The Lost and Found Necklace

by Louisa Leaman

  “For sure. They were inseparable.”

  Jess blinks. For as long as she can remember, Nancy had lived alone. That she’d ever had a romantic life seems extraordinary, but there he is: Paul Angel.

  “Looking young there,” says Nick. “I only knew her when she was older. Mind you, she always seemed young compared to Paul. Is she—?”

  “She’s really poorly. She’s dying.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Eighty-two.”

  “Good innings, at least. Did she find someone else?”

  “No. No, she didn’t.”

  “Such a shame,” says Nick solemnly. “Five decades. That’s a long time to be a widow.”

  “Oh no,” says Jess, heart sinking. “What happened?”

  “Heart attack. One hot May morning in 1969. But I tell you what, his funeral was something. I was just a boy, but I was made to put on a suit and pay my respects. I remember it vividly, heck of a turnout, testament to how much Paul was loved by his industry. But for Nancy, it was too soon.”

  “I bet it was. So what were they like? Do you remember?”

  “Always together. Bit of an odd pair, mind. The age gap was close to fifteen years, which caused a few wagging tongues and raised brows.”

  Jess laughs. No doubt Anna was one of the tongue waggers, her chances with the grocer’s son and the convent school spiraling down the drain.

  “Seemed to work perfectly for them though,” says Nick. “They ran Paul Angel Photography together. ‘Gentleman Paul,’ as he was known, became one of the most well-respected music photographers of his day, always flattered his subjects, looked to bring out the best in them, no matter what whiff of scandal or degradation was in their midst. They had a daughter, Carmen, named after the opera.”

  “Yes,” says Jess, beaming. “She was my mother.”

  “Of course,” says Nick, as though the pieces of the puzzle are slotting into place. “Paul was a doting father.”

  “Aw, that’s nice to hear.”

  “Fancy a strum?” he says, gesturing toward a rack of acoustic guitars.

  “Thank you,” says Jess, distracted by the sound of Nancy’s voice, the last thing she said to her: Paul is waiting. “But I need to get going.”

  She thanks him again and makes for the door. Halfway down Denmark Street she stops, takes out her phone, and calls Guy’s number. They haven’t spoken since Hollywood, since he sneaked off to party at Stella’s LA pad, making her feel like a gullible fool. Should this be discussed? Is it even important when all she needs is to get Nancy’s necklace, then never see him again?

  “Hello,” she says, voice clipped.

  “Jess,” he says, with cheer, “of the Doughnuts. Funnily enough, I was about to call you. Recovered from LA?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “We had a lovely time, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What does ‘I suppose’ mean?”

  “It means I’m not in the mood for small talk—”

  “Oh. So how about big talk?”

  “How about no talk? I’m calling because, once and for all, I need to get the necklace.”

  “Er, yes, but you do realize it’s the Capital Gala today? Stella is primed for the red carpet, very much loving that art nouveau butterfly—”

  “Good for her,” says Jess, “but I need my necklace.”

  Her emotions bubble. She doesn’t want to cry again, not to him.

  “It’s happening,” she says. “The nurse told me she reckons forty-eight hours. This is the one thing I can do for her to send her off in peace. You have to get that necklace for me.”

  She can hear Guy sighing, under pressure.

  “Look,” he says, “maybe there’s a way we can speed things up. Just come to the gala. Be my plus-one. I sent you a ticket, which wasn’t easy by the way. The security at these things is insane. Anyway, here’s the plan: we’ll let Stella have her showcase moment, then we’ll get the necklace off her immediately after. I’ll say it needs repairing or something, then you can steal it into the night, Cinderella-style, get it to your grandmother ASAP—”

  Jess brightens. “Will you honestly do that?”

  “Jess, I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Jess sniffs, restores herself.

  “Somerset House, the Strand,” says Guy. “Stella will be on the red carpet about five thirty. Let her get a few snaps, then it’ll be yours. And until then, just keep giving Grandma the elixir.”

  “Okay.”

  “And…since I’ll be rocking a tuxedo, don’t forget your best dress. It’ll help the mission if you blend in.”

  Jess blinks, caught by the idea of Guy in a tuxedo, realizing that, despite the desperation of it all, some deep, inscrutable, shameful part of her cannot wait to see him again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tim stands at Jess’s bedroom door, waits for her to notice him. She appears to be reorganizing her wardrobe, all her best things strewn across the floor—shoes, scarves, and of course, the obligatory jewelry chaos. There is redness in her eyes, a hint that she’s been crying. This grandmother stuff is crushing her. Aggie is right; what Jess needs is cheering up. Her advice, as always, is on point. He grips the gift-wrapped box behind his back, gives a little cough.

  Jess looks up.

  “Tim? Oh, hi. I–I didn’t think I was seeing you until later.”

  “You weren’t, but, well, I thought I’d call by anyway to see my love.”

  “Aw,” she says, cuddling into his embrace.

  “So what’s all this?” he quizzes. “Decluttering? We won’t be short of wardrobe space in the new place, while it’s just us two anyhow—”

  “No, I–I was just…”

  She pauses, shrugs, stares down at the ensemble of pale-blue organza beneath her feet. There it is again, that faraway look in her eyes. Life would be so much easier if he had a mind-reading talent, one that could give him the assurance he needs, whenever that mystery distance creeps between them.

  “I have something for you,” he whispers, keen to reclaim her focus.

  He presents her with the box. She gazes at it and smiles.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just a gift, knowing that you’ve been missing a certain butterfly necklace.”

  Now her eyes brighten. She’s delighted. Or is it puzzlement? He can’t quite tell.

  “Open it,” he encourages.

  Hopefully, the box lid says it all. She’ll know from the brand name of the jewelers what’s coming next. He grins, holds his breath.

  “Ah,” she says.

  The way her eyes sail across the bright silver butterfly charm pendant within, she is…astounded.

  “Do you like it?” he urges. “It’s to make up for the one you didn’t get.”

  “It’s…it’s…”

  Jess really is astounded. She doesn’t know what to say. He mustn’t put words in her mouth though—a bad habit of his, to fill silence, to coach people through their reactions. He breathes deeply, grins some more. All he wants is affirmation: Yes, I love it and I love you!

  “It’s…so sweet.”

  “Do you want to try it on? You could wear it tonight.”

  “Yes. I…could.”

  He takes it from the box and places it around her neck, turns her to the mirror, and they both admire her reflection.

  “The shop assistant told me it’s sterling silver, with something called cubic zirconia. That’s the sparkly bit. But…you know more about this stuff than I do. I just thought a nice piece of jewelry, to make you smile. Something you can pass on one day, maybe, if we have a daughter?”

  He tickles her ribs, and she squirms and turns and buries her face in his arms. That’s more like it. Somewhere in the back of his head, he hears his mother reminding him to treat wo
men well, which is something he can certainly trump his brothers on. He was always good to Cassidy, which would have been fine had she not decided she wanted the kind of excitement that came in the form of a gym instructor with a motorbike.

  He was good to Cassidy and she screwed him over.

  But he won’t pass it on. He’ll be good to Jess.

  Because Jess is deserving. Jess is everything.

  ***

  It’s sweet, thinks Jess. It is sweet.

  So very sweet. But awful.

  And it doesn’t matter that it’s sterling silver. It could be solid platinum encrusted with emeralds, and it would still make her heart wilt. It’s just not her. It’s so new. So crudely designed. And so very, very, very shiny. It could never compare to Minnie’s True Love Necklace, the ions and atoms of four women’s lives absorbed into its links and curves. This, on the other hand—she knows the brand, has always avoided it—is nothing more than department-store shelf filler, along with a million others like it.

  To make up for the one you didn’t get.

  How could it? How could it possibly? He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t see that if it weren’t for Minnie’s necklace, and the part it played in uniting her with Emery Floyd, then Minnie would never have gotten pregnant and given birth to Anna, who would never have famously “gone to Hollywood,” never met the doubtful Christopher Roderick, presumably never had Nancy, who would never have had Carmen. And without Carmen, of course, there would be no Jess, no Aggie, no Steph, no Marcus. None of them. So to say it’s a necklace doesn’t do it justice when, really, it’s a birth rite.

  But still, she appreciates Tim’s gesture. Like the Stratford City new-build apartment, every item needs a beginning. It’s only a necklace. She shouldn’t be ungrateful. Some people go all their lives hoping their loved one will be thoughtful enough to buy them jewelry, or even just a bunch of daffodils, or a coconut Toblerone. Yes, he bought her bad jewelry, but doesn’t every partner make that mistake once in a while? She stares at the pendant, the way it wanly rests against her breastbone. Maybe some people just need educating, guiding into touch…except, how can he be so out of touch with her taste in jewelry? When it is pretty much the foundation of her core, the reason she jumps out of bed in the morning!

  “Aunty Jess!” Steph bowls in. “You said you wanted a second opinion about what to wear to the…uh…gala—”

  She stops in her tracks, stares hard at Tim.

  “Hello, Stephanie,” he says.

  Jess can tell by his voice that he’d like Steph to disappear fast—and that the word gala and all of its Cinderella connotations has caught in his throat like glue. Meanwhile Steph stares down at the pale-blue organza effort.

  “Is that what you’re thinking of? It’s gorge!”

  Jess winces, glances back and forth between the two of them.

  “But it’s only games night at the Star?” says Tim, eyebrow raised. “No need for the prom gown.”

  “Yes, but…as Steph mentioned—I was about to tell you—I am coming to the Star…but before that, I’m attending a gala. In town.”

  His eyes narrow and immediately she feels villainous. Steph, either oblivious or superbly astute, nods at Jess, then backs away.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” she says. “I’ve got just the bag to go with that. I’ll dig it out of my room.”

  Thanks, mouths Jess.

  “What gala?” says Tim, hands now clamped on his hips.

  “It’s the Capital Gala,” says Jess, lowering herself to the bed to rest her hip. “Not my thing, although always fun to dress up, but…it’s…a jewelry event.”

  “Oh. And who are you going with?”

  “Just…a mate.” She hates lying. She can’t lie. “The truth is, I’m going to get the necklace back. The necklace—”

  “You mean you’re going to meet that Guy person?”

  She exhales, drops her chin. “Yes.”

  “Right.” The coldness in his voice says it all.

  “I just want the necklace. For Nancy.”

  He clenches his jaw, stares at the ceiling, as Aggie breezes in.

  “Well,” she says, grinning at the ill-fated charm pendant dangling from Jess’s neck. “Oh, how—”

  Jess assumes she’s about to say lovely, or pretty, or some such gleeful adjective, but at the sight of the tense jaws and frown lines, Aggie falters.

  “I was just about to see if you guys wanted a G&T, but”—she backs away—“when you’re ready.”

  Alone again, Jess softens, reaches for Tim’s hands.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, trying to smile, to steer them back to comfort.

  But it’s too little, too late.

  “Whatever,” he growls, grabbing his jacket and marching out.

  ***

  Jess removes the charm pendant, places it back in its box. The act feels barbarous, but time is running out. Her emotions all over the place, she hastens to don the blue dress. Steph skips back in with a glint in her eye.

  “Here’s the bag. Oh, you look ace. What was wrong with Tim?”

  “Nothing. Everything. Men.”

  “I get you,” says Steph with a consenting nod.

  Dressed and ready, Jess sneaks down the stairs, hopeful she can exit the house without any more scenes, but Aggie is there, waiting in the kitchen, consumed by one of her low-voiced chats with Ed. They both look up as Jess enters the hall, staring at her through the shadows.

  “What?” says Jess, snapping at their darkened faces. “Don’t look at me like that!”

  “Jess… Ed and I, we’re concerned. We don’t understand what you’re playing at—”

  “Playing?”

  Aggie shrugs, a gesture that implies she deserves a full and frank explanation.

  “That’s the problem.” Jess scowls. “You think I’m still at the playing stage. You treat me like a naughty schoolgirl, sneaking out without your permission.”

  Aggie rolls her eyes.

  “If you don’t want to be treated like a schoolgirl, Jessica, then don’t behave like one!”

  “Aaaarrrrggghh!” Jess rages, shaking her hands at the sides of her head.

  Everyone with their opinions! Everyone with their concern! She storms out, slamming the door, fire burning in her belly, fury for the sister she adores but can never appease, never match, never truly be.

  ***

  Somerset House, the Thames-side venue for the Capital Gala, its neoclassical magnificence buzzing with paparazzi, is red-carpet ready. Clutching the invite, Jess approaches the entrance, her walking cane clattering on the cobbles. She looks around for Guy, but can’t see him anywhere. Guests keep arriving—a few celebrity faces she recognizes: a TV chef, a singer, and a news correspondent who happens to be wearing an excellent set of baroque pearls. Jess shows her invite to security and is welcomed through the gates, but alone she feels self-conscious. Everyone else seems to know each other.

  The early evening sun cascades into the forecourt, flooding the pale stone floor where horses and carriages would have once alighted. Jess can’t help imagining the arrival of Regency women—their empire-line dresses adorned with aquamarine ribbon chokers, coral cameos, and diamond hair bandeaus—and on their arms, the Darcys and Rochesters of the day, somehow finding their way to heroism, despite a few dubious personality “quirks.” Was it easier then, she wonders, when a woman’s choice of suitor was governed by strict codes of social etiquette?

  She glances around, but there is still no sign of Guy. Suddenly, she sees how tenuous this all is, a fanciful plan to meet at a ball—like some jumped-up fairy tale. Now she really does feel like a schoolgirl again, waiting for her crush Danny Dobson to meet her at the cinema. The sink and sting, when she realized Danny wasn’t late, wasn’t held up. Just wasn’t coming.

  With a despondent sigh, she checks her watch,
then her phone. Maybe, like Danny Dobson, Guy has other plans? Should she even be surprised, given his antics in LA and his self-proclaimed on-my-own-terms attitude to life? She clenches her fists, releases them, her frustration for the necklace escalating, and then…

  He emerges from the shadows of the colonnade, gorgeous in his formfitting tuxedo, a fluster in his sunlit eyes as he looks into the crowds. He is searching for her. She knows it, senses it. Against her better judgment, her chest fills with lightness. He looks so lovely. And now she has a choice, to either wave her hand and get his attention or walk away without him ever seeing her; how that would uncomplicate things, freeing her to live the rest of her life as planned with Tim, ensuring that the brief time she and Guy have spent together remains nothing more than a commitment test.

  But Nancy’s necklace. Regardless of Guy in his sexy tuxedo and Tim with his sweet but ill-judged jewelry gestures, regardless of all of it, she is here to get Nancy’s necklace. And that is that.

  So she waves, calls out.

  “Guy! Over here!”

  “Jess!” He waves at her. “Wait! I’ll come over!”

  Her mind fills with thoughts of their night at Musso’s, the moment she first saw him there, the magical shock of it, their laughter, their near kiss…then the sting of those pool-party photographs. Don’t! she warns, shutting her eyes, chasing out her desire. Don’t be fooled!

  When she looks again, she sees he is flanked by two glamorous women in red dresses and Cartier. And there behind him, looking the other way, is Stella Weston. The supermodel turned influencer, with her party pad in LA and her mews house in Portobello Road, tall and willowy, olive-skinned, straight chestnut hair parted in the center, framing her high-defined cheekbones, her flowing white gown making her look like a Grecian goddess. Immediately self-conscious of her shortness, her roundness, her walking cane, and her general lack of Grecian goddess dress, Jess hugs herself.

  “Jess!” says Guy, swooping her into a two-peck greeting. “Sorry, I should have warned you it would be a nightmare to find each other, but here we are”—he holds her gaze—“so let the fun begin. You look lovely, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” she replies, urging herself to remain annoyed about the LA party/false pretenses fiasco. Annoyance, she remembers Aggie telling her, after Matteus sent his heartless “can’t do this anymore” text, is a fruitful thing. Stay annoyed. It stops you getting hurt.