I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such wretchedness, the groom muttered, slipping away five minutes before he was to meet the parents.
Poppy, look at this, isnt it simply charming! MrsMargaret clutched a garish tablecloth covered in enormous, unnaturally bright poppies. It will fit our kitchen table perfectly! A celebration, not a meal!
Poppy, a twentysevenyearold nurse from the local childrens clinic, offered a weary smile.
Mum, its plastic. And it screams colour Lets get something plain, linen. White or beige.
Linen! her mother flapped her hands. Have you seen the price of proper linen? I found this one at a discount stall at the market. Practical, pretty and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless!
Thats not beauty, Mum, thats tasteless.
Oh, Poppy, happiness isnt bought in cloth, sighed MrsMargaret, yet she shoved the plastic sheet beneath the stall counter. If only we were healthy, if only peace filled our home. Come on, my legs are buzzing.
They strolled through the bustling Borough Market, and Poppy watched her mother a tiny, wiry woman in an old but meticulously ironed coat. How exhausted she seemed, forever pinching pennies, forever chasing cheap and practical. Poppy juggled oneandahalf jobs, took night shifts, just so they could scrape enough together in their cramped twobed council flat on the edge of Manchester. She never complained; she simply dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mother not just costly medicines but a lovely linen tablecloth, just because.
Shed first met her future prince, Arthur, in a café after a grueling night shift, seeking a cup of coffee. He sat at the next table tall, sharply dressed, a confident smile, an expensive watch flashing on his wrist. He rose and approached her.
Miss, forgive my intrusion, but your eyes look sorrowful. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness will do you good.
He was charming, chivalrous, dishing out compliments that were precise, not vulgar. He instantly guessed she was a nurse. Your hands are kind, he said. Thats rare these days.
Arthur worked for a major construction firm, held a respectable position, and whisked her away in his glossy foreignmade sedan to restaurants shed never entered. He gave her flowers that cost half her weekly wage, regaled her with tales of his travels and future plans. Poppy listened, breath held, feeling as though shed stumbled into a fairy tale.
He confessed he was tired of predatory, gaudy women hunting his wallet. In Poppy, he had found what hed been searching for purity, sincerity, decency.
Youre genuine, he murmured, kissing her hand. Untouched. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that unsettled Poppy a little was that he never tried to visit her flat. They always met in the centre of town, or he collected her at the bus stop a stones throw from her house.
I dont wish to intrude, and its already late to wake your mother, hed say.
Poppy felt a pinch of shame about her peelingpainted stairwell and modest décor. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a shabby mess.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream. An evening at an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He dropped to one knee, presenting a velvet box set with a gleaming stone.
Poppy, will you be my wife? I want to wake up with you every morning. I want you to run my household.
She said yes, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box to her chest. The fairy tale went on.
They arranged for Arthur to meet her mother first, then visit his own parents. The introduction day was set for Saturday. Poppy and MrsMargaret prepared as if for a lifechanging event. They scrubbed the tiny flat for three days. MrsMargaret brought out an heirloom china set shed saved for a special occasion. Poppy spent her last few pounds on the very linen tablecloth shed longed for white, crisp, starchkissed.
Mum, its gorgeous! she gushed, laying it out. Like a restaurant!
As long as your groom likes it, sighed MrsMargaret, sliding an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, Poppy. Hes quite the respectable fellow. Were just ordinary folk.
Mum, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Arthur was due at five. At a quarter to five Poppy lingered at the window, scanning the street for his car. She wore her best dress, fussing with her hair every few seconds.
Hes coming! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver saloon easing into their courtyard.
She raced down the landing to meet him. Her heart hammered as though it might leap from her chest. He stepped out, immaculate in a suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a film star.
He saw her, flashed his dazzling smile, and headed for the entrance. Then Poppy noticed his expression shift. The smile slithered away, replaced by a sneer. He entered the dim, damp hallway that smelled faintly of wet coats and cats. He eyed the peeling plaster, the dim bulb flickering overhead, the scrawled lift doors.
He ascended the stairs, and with each step his face grew darker. Poppy stood on the third floor, the door of her flat ajar, her excitement turning to icy dread. He stared at the shabby door of the neighbour next door, at a crack in the wall, at the threadbare coat rack by the entrance.
He stopped a metre from her. He didnt look at Poppy, at her dress, at her shining eyes. He glanced over her shoulder into their modest, but clean hallway. He saw the old hatstand, the worn mat at the threshold. His gaze was as cold as ice.
Arthur, come in, weve been waiting for you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her the way one might glance at street grime stuck to a polished shoe.
Do you really live here? he asked quietly, his voice dripping with contempt.
Yes here
He gave a bitter grin, glanced at his expensive suit, his polished shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
I see.
He extended the bouquet, handing it over mechanically, as if giving away something unwanted.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such wretchedness.
He said it in a flat tone, as though stating a fact. Then he turned and walked down the stairs without looking back.
Poppy stood, clutching the absurdly lavish bouquet, frozen. She heard his footsteps recede, the click of the landing door, the soft rev of an engine, and then silence.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
So, Poppy? Wheres the groom? The crumble is ready
She saw her daughters face as white as the wall, the roses trembling in her hands, and understood everything. She moved silently, took the flowers, grasped Poppys icy hand, and led her into the sittingroom.
Sit down, love.
Poppy sank onto the sofa. No tears fell, only a vast, black void inside.
He hes gone, Mum.
I see, murmured MrsMargaret, sitting beside her, pulling her onto her shoulder. He said were poor.
Her mother held her tighter.
Foolish girl, what happiness is this, Poppy?
What happiness? Poppy whispered. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not ten years later, her mother said firmly. The blessing is that the Lord has spared you from that man. Not a man, but a husk in a fine coat. He never loved you; he only knew how to consume. He didnt see you, only an image he invented: a pure, poor girl he could patronise. When he finally glimpsed the reality the peeling stairwell, the threadbare mat he fled. Thank God. Trash cleanses itself.
She ran her fingers through Poppys hair, as she had when she was a child, speaking simple, wise words. About wealth not being measured in pounds, about integrity not gauged by the price of a suit, about love that fears neither poverty nor cracked walls.
Cry, love, cry. Grief will wash away with tears. Then you will rise, wash your face, and go on living. Youll meet another man, a true one, who will love your soul, not your image. Hell care not whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic, as long as youre by his side.
Poppy wept, long and bitter, pressed against her mothers shoulder. She mourned not him, but the shattered fairy tale, the naïve belief in miracles.
When the tears finally dried, 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.
No matter, smiled her mother. Well put the kettle on and sit together. Today is our celebration. A celebration of freedom.
They brewed tea, sliced the apple crumble, and ate at a table covered with the crisp white linen. It was the most delicious pie and the warmest evening Poppy had ever known.
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