoke of his travels, of future plans. Emily listened, breath held, feeling as if shed stepped into a fairy tale.
He lamented how tired he was of opportunistic, paintedon beauties who chased his wallet. In Emily, he claimed to have found what hed long soughtpurity, sincerity, honesty.
Youre genuine, he whispered, kissing her hand. Untarnished. I thought people like you no longer existed.
The only thing that unsettled Emily was that he never tried to visit her home. Their meetings always took place in the town centre, or hed collect her from the bus stop a short walk from her flat.
I dont want to keep you, its getting late, I shouldnt wake your mother, hed say.
Emily felt a sting of shame about her peelingpaint flat, the modest décor. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a scruffy, impoverished girl.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream. An evening at an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He knelt, presenting a velvet box with a sparkling stone.
Emily, will you be my wife? I want to wake up to you every morning. I want you to run my household.
She said yes, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box. The story continued.
They arranged for Edward to meet Margaret first, then for both families to meet. 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 pulled out an heirloom tea set shed kept for a special occasion. Emily spent her last few pounds buying that very linen clothwhite, crisp, starchfinished.
Mother, it looks lovely! she cooed, laying it on the table. Just like a restaurant!
Just hope your fiancé likes it, Margaret sighed, slipping an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, Emily. Hes such a solid sort, and were simple folk.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due to arrive by five. At quarter to five Emily stood by the window, scanning the road. She wore her best dress, fussing with her hair.
Hes coming! she shouted, spotting the familiar silver car easing into the cobbled drive.
She darted down the landing to meet him. Her heart hammered as if it might burst. Edward stepped out, impeccably dressed, a massive bouquet of roses in hand, looking like a film star.
He saw her, smiled that dazzling smile, and walked toward the entrance. It was then Emily first noticed his expression shift. The smile faded, replaced by a grimace. He entered their dim, damp stairwell, the smell of mildew and catodor thick in the air. He glanced at the peeling plaster, the dim bulb overhead, the scrawled lift doors.
He climbed the stairs, each step darkening his face. Emily, on the third floor, felt her excitement turn to icy dread. He stared not at her dress or bright eyes, but at the modest hallwayold coat rack, worn rug at the threshold. His gaze was cold as ice.
Edward, come in, weve been waiting for you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her as one might look at a filthy shoe after a stroll in the mud.
Is this where you live? he asked quietly, contempt dripping from his tone.
Yes here
He gave a bitter grin, glanced at his expensive suit, his polished shoes, 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 poverty, he said, voice flat, as if stating a fact. Then he turned and descended the stairs without a glance back.
Emily stood, clutching the lavish roses, unable to move. She heard his footsteps fade, the door slam, the engine rev. Silence fell.
From the kitchen, Margaret emerged, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
So, Emily? Wheres the fiancé? The crumbles ready
She saw her daughters pale face, the roses in her shaking hands, and understood. She slipped forward, took the flowers, grasped Emilys chilled hand, and led her into the living room.
Sit down, love.
Emily sank onto the sofa, tears not yet flowing, a black void inside.
He he left, Mum.
I see, Margaret whispered, sitting beside her, pulling her into an embrace. He said were poor.
Her mother held her tighter.
Youre my dear fool. What a happy thought you had, Emily.
What happiness? Emily murmured. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not ten years down the line, Margaret said firmly. The Lord saved you from that mana hollow shell in a fancy coat. He never loved you; he only knew how to consume. He saw not you, but the ideal hed imagined: a pure, poor girl he could rescue. When realitypeeling walls, a threadbare matshowed up, he fled. Thank God. The rubbish cleared itself.
She stroked Emilys hair, speaking simply, wisely, about wealth not being measured in money, about integrity not tied to a suits price, about love that fears neither poverty nor cracked plaster.
Cry, love, let the tears wash the hurt. Then rise, wash your face, and move on. Youll meet a true man, one who loves your soul, not your façade. He wont mind whether your table has a linen or vinyl coverjust that youre there.
Emily wept, long and bitter, pressing her face into her mothers shoulder, mourning not just Edward but the shattered fairytale, the naïve belief in miracles.
When the tears ceased, she rose, approached the table set for a celebration that never happened, ran her fingers over the white linen.
The crumble must be cold by now, she said.
Never mind, Margaret replied, smiling. Well put the kettle on and have tea together. Its our own little feast, a celebration of freedom.
They sat down with tea and apple crumble on a spotless white linen, and it turned out to be the most satisfying pie and the warmest evening Emily had ever known.
