Page 9 of Five Gold Rings

For a moment, I think about just inviting Chris to this shop to let the Caspars on to him so they can give him that beating he needs. I’d watch that and enjoy it.

‘I have Facebook! I’ll do it myself!’ she shouts.

‘Mrs Caspar…’ I whisper.

She looks at me and shakes her head to see me tearing up again.

‘You know the jewellery shop three doors down is run by some dodgy ones. We can ask if they can do us a favour? I’d pay…’

‘Mrs Caspar, NO!’ I say, cry-laughing, half wondering how she knows they’re dodgy. Is this something to do with their Thursday bridge nights?

A maroon curtain suddenly gets pulled back from the main shop and Mr Caspar stands there, impeccable in his three-piece tweed suit, checking the time on his pocket watch. There is something very grandparent-like about the both of them, the old-school way in which they write us actual cheques to pay us and always have boiled sweets about their person. ‘What on earth is the commotion here? Eve? What on earth?’ he says, looking at me.

‘It would seem young Christopher has not been exactly honest and faithful to Eve,’ Mrs Caspar explains as delicately as possible.

It takes Mr Caspar a moment to take in the meaning of that, and he stands there, glasses perched on his nose, frowning. ‘Oh, Eve, really? But he came in here and he bought…’

‘A ring, I know…’ I tell him sadly and he lilts his head to one side to take in what that all means.

‘I’ll KILL HIM!’ he suddenly says, eyes bulging. Not you, too. Think of the stress. You have diabetes.

‘Mrs Caspar has that covered,’ I inform him, trying to crack a joke but failing miserably, just some exasperated version of myself, not knowing how and why I even got here, in this shop.

His gaze returns to me, a deep furrow to his brow, like he’s trying to recall events. He then goes to a box on the desk in his back room. As much as we’ve attempted to persuade the Caspars to go online, they still prefer a paper receipt that they can file away.

‘1stDecember was when he came in. I remember we joked about advent. I suggested a calendar of jewellery.’

I smile as he says this, thinking about how he takes such care with his customers, the times I make him cups of tea and he never drinks them because he’s busy chatting with people and finding out their life stories. His thick fingers flick through the papers and the bell at the front of the shop rings.

‘Estelle, I think that’s the courier. Just give him the yellow parcel under the till.’ Mrs Caspar shuffles out of the room as he reads the receipts carefully then takes pause. ‘It wasn’t just a ring. It was earrings. For his mother. Sterling silver hearts.’

I stand there for a moment to take that in. We got his mother a hamper. I’m pretty sure everything in there was edible. I wrapped it carefully in cellophane and I made a label with one of those snowflake cutters and used my very best writing. I threw that hamper out of the window. He bought earrings. Not for his mother, that much I know.

Mr Caspar grabs my hand and looks up at me from his desk, knowing that I never saw those earrings. ‘I am very sorry, Eve. I feel responsible. I should have known it when…’

‘You knew?’ I ask him, tears still blurring my vision.

‘I didn’t. But I had a feeling when he just chose a ring out of the display, like he was choosing a muffin in a coffee shop. “I’ll take that one.” He’d done zero research, even when I tried to turn his head to the other rings. I know you’ve always adored emeralds. I’d have gone for something with far greater clarity in the stone, but no… He didn’t take the time to think about it, to think what would suit you, what you would love. Maybe that’s a sign…’

I stand there for a moment to feel the situation heavy in my chest, wondering what he was thinking – why he even wanted to propose – and I think about how he could have just gone down the high street and done the same in any shop. But then I realise why he came here.

‘Did you give him a discount?’ I ask.

‘I did,’ Mr Caspar says, scrunching his face up. ‘I am so sorry, Eve.’

‘Please don’t say you’re sorry. You have done nothing wrong,’ I whisper, my tears now streaming down both cheeks to see this lovely gentleman so mortified to have played a part in this somehow. He reaches up to hug me and I hug him back. Mrs Caspar re-enters the room and joins in, too, in this group hug of velvet, tweed and tears.

‘Is there anything we can do, Eve? What are you going to do for Christmas? Weren’t you going to spend time with his family?’ Mr Caspar asks me. ‘Did you want to come to ours?’

We all part from the hug. ‘That’s very kind but I think I’ll go see my dad and my brother…’ I say, lying. I’m going to get drunk on my own, watch Christmas films and cry until I look like a giant prune.

Mrs Caspar holds her hands to my face again. ‘Such a beautiful girl. I always say that, don’t I, Rudy? Sometimes people just have a kindness in their face, that shines out of their eyes. That boy doesn’t deserve your good soul.’ She kisses my forehead, and my eyes start to water again.

‘Maybe I can help you here for the rest of the day while I try and work out what I’m doing? Do you need help? You don’t have to pay me. I just… I could sort out the boxes at the back or do some invoicing. Just anything to take my mind off things?’

They both nod at me resolutely and, for the first time today, I feel I’m at least in a safe place where two wonderful people will look after me.

‘Anything you want,’ Mrs Caspar tells me.

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