Page 8 of Five Gold Rings

Leave it. ‘Dopey was a dwarf, I am an elf,’ I say, re-educating them.

I get out my phone. It’s only 3 p.m. On the 23rdDecember. I may as well go home. Time to find my car and maybe treat myself to a decent Deliveroo to see in the season. I remember I have money in my pants. That’s the difference between a meal deal and Wahaca. But it’s then that my phone starts to ring. I reach around to get it out of my bag, glancing at the screen, confused as I look at the name of the caller.

‘Mr Caspar?’

‘Oh my, Joe. I am so glad you answered,’ he says, sounding surprised.

‘Is everything alright? I wasn’t due in today.’

‘Could you get down to the shop though?’

‘Now? Why?’

‘Yes. It’s just… Eve…’

THREE

Eve

‘Eve. My love. Why are you crying? Please don’t cry. Can I get you anything? Soup? Has someone died?’

Mrs Caspar takes my face in her crêpe-like hands as she ushers me into the back room of their tiny jewellery store in Hatton Garden. Compared to the bright modern designer shops that surround it in white marble and glass, I always think their shop looks more like a quaint French patisserie shop, elegant gold cursive lettering on the signs, brass fittings on the doors and all the jewellery on show on red cushions with handwritten price tags, all behind misted windows. I like how people stand outside looking at the rings as if they’re drooling over fancy macarons.

‘Is Mr Caspar in?’ I ask her, trying to pat down my face. I am crying because, well, my heart has been smashed into splinters like a bauble that’s crashed to a cold hard floor but because I’m also quite drunk from having downed a lot of the Christmas alcohol I had planned to gift to Chris’s family. I can feel it swishing about in my stomach now, wine on Baileys on fruity infused gin. It’s not a good mix.

‘He’s with a customer. What on earth has happened?’ she says, wrapping her arms around me. I rest my head on her frail shoulder and let all the emotion burst out of me. I don’t for a moment suppose that the reason I took on this part-time job was because of the Caspars. I needed money for London rents and getting through the last of my MA and this job seemed much better than slaving it out in restaurants. When I came for my interview, it was like walking into Geppetto’s workshop. Mr Caspar was the last existing Caspar, the son in Caspar & Sons, and it was less an interview, more a cuppa and a chat. They just wanted someone to trust, someone who believed in the idea of selling love to other people, love in the form of very expensive jewellery. We had tea and cake and halfway through the interview, Mrs Caspar raked crumbs out of her husband’s beard, which to me was the sweetest act of love I’d ever seen.

‘Christopher. Did he come in here to buy a ring?’ I ask her, tearfully.

‘Your boyfriend, Christopher? Yes. Oh dear, did you not like it? I thought he said he was proposing at Christmas…?’ she explains, pulling up a chair and encouraging me to sit down. I pout my lips, hating that Chris would have come in here and pulled the wool over this sweet couple’s eyes, too.

‘I mean, I know you aren’t keen on big jewellery. You’re not flashy or about big stones. Did you not like the ring?’

‘The ring was fine. I just… I found out Christopher has been cheating on me. This morning. I found out this morning…’ I mumble. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud to anyone and the words tumble out of me. I can feel my face wear the shame like a veil. Mrs Caspar steps back from me, her forehead burrowed into a hundred lines, and she takes that in, her breathing slowing down. It’s that sort of transformation you see in vampire films when the nice little old lady is a decoy. Really, behind the velvet dress and wrinkles is killer rage.

‘I will KILL HIM!’ she shrieks, gripping on to the side of my chair. I appreciate the rage but I’m not sure this is good for her angina. I stand up to try to pacify her. ‘HOW?’

‘Did he cheat on me? I’m not sure if you want the exact details, Mrs Caspar. It was in our flat…’

She puts her hand out. ‘No, I mean, how could he do this to you? You sweet girl…’

‘I don’t… I just…’

I have no words, no train of logical thought. It’s probably why I ended up here. After I saw the receipt, I felt I needed to come to the scene of the crime, ask the Caspars some questions. Did he choose it himself? Was it specially made? How long did it take him to choose? Did he mention someone called Allegra? Who likes to wear my robe? Is he in love with her?

‘I hope you’ve thrown him out!’ she exclaims.

I shrug in reply as she puts her hand in mine, studying my very sad eyes and the paleness of my skin. I don’t know how to tell her now that soup would actually be the one thing I need now. Is it chicken?

‘Call his mother. Go on, tell his mother. I don’t have a child but if one of mine did this to another human then I’d give him a beating.’

‘I don’t think I can do that, Mrs Caspar.’

‘Put it on the Facebook!’ she commands.

‘Frankly, I’m too embarrassed…’

Her tone changes. ‘Eve, you have nothing to be ashamed of. This is him! All him! You caught him in your flat. He brought this into the place where you live, where you sleep. The boy deserves to feel all that shame tenfold. I can’t believe this…’

---