«I thought you were respectable, yet you live like this,» the groom snapped, turning and walking away five minutes before he was to meet her parents.
«Lucy, look at this!» shouted Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, brandishing a gaudy tablecloth splashed with oversized, unnaturally bright poppies. «It’ll sit perfectly on our kitchen tablejust right for a celebration, not a simple meal!»
Her daughter, Poppy, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local children’s health centre, offered a weary smile.
«Mother, it’s plastic. So garish Can’t we have something plain, like linen? White or beige.»
«Linlinen!» Margaret flapped her arms. «Did you see the price of that cheap stuff? I got this one at a market discount. Practical, pretty, and cheap! Just a wipe with a rag and it’s spotless!»
«That’s not beauty, Mum. It’s tasteless.»
«Oh, Poppy, happiness isn’t bought in tablecloths,» Margaret sighed, then shoved the plastic piece under the market stall counter. «If we were healthy, we’d have peace at home. Anyway, my legs are buzzinglet’s go.»
They moved through the bustling Camden market. Poppy watched her mothera slight, wiry woman in a threadbare but meticulously ironed coatdragging herself through endless scrimping, the mantra of cheap and practical. She worked oneandahalf shifts, took night oncalls, just to keep them both afloat in their tiny twobed council flat on the edge of Manchester. She never complained; she only dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy her mother not just expensive medication but a beautiful linen tableclothjust because.
Her future prince, Arthur, had drifted into her life at a coffee shop after a grueling night shift. He sat at the next tabletall, sharply dressed, with a confident grin and an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He rose and approached.
«Excuse me, miss, your eyes look so sad. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.»
He was charming, gallant, his compliments precise and delicate. He saw at once that she was a nurse. «Your hands are gentle,» he said. «That’s a rarity these days.»
Arthur worked for a major construction firm, held a senior position, and ferried her around in his polished imported sedan to restaurants shed never imagined. He gave her flowers that cost half her monthly wage, regaled her with tales of faroff travels, and spoke of grand plans. Poppy listened, breath held, feeling as though shed stepped into a fairy tale.
He confessed he was tired of slick, predatory socialites hunting his wallet. In Poppy hed found what hed been looking forpurity, sincerity, integrity.
«Youre genuine,» he whispered, kissing her hand. «Untarnished. I thought people like you no longer existed.»
The only thing that unsettled Poppy was that he never tried to visit her flat. They always met in the town centre, or he collected her at the bus stop just down the road from her building.
«I dont want to keep you, and its late enough to wake your mother,» he would say.
Poppy felt a pang of shame for her peeling stairwell and the threadbare doormat in her home. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a shabby, dirtstained girl.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream: a candlelit evening at an upscale restaurant, him dropping to one knee, presenting a velvet box with a glinting stone.
«Poppy, will you marry me? I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want you to be the lady of my house.»
She said yes, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box to her chest. The fairy tale continued.
They agreed that Arthur would first meet her mother, then they would both visit his parents. The meeting day was set for Saturday. Poppy and Margaret prepared as if for the most important event of their lives. For three days they scrubbed every corner of their cramped flat. Margaret produced from the old cupboard a vintage tea set shed saved for a special occasion. Poppy spent her last pennies on the very linen tablecloth shed been dreaming ofstiff, white, freshly starched.
«Mother, its gorgeous!» she exclaimed, laying it over the table. «Just like a restaurant!»
«As long as your fiancé likes it,» Margaret sighed, slipping an apple tart into the oven. «Im nervous, Poppy. Hes such a proper gentleman, and were ordinary folk.»
«He loves me, Mum! Not our flat. He loves me for who I am!»
Arthur was due at five. At 4:45 Poppy stood by the window, scanning the street for his car. She wore her best dress, fussing with her hair, heart hammering.
«Here he comes!» she shouted as a familiar silver sedan turned slowly into the gravel drive.
She bolted down the landing to meet him. Her pulse thumped as though it might burst from her chest. Arthur stepped out in an immaculate suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a film star.
He saw her, flashed a dazzling smile, and headed toward the stairwell. Then Poppy noticed his expression shift. The smile faded, replaced by a thin, disdainful sneer. He entered the dim, damp corridor that smelled of mildew and stray cats. He glanced at the peeling plaster, the flickering bulb, the graffitiscarred lift doors.
He climbed the stairs, each step darkening his face. By the time he reached the third floor, his expression was grim. Poppy stood at her apartment door, her excitement turning to cold dread. He stared not at her dress or her eyes, but at the shabby coat rack, the threadbare mat at the threshold. His gaze was icecold.
«Arthur, come in, weve been expecting you!» she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her as one looks at a speck of grime on an expensive shoe.
«This is where you live?» he asked quietly, contempt dripping from his tone.
«Yes this is ours» she whispered.
He gave a bitter chuckle, glancing down at his designer suit, then back at the cracked hallway.
«Right.»
He handed her the bouquet 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. He turned and descended the stairs without a backward glance.
Poppy clutched the lavish bouquet, frozen. She heard his footsteps recede, the slam of the landing door, the rev of the engine, then an oppressive silence.
From the kitchen, Margaret emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
«Well, Poppy, wheres the groom? The tarts ready»
She saw the pale look on her daughter’s face, the roses in her trembling hands, and understood everything. She moved silently, took the flowers, grasped Poppys icy hand, and led her into the living room.
«Sit down, love.»
Poppy sank onto the sofa, tears withheld, a black void yawning inside.
«He hes gone, Mum.»
«I see,» Margaret whispered, sitting beside her, pulling her into a hug. «He said we that were poor.»
Her mother pressed tighter.
«Darling, what a cruel twist of fate. The good news is it happened now, not ten years later. The good news is God spared you from that mana hollow shell in a glittering coat. Do you think he loved you? He only knew how to consume. He never saw you, only the fantasy hed created: a pure, penniless girl he could rescue. When he saw the cracked stairwell and the wornout mat, he fled. Thank God. The trash carried itself out.»
She stroked Poppys hair as she had when she was a child, speaking simple, wise words. She told her that wealth isnt measured in pounds, that dignity isnt sewn into a suit, that true love doesnt shy away from poverty or shabby walls.
«Let the tears flow, love. Grief washes clean. Then youll rise, wash your face, and go on. Youll meet another man, a real one, who loves your soul, not your image. He wont care if your tablecloth is linen or plasticjust that youre there.»
Poppy finally wept, long and bitter, pressed against her mothers shoulder. She mourned not just him, but the shattered fairy tale, the broken belief in miracles.
When the sobbing stopped, she rose, approached the table set for a feast that never happened, ran her fingers over the linen cloth.
«The tart must be cold by now,» she said.
«Never mind,» Margaret replied, smiling. «Well put the kettle on and have tea together. Just the two of us. Today is our celebrationour freedom.»
They sat, sipping tea and sharing the apple tart on a crisp white linen cloth. It was the most satisfying meal and the most heartfelt evening of Poppys life.
