The Lost and Found Necklace

by Louisa Leaman

  “Let me introduce you,” says Guy, leading her toward Stella.

  Jess steadies herself, determined not to appear overawed, but as Stella approaches, the first thing Jess’s eyes land on is the necklace. Any semblance of calm is eclipsed by envy. Why should that beautiful butterfly adorn the neck of someone who clearly doesn’t need extra adorning? All that Taylor energy bound in its sea-green wings, giving it vitality, giving it grace, now on the skin of a stranger! It looks wrong, unbearably wrong! Jess shudders, tucks her hands behind her back to stop herself from reaching for it.

  “My necklace,” she mumbles, flush-cheeked.

  “Yes,” whispers Guy. “She loves it. She’s already had a bunch of compliments.”

  “Has she now?”

  “Easy,” says Guy, catching her snippiness. “What is it with girls and their cattiness?”

  “I’m not being catty. It’s just… I just…”

  She sighs, takes a breath.

  “Okay,” she says, pulling herself together, lifting her shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

  Guy taps Stella on the shoulder.

  “Hey,” he says. “I have someone I’d like you to meet. This is Jess Taylor. She’s a jewelry dealer. Like me. She has business selling vintage and retro pieces. I tell you, she’s got a great eye.”

  Stella graces her with an air kiss. Close up, she smells like citrus fruits. But for all her exquisite poise, she barely manages to make eye contact. Her focus is all over the place, constantly monitoring who else is out there, who else is more popular, more powerful.

  “Lovely to meet you,” says Jess as politely as she can. “What a perfect evening.”

  “Yes,” says Stella, distracted.

  “And”—she cannot not comment—“what an extraordinary necklace!”

  “Thanks.”

  Stella raises her fingers to the tips of the butterfly wings. Don’t you dare break it, thinks Jess.

  “Out of curiosity, do you know when it was made?”

  “Uh…it’s vintage.”

  “Of course. It looks vintage. I wonder what era.”

  She can feel Guy’s eyes boring into her, yet there is a hint of a smile on his lips, suggesting he’s also enjoying the sport of it.

  “Uh…an olden-day era.”

  “She means it’s from the early twentieth century,” says Guy, maneuvering himself between the two women.

  “Yes,” says Stella dismissively. “Twentieth century.”

  She looks past the two of them, waves at the TV chef, then turns to the paps with perfect aplomb, her camera-smile radiating seduction.

  Stick to this, thinks Jess. This is where you excel.

  “Jess,” says Guy, taking her by the hand. “Why don’t we get you a drink?”

  “Great idea.”

  They walk toward the hall, and as Guy sweeps her past the doorman, Jess can’t help but feel important to him again, welcomed and wanted. The sound of a harp drifts up to the painted ceiling, a fairy echo above the fizzy chat. In every cell, she feels it, the buzz of being in the center of things. Not on the side, but the very center. From whom, she wonders, does she get her love of a fancy party? Not Nancy. Definitely not her mother or father. But maybe there’s a gene that skipped a few generations, a partying gene? Anna. It’s got to be Anna!

  From the nearest waiter, Guy takes two Bellinis, hands one to her. They chink glasses and sip the sweet, peachy nectar.

  “So…are galas your day-to-day thing?” Jess asks, leaning back against a fluted pillar.

  “Nah,” he says, the angles of his body mirroring hers, subconsciously creating a private Jess-Guy zone. “They’re my weekend thing. Day-to-day, I’m on my super yacht in Monaco.”

  They both laugh and the feeling crackles between them again, that zesty connection that refuses to dissipate.

  “You look very, very, very, very lovely by the way,” he says.

  “You’ve used that line already.”

  “Why do you always assume it’s a line?”

  “Because I know your type.”

  Touché.

  But Jess can feel the annoyance eroding. The way they throw these comments back and forth like confetti, it’s impossible to resist. Every inflection feels tantalizing, teasing, playful. They huddle so close that their bodies almost touch, blended energies. A tray of canapés—little pastries sprinkled with edible flowers—is momentarily offered to them, but the waiter, sensing their intimacy, retracts and sashays onward. Through the dark, Jess catches sight of Stella. She is working a line of photographers.

  “She is beautiful,” she comments.

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’ve just bitten into the most luscious-looking apricot, only to discover the inside is watery. She’s actually a blast when she gets going. It’s just”—he raises a brow—“she rarely gets going.”

  “You know, you have very active eyebrows,” says Jess, the Bellini going straight to her head, aware she is now feeding the flirtatious air between them.

  “So I’ve been told,” says Guy. “I try to control them, but they always get the better of me. I should probably get them their own Instagram account.”

  “Ah,” says Jess, daring to raise the thorny subject, “as for Instagram accounts—”

  Guy scrunches his face, a classic What have I done now? look.

  “You and Stella had fun at your LA after-party, did you?”

  “You’ve been cyberstalking me?”

  “I woke up wondering about you, that’s all, after we’d had such an amazing night…that hadn’t quite ended in the way that I think you hoped… Anyway…it’s all irrelevant now…”

  “Why bring it up then?” Guy smiles at her from the rim of his glass.

  “No reason,” she says.

  “I’m glad you thought it was an amazing night, anyhow.”

  He moves closer. She can smell his aftershave, the scent of musk and vanilla. The urge to run her hands through his hair, pull him close, draw him in… She feels it overwhelming her, grows dizzy with it—the tingle, the yearning, the thought of his hips pressed against hers. Surely the only way she can quell this crazy want is to…

  Suddenly a woman with a black bob and glittering diamond choker is in their sphere.

  “My favorite jewelry dealer,” the woman drools, showering Guy with intruder kisses, completely ignoring Jess. “Guy, darling, there’s someone I’d like you to meet—”

  She pronounces it Gee, like the French. Jess inwardly cringes. Gee, darling sounds so affected. It just doesn’t feel very…Guy. How does he stand it?

  “Have you heard of General Phillips?” the woman continues. “Absolute smasher. He and my husband were at Sandhurst together. He’s been looking into the whereabouts of his great-grandmother’s brooch. Very distinct, has his family crest on it. And a big ruby. Anyway, he thinks he’s traced it to Cape Verde, but he could use your help. First though, darling, you owe me a dance—”

  Within seconds, Guy is in this woman’s arms, twirling onto the dance floor. He doesn’t seem unhappy about it. In fact, he seems to revel in the attention of this posh, bobbed vulture. A triple cocktail of disappointment, envy, and anxiety prickles through Jess’s body. She retreats to the other side of the pillar, where she downs the rest of her drink. When she eventually finds the stomach to peer around the corner, she sees Guy so immersed in the dance, it’s as if he’s completely forgotten her existence.

  As he turns, however, through the swirling lights, he catches her eye and smiles. And it feels like a truthful smile. So she allows herself this little concession: that his devotion to this woman is perhaps purely business, a schmooze with a client. That his truth is not in this room. Not with Stella and her prestigious friends and her press frenzy, but somewhere else, somewhere…with her.
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  When the song ends, he breaks away and, much to the bobbed vulture’s vexation, he returns to their pillar.

  “Another drink?” he asks.

  “Shouldn’t you be schmoozing?”

  “I am schmoozing.”

  “Not with me. With…your people.”

  “They,” he says, staring at her squarely, “are not my people.”

  Jess grins, privately pleased.

  “So now that Stella’s had her fashionista moment, can we get my heirloom please?”

  “Sure. What’s your plan?”

  “I thought you had a plan—”

  “I did. And it’s worked.”

  She stares at him.

  “I’m here for the necklace,” she asserts. “Nothing else.”

  “Well, I was thinking I could tell Stella that the catch at the back appears broken, and that rather than risk losing it, I’ll ‘look after’ it for her. I’ll smother her with compliments, reassure her that she doesn’t need bling to shine, that sort of thing.” He shifts, looks a little uneasy.

  “Thank you,” says Jess. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

  “Of course. It’s Stella…and I’m lying to her.”

  “A small lie, for a good cause.”

  “Which could get me into a whole heap of trouble. Seriously, if Stella gets wind of this, she’ll be livid. I’ll be struck off the Christmas list.”

  Jess scoffs.

  “Nonsense. Prince Charming, you’ll always come out on top—”

  “So I am Prince Charming? Thanks for the compliment.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a compliment,” Jess quips. “Charming doesn’t always mean charming.”

  “There it is again,” says Guy, gliding his hands to indicate an invisible shield between them, “the Jess Taylor force field.”

  Meanwhile, from the corner of her eye, Jess sees Stella moving away.

  “Quick,” she urges, “go to it.”

  “Okay, okay. Mission engaged. But I can’t promise Stella will fall for it. If she senses I’m messing her about, I’ll have to pull the plug.”

  “Oh, stop pandering to her,” Jess scolds. “Just do it!”

  “Okay,” he shouts, waggling his fingers, grinning at her, walking backwards.

  As Guy weaves into the crowd, Jess aches with the pull and push of her feelings. She twiddles her hair, presses her heels into the ground, rocks back and forth. She watches Guy approach Stella, whisper something in her ear. They both giggle, then disappear together, and from where Jess is standing, it doesn’t look like he’s said anything about the necklace, let alone that it’s damaged and needs emergency repairs. Tense and nervy, she goes to the bar and orders another Bellini. Ten minutes later, the Bellini downed, Guy is nowhere to be seen. The barman offers her another.

  “I better not,” Jess says, drumming the bar top with frustration.

  Her unease escalates. What are they up to? Where is the necklace? Should she message, or would that look like pestering? She steels herself and, instead, messages Tim to say she’s sorry they parted on bad terms and that she’ll be at the Star soon. He immediately FaceTimes her back, but this ignites panic. He can’t see where she is. It will only inflame matters. He won’t…understand. She backs outside to a quiet balcony, takes the call.

  “Hey,” she says overbrightly.

  “Hey to you,” he replies. “Look, Jess, I’m sorry I stormed off. It’s just I feel like you’re… Oh, I don’t know, Jess… I just want it to be about us, okay? I get jealous, the way you do your own thing. It makes me nervous.”

  “Don’t be,” says Jess, the guilt plummeting like an anvil in her belly.

  “Are you coming to join us?”

  “I am,” she says. “In a short while.”

  “And…have you managed to get your beloved necklace back?”

  “Nearly,” she says. Change the subject. “Are you having fun?”

  “Yeah, good times. The guys have got us playing drinking games.”

  He pans his phone around, creating a 360-degree panoramic of the scene: the check-shirted geography department and the silver-chain math gang sipping pints of lager while Duff holds court. Jess hears the words radiation and simulator and realizes he is delivering one of his Duff-style physics monologues. She then catches a glimpse of the scene in the grand hall behind her, where two crystal-studded stilt walkers are breathing fire across the delighted crowds and a feathered burlesque dancer has just thrown her nipple tassels at the Lord Mayor.

  “Love you, Jess,” says Tim optimistically.

  “Love you too,” she says, the words exiting her mouth as though they’ve been shoved out.

  Dazed, Jess circuits the hall, past the throngs of hedonists, the glitter cannons and the towers of crystal champagne coupes. The sense that anything could happen enthralls her. Games night with the Baxter Academy lot, the same people, same place, same conversations, every week, it just can’t compare. But at least Tim doesn’t keep her waiting or say one thing, then do another. And while he may not have the most gripping of lifestyles, his steadiness is his strength. It pervades everything he does. Whereas all of this—the grand gala of Guy’s world—is fun for a moment, but ultimately it’s fluff. Once the loudspeakers have been dismantled and the glitter swept up, surely it’s just another empty space. No substance. No security. In her anguish, her thoughts do another one-eighty flip.

  She checks the lobby, the cloakrooms, and the powder rooms, where a huddle of women are spraying their crotches with perfume. She then returns to the balcony where the lights of the Thames sparkle and the breeze from the river ripples her dress. She checks her watch again. If she doesn’t get the necklace tonight, what will the consequence be? The thought of Nancy dying in agitation, denied her final wish, squeezes her heart. But it isn’t just that… Somehow it feels as though she will suffer too; that without the necklace, without its energy, her own happiness will be set askew.

  She looks into the shadows of the hall, looks for Guy one more time, then with a gale of regret, she makes her choice to go. She cannot keep Tim on hold any longer. It isn’t fair. With a final glance across the moonlit Thames, she tucks her bag under her arm, leans into her walking cane, takes a step, then suddenly a warm breath tickles the back of her neck. She stills and gasps, as a pair of hands emerge beside her.

  “Shh!” he whispers, softly slipping the butterfly necklace over her shoulders, his fingertips scintillating the cool of her skin.

  He turns her toward him and their eyes meet.

  “Happy now?” he whispers.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, breathlessly, reaching for her butterfly.

  The necklace she has longed for, the Taylor legacy, finally around her neck—and through it, right here and now, she can feel the past in her blood, four generations of her family coursing into her veins, bolstering her: Minnie, Anna, Nancy, and Carmen. They are all here. She shuts her eyes. They are here within her, whispering their wisdoms.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  And then, on impulse, engulfed by gratitude, she leans up on tiptoes and plants a thank-you kiss. Just a thank-you kiss, but it unintentionally misses the cheek it’s intended for and lands straight on Guy’s lips. The moment shocks. They both fall away.

  “Sorry,” she gasps, her walking cane clattering to the floor.

  Before she has a chance to pick it up, Guy lowers his gaze to the necklace, to that fat moonstone, where it rests against her milky skin, a hypnotist’s charm. He stares, mesmerized, then looks up at Jess. They were flirty before, but this, this is another level. This is it. No matter how risky, how wrong, or how out of place, this is how soul mates feel.

  Her reasoning mind rendered powerless, no longer in opposition to her lust, Jess shuts her eyes and gives in to the fervor. Her fingers entwine with Guy’s. She shouldn’t. She knows this. She h
as never been a cheat, hates cheating, but her heart is on fire, her breath so fast it’s dizzying. And as she leans toward him, in the space where their lips hover, desperate to touch, everything feels suspended: every star, every cell, every hope…everything hangs in this moment.

  So she dissolves into the pleasure of kissing Guy Arlo van der Meer. And it’s wonderful. His kiss is both deep and tender and it makes her shiver, makes her feel like a queen of the silver screen. And all at once everything comes to life, the truth of her heart colliding into his, the bond between the wearer and the watcher, a tightening knot, declaring itself: undeniable, indelible.

  Then the magic is broken by a vibration between their bodies.

  “My phone,” says Jess, hurtling back to reality.

  She doesn’t need to look at the screen to know that it’s Tim. She shudders from her bliss, shocked, appalled at herself.

  “Oh god…I don’t know what came over me… I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry, really sorry.”

  Guy grips her hands.

  “Sorry?” he says. “Why be sorry? You went with your instincts. We both did. We could do it again. And again. And again.”

  He pulls her toward him, cups her cheeks with his hands, and she wants so much to let him, but the thought that she’s building a life with Tim, one that is good for her, one that she needs is bigger than this. Get real, Jess.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again, then before he can argue or seduce her anymore, she hastens away.

  ***

  Reeling, Jess hails a taxi cab. Her first thought is to direct the driver to Nancy’s care home in Sydenham, but then she remembers it’s past nine o’clock. The care home will now be closed to visitors. In desperation, she telephones the home’s reception and is relieved when the favorite nurse answers.

  “She’s still with us,” the nurse reassures her. “And she’s perfectly comfortable. We’re checking on her all the time.”

  “So she’ll make it through the night?” says Jess, grasping for assurance.