I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such squalor, the groom muttered, turning his back just five minutes before meeting the parents.
Emily, look at this! Lydia Thompson beamed, clutching a garish tablecloth dotted with enormous, sicklyyellow poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen table. A real celebration, not just a table!
Emily, twentyseven, a nurse in the childrens health centre, forced a weary smile.
Mum, its a plastic cover. Its shouting at the room Lets have a simple linen one. White or beige.
Linen! Lydia snapped her hands. Have you seen the price of that fine linen? I found this one at a discount at the market. Practical, pretty and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless!
Its terrible, Mum. Its tasteless.
Oh, Emily, happiness isnt measured by tablecloths, Lydia sighed, sliding the plastic under the counter. If only we were healthy, and our home peaceful. Right, lets go; my legs are cramping.
They walked through the bustling market, Emily watching her mother a slight, wiry woman in an old, impeccably ironed coat. She was exhausted by endless pennypinching, by the constant mantra of cheap and practical. Emily pulled double shifts, took night oncalls, just to keep their tiny twobed flat on the edge of Brixton afloat. She never complained; she merely dreamed. She dreamed of a day when she could buy Mum not only expensive medicine but a beautiful linen tablecloth, for no reason at all.
Shed met her future prince, Edward Sinclair, in a café after a grueling night shift, when shed stopped for a coffee. He sat at the next table tall, sharply dressed, a confident smile, an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He rose and approached.
Miss, forgive my intrusion, but your eyes look so sad. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
He was charming, gallant, offering compliments that were precise, not lewd. He instantly recognised she was a nurse. Your hands are gentle, he said. Thats a rarity these days.
Edward worked for a major construction firm, holding a senior position. He ferried her around in his polished foreign car to restaurants shed never imagined. He sent flowers that cost nearly half her monthly wage. He spoke of his travels, of grand plans. Emily listened, breath held, feeling shed stepped into a fairytale.
He confessed he was tired of predatory, paintedup women hunting his wallet. In Emily, he claimed, hed found what hed long sought purity, sincerity, integrity.
Youre genuine, he whispered, kissing her hand. Untarnished. I thought people like that were extinct.
The only thing that unsettled Emily was that he never tried to visit her flat. Their meetings were always central, or hed pick her up at the bus stop near her home.
I dont want to hold you up, and its late, Id better not wake your mother, hed say.
Emily felt a sting of shame for their peelingpaint staircase, the modest décor of their flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a shabby rag doll.
Six months later, he proposed. It was like a dream. An evening in a costly restaurant, candles flickering. He knelt, presenting a velvet box with a gleaming stone.
Emily, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want you to run my household.
She accepted, sobbing with joy, clutching the box to her chest. The fairytale continued.
They decided Edward would first meet her mother, then theyd both visit his parents. The introduction day was set for Saturday. Emily and Lydia prepared as if for the most important event of their lives. For three days they scrubbed their cramped flat. Lydia hauled out an heirloom china set shed kept for a special occasion. Emily spent her last few pounds on a crisp white, starched linen cloth.
Mum, how beautiful! she exclaimed, laying it on the table. Like a restaurant!
As long as your fiancé appreciates it, Lydia sighed, slipping an apple pie into the oven. Im nervous, Emily. Hes such a solid man, and were ordinary folk.
Mum, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due at five. At a quarter to five, Emily stood by the window, scanning the road for his car. She wore her best dress, constantly fixing her hair.
Hes coming! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver sedan easing into their culdesac.
She bolted down the landing to meet him. Her heart hammered as if it might burst. He stepped out in an immaculate suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a film star.
He saw her, smiled that dazzling smile, and headed toward the stairwell. Then Emily noticed his expression change. The smile slipped, replaced by a sour grimace. He entered the dim, damp corridor that reeked of mould and old cats, eyeing the cracked plaster, the flickering bulb, the scrawled lift doors.
He climbed the stairs, each step darkening his face. Emily, waiting on the third floor by her open door, felt exhilaration turn to chilling dread. He stared at the neighbors leatherupholstered door, at the fissure in the wall.
He stopped a metre away, not looking at Emily, not at her dress, not at her shining eyes. He glanced past her into their modest, though tidy hallway, taking in the thin coat rack, the worn mat at the threshold. His gaze was cold as ice.
Edward, come in, weve been expecting you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He regarded her as one might regard street dirt stuck to an expensive boot.
Is this where you live? he asked softly, his voice dripping with contempt. Emily shrank.
Yes here
He sneered, glancing at his expensive suit, his polished shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
I see.
He thrust the bouquet toward her, mechanically, as if discarding something needless.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said, voice flat, stating a fact as if it were mundane. Then he turned and descended the stairs without looking back.
Emily stood, clutching the absurdly lavish roses, frozen. She heard his footsteps fade, the door slam, the engine rev, and then silence.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, drying her hands on an apron.
So, Emily? Wheres the groom? The pies almost ready
She saw her daughters face, pale as plaster, the roses in her trembling hands, and understood. She stepped forward, took the flowers, grasped Emilys icy hand, and led her into the sitting room.
Sit down, love.
Emily sank onto the sofa. She did not cry. No tears fell. Inside there was a vast, black void.
He hes gone, Mum.
I see, Lydia whispered, sitting beside her, wrapping an arm around Emilys shoulders. He said were poor.
Lydia held her tighter.
Youre my dear fool. What a happiness, Emily.
What happiness? Emily murmured. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not in ten years, Lydia said firmly. The Lord spared you from that man. He was nothing but husk in a fancy wrapper. He never loved you; he only knew how to consume. Do you realise? He never saw you, only the image he imagineda pure, poor girl he could rescue. When he saw poverty wasnt a picturebook scene but an old stairwell and a scuffed mat, he fled. Thank God. The trash carried itself out.
She stroked Emilys hair, as she had when she was a child, speaking simple, wise words. That wealth isnt measured in money. That integrity isnt priced by a suit. That true love fears neither poverty nor cracked walls.
Cry, love, cry. Tears wash sorrow away. Then youll rise, wash your face, and go on. Youll meet another man, a real one, who loves your soul, not a fantasy. He wont care whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic. Hell just want you near.
Emily sobbed, long and bitter, pressing her face into her mothers shoulder. She mourned not just a man, but a shattered fairytale, a naïve belief in miracles.
When the tears ceased, she rose, walked to the table set for a feast that never happened, ran her hand over the white linen cloth.
The pie must be cold by now, she said.
Never mind, her mother answered, smiling. Well put the kettle on. Well sit together. Todays our celebration. A celebration of freedom.
They sat, sipping tea with apple pie, at a table covered in crisp white linen. It was the most delicious pie and the most heartfelt evening of Emilys life.
