I remember being at Emily’s house, back when her father arrived unexpectedly. He carried in a basket of groceries and found us sitting in the lounge. At once, he lifted his chin in quiet disapproval, making it abundantly clear that my presence was unwelcome. Emily led him off into the kitchen, but I couldn’t help overhearing his agitated whisper. He called me that country lad, claiming I was only after Emily’s flat. He said he’d seen me loitering near his daughter’s home more than once, nearly accusing me of being some sort of prowler.
What struck me most was that Emily replied to her father just as coldly, telling him we simply worked together at the university library each month, which was why I was around. In truth, Emily and I had been seeing each other for two months by then. I had only just managed to tell her that the fact my parents owned a house on the outskirts didnt mean I was a country bumpkin. Our home was quite close to town, a lovely two-storey place, and my father was a businessman. True, I didnt drive expensive foreign cars, nor did I shout from the rooftops about coming from a wealthy family, but I always thought that was for the best. That way, people like Emily and her family see you for who you are, not for your money.
My mother used to warn me, long ago, never to speak of riches, reminding me that whoever I fell for shouldnt care for that above all else. And certainly, no one should ever be ashamed of me, even if I dont appear rich at first glance.
