I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such penury, the wouldbe groom declared, then fled five minutes before they were even introduced to his parents.
What a treat, darling! exclaimed Mrs. Evelyn Harper, brandishing a gaudy tablecloth splashed with oversized, neonblue poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen table. Its a celebration, not a dinner!
Her daughter, Molly Bennett, a 27yearold nurse at the local childrens clinic, managed a weary smile.
Mother, its plastic and it screams. Could we have something plain, like linen? White or beige, perhaps.
Linen! the mother flapped her arms. Did you see the price of that fancy linen? I got this one on discount at the market. Practical, pretty, and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless!
What a masterpiece, Mum. Its downright tasteless.
Oh, Molly, happiness isnt measured in tablecloths, sighed Evelyn, though she tucked the plastic sheet under the counter. If only we were healthy and our house peaceful. Anyway, lets go, my feet are humming.
They strolled through the bustling market, and Molly watched her mothera small, wiry woman in an old but impeccably ironed coat. She felt exhausted by the endless pennypinching, the constant mantra of cheap and practical. She worked oneandahalf jobs, took night shifts, just to keep them afloat in their tiny twobedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. She never complained; she simply dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mum not only pricey medication but also a beautiful linen tablecloth, just because.
Shed met her future prince, Edward Whitfield, in a café after a grueling night shift where shed stopped for a coffee. He sat at the next tabletall, welldressed, with a confident smile and an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He came over.
Miss, pardon my intrusion, but your eyes look sorrowful. May I tempt you with a pastry? A little sweetness wont hurt.
He was charming, gallant, offering compliments that were precise, not crass. He immediately guessed she was a nurse. Your hands are gentle, he said. Such a rarity these days.
Edward worked for a major construction firm, held a senior position, and ferried her around in his polished foreign car to restaurants shed never seen. He gave her flowers that cost half her salary, regaled her with travel tales, future plans. Molly listened, breath held, feeling as though shed stepped into a fairy tale.
He confessed he was tired of vicious, paintedup dolls hunting his wallet. In Molly, hed found what hed been searching forpurity, sincerity, integrity.
Youre genuine, he murmured, kissing her hand. Unspoiled. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that slightly embarrassed Molly was that hed never tried to visit her home. They always met in the city centre, or hed pick her up at the bus stop near her flat.
I dont want to hold you up, and its late enough to wake your mother, hed say.
Molly actually felt a touch of shame for their shabby, peelingpaint hallway and modest flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a scruffy rag doll.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream: an evening in a pricey restaurant, candles flickering. He dropped to one knee, presenting a velvet box with a sparkling stone.
Molly, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want you to run my household.
She said yes, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box. The fairytale continued.
They decided his first step would be meeting her mother, then visiting his own family. The introduction day was set for Saturday. Molly and Evelyn prepared as if for the event of a lifetime. For three days they scrubbed their little flat. Evelyn hauled an heirloom china set from the sideboard, saved for a special occasion. Molly spent her last few pounds on that very linen tableclothwhite, crisp.
Mother, isnt it gorgeous? she cooed, laying it out. It looks like a restaurant!
Just hope your groom appreciates it, sighed Evelyn, sliding an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, Molly. Hes a proper bloke, and were just ordinary folk.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due at five. By a quarter to five, Molly was at the window, scanning for his car. She was in her best dress, fussing with her hair.
Here he comes! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver saloon easing into their courtyard.
She darted down the landing to meet him. Her heart hammered as though it might jump out of her chest. He stepped out, impeccably dressed, holding an enormous bouquet of roseslooking like a film star from a foreign production.
He saw her, flashed his dazzling smile, and headed for the entrance. It was then Molly first noticed his expression shifting. The grin slipped, replaced by a scowl. He entered their dim, damp hallway, smelling of must and cats, eyeing the peeled plaster, the dim bulb, the scrawled lift doors.
He climbed the stairs, each step darkening his face further. Molly stood on the thirdfloor landing, her excitement turning to icy dread. He stared not at her dress or bright eyes, but at the shabby coat rack, the threadbare mat at the door. His gaze was cold as ice.
Edward, come in, weve been expecting you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her like one looks at street mud stuck to an expensive shoe.
Is this where you live? he asked quietly, his tone dripping with contempt.
Yes here
He gave a bitter grin, glanced at his costly suit, then back at the cracked corridor.
Right.
He handed over the bouquet mechanically, as if discarding an unwanted trinket.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such squalor.
He said it calmly, as if stating a fact, then turned and walked down the stairs without a backward glance.
Molly stood, clutching the absurdly lavish bouquet, frozen. She heard his footsteps fade, the door thud, the engine revving, then silence.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
So, Molly, wheres the groom? The crumbles ready
She saw her daughters pale face, the roses in her hands, and understood everything. She silently took the flowers, grasped Mollys icy wrist, and led her inside.
Sit down, love.
Molly sank onto the sofa, not crying, but feeling a massive black void inside.
He hes gone, Mum.
I see, Evelyn whispered, sitting beside her, pulling her into an embrace. He said were that were poor.
Her mother held her tighter.
Youre my silly girl. What a laugh, isnt it, Molly?
What laugh? Molly hissed. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
The luck is that it happened now, not in ten years, Evelyn said firmly. The blessing is that God spared you from that man. Hes not a man at all, just an empty husk in a fancy wrapper. Do you think he loved you? He only knows how to consume. He never saw you, only the image he inventeda pure, penniless girl he could rescue. When he realized poverty wasnt a pretty picture from a book but a cracked hallway and a threadbare mat, he bolted. Thank God, the trash took itself out.
She stroked Mollys hair as she did when she was small, speaking simple, wise words. About wealth not being in money. About integrity not measured by the price of a suit. About real love not fearing poverty or shabby walls.
Cry, darling, cry. Tears wash away sorrow. Then youll get up, wash your face, and carry on. Youll meet another manreal onewho loves your soul, not your image. He wont mind whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic, as long as youre beside him.
Molly finally wept, long and bitter, pressed against her mothers shoulder. She mourned not just him, but the broken fairy tale, the naïve belief in miracles.
When the tears stopped, she rose, walked to the table set for a feast that never happened, ran her hand over the linen cloth.
The crumbles probably cold by now, she said.
Never mind, her mother replied, smiling. Well put the kettle on and have tea. Just the two of us. Todays a celebrationour own little liberation.
They sat, sipping tea with apple crumble, beneath a white linen cloth. It was the most delicious cake and the warmest evening Molly had ever known.
