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J Jewellery

      The contents of a woman’s jewellery box are a chronicle of her past; more telling than her underwear drawer, bathroom cabinet or even the contents of her handbag. The story the jewellery box tells is a romance and hopefully for you, it is a grand and passionate one.

      Jewellery is the only element of an ensemble whose sole purpose is elegance, and elegance in jewellery is a highly individual matter. It is therefore impossible to say that only a particular kind of jewellery should be worn. One thing however is certain: an elegant woman, even if she adores jewellery as much as I do, should never indulge her fancy to the point of resembling a Christmas tree dripping with ornaments.

      Finally, a word to would-be husbands: an engagement ring is often the only genuine jewel a woman owns, so please, invest in one of a respectable size. The shock of paying for a good quality ring will evaporate the instant you see your thrilled fiancée proudly displaying it to all of her friends and relations. And secondly, do not underestimate the advantages of buying only from the very best. A ring box from Cartier, Asprey, or Tiffany’s will be prized almost as much as the ring itself. And this is one occasion where you do not want to be accused of economizing!

      I close the book and lean it softly against my chest. Imagine receiving a box from Cartier or Asprey! As for Tiffany’s, I’ve never been in – not even to browse. I wonder what it looks like inside. Or what it’s like to walk in on the arm of a man who loves you, knowing that when you come out, you’ll be wearing a diamond ring or maybe a sapphire surrounded by brilliants. I gaze at my hand resting on the duvet and try to envisage a sparkling, bright diamond solitaire on my fourth finger. Closing one eye, I concentrate as hard as I can but still, all I see is the pink, slightly wrinkly flesh where my finger and knuckle meet.

      I look over at my husband, who’s reading in bed next to me, and watch as he furiously gnaws away at a non-existent hangnail on his thumb. He’s reading the evening paper as if it’s written in code, scowling as he diligently scours its pages for clues.

      He never gave me an engagement ring.

      It slipped his mind.

      He had planned to ask me to marry him, but evidently in much the same way that you plan to keep a dental appointment. Later, he claimed not to know that when you propose, it’s customary to present the woman with a ring.

      I told myself at the time that we were beyond romantic gestures; unorthodox; unique. And we congratulated ourselves for not indulging in any of the common, more banal expressions of love. I even looked up the word romance in the dictionary once, obsessed with justifying its absence from our relationship.

      ‘A picturesque falsehood,’ I read out, closing the book triumphantly. ‘See, it’s not real. Romance is a lie.’

      And he nodded sagely. How reassuring, to know the emptiness surrounding us is real.

      But, as I sit here, pretending I can see a diamond on my bare finger, it occurs to me that intellect can be a terrible, deceptive thing.

      I remember the day he asked me to marry him. We were in Paris in the middle of a heatwave. He’d just finished the run of a play where he was a dog, scrabbling around on all fours, and had badly hurt his knee. He was limping around with a stick and I had a cold. The French love suppositories. All the cold medicines seemed to involve inserting something into your bottom, so I preferred to sniffle and sneeze as we stumbled around the great city, determined to absorb its beauty.

      The relationship had come to a standstill several months ago. I knew he was going to propose because there was nowhere else for it to go and I was deeply irritated that he hadn’t asked me yet. I was tired and ill and wanted to go back to the room, take off my dress and lie down. But I knew he was measuring each place we went as a potential setting for the proposal. So I stumbled on, pretending to find everything charming, lest my bad attitude spoil the moment and delay it further.

      And I wore a dress because that’s what you wore when someone proposed to you.

      We drifted through the landscape of Paris, hoping to find on a bench or in a narrow alleyway the reason for our continued association. Eventually we came to sit under the shade of some trees in the Jardins du Luxembourg.

      ‘You’re not happy,’ he said at last.

      ‘I’m afraid,’ I conceded.

      He waited patiently in the stifling heat.

      ‘Remember when we first met,’ I began, feeling a wave of nausea building, ‘and you had a … a friendship …’

      He pressed his eyes closed against the burning sun. ‘That’s over,’ he said. ‘You know that’s over.’

      ‘Yes, but it’s what’s behind it that scares me.’

      He kept them closed. ‘There’s nothing behind it, Louise. We’ve been all through this.’

      But it wouldn’t go away; it was like a third person on the bench between us.

      ‘I’m only saying, I mean, as a reflection of your true self …’ I persisted.

      He opened his eyes. ‘There is no “true self”. I am who I make myself to be. It was a normal friendship.’

      ‘But you had to break up with him. When we met, you broke up with him. Friends are pleased when you meet someone. They stick around, get to know them. You don’t meet them in the park one wet Wednesday afternoon and quietly inform them that “things have changed”. They don’t disappear – not when they’ve been calling you every day for years …’

      He grabbed my wrist. ‘What do you want from me? What is it that you actually want? Do you want me to pretend it never happened? Is that it?’

      ‘No, but don’t you understand? How do I know it won’t happen again?’ I tried to pull away, but he held on tightly.

      ‘Because I won’t let it. I just won’t let it.’ His voice was defiant but his eyes looked exhausted, lost. ‘I promise you, Louise, I promise I won’t let you down.’

      He let go and my arm dropped limply by my side. I stared at the sandy walkway. Everything inside me was telling me to leave, to walk away.

      We’re in Paris. It’s romantic. A French family walks by, complete with small children and grandparents, as if they’d been cued in by an unseen director.

      I say it quietly, but I say it. ‘What if that’s your true nature. You cannot, no matter how hard you try, deny your true nature.’

      He rises slowly and holds out his hand. ‘I’m not going to have this conversation again. Either you accept me the way I am or not. It’s up to you.’

      I get up. I tell myself I’m crazy, stupid. He loves me, doesn’t he? He says the words, doesn’t he? I have a cold; I’m being dramatic.

      And I don’t want to be alone.

      We walk. We stumble on, into the heat. It never becomes more comfortable.

      The next night he proposes to me in the middle of Le Pont Des Arts and I accept.

      I close the book and look again at my husband. He’s completing the crossword, methodically crossing out each clue as he goes, writing the answers in pen.

      He has kept his promise; he has not let me down.

       1. We’ve always lived comfortably, in the best neighbourhoods, often within walking distance of the West End.

       2. He has never been rude to me in public or, to the best of my knowledge, unfaithful.

       3. He has looked after me, managing the household finances, taking care of me when I’ve been ill, and constantly seeking to improve our home.

       4. He does the laundry. I regularly come home to find my clothes neatly folded and stacked on the bed.

      

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