by Rosie Nixon
I kept thinking he’d appear at any second, but after ten minutes my toes and fingers were beginning to freeze. Just as I was about to give up, Vicky phoned, so I sat on the steps leading up to Maurice’s front door and spoke to her while I waited.
“You’re not going to believe it,” she said, bursting with excitement. “The auction house called about that date—you know, the one with the hot model?”
“Yes, I am aware of your expensive date with a gay guy.”
“Well, it’s happening tonight! Apparently, Noah’s got several engagements next week so we’re meeting right away. How cool is that?” She seemed to be blanking the fact he might be more interested in guys.
“Great, hon, I hope you have a fantastic time.” I couldn’t help feeling flat about this “date,” which had cost more than my wages in the last year; it seemed such a grotesque waste of money, especially when she was camping out at our place, causing tension between Rob and me.
“What time will you be home this afternoon?” she asked. “I’d love to get your opinion on what I should wear.”
“I’ll be a couple of hours,” I replied, not feeling particularly enthusiastic.
“I’ll get some wine in,” she offered, giving me some kind of incentive to get back.
Just before she hung up, a cab containing Maurice pulled up.
“Chérie! Je suis désolé!” he gushed. “I would have called but my battery died. I had to pick something up—for the costume.” He grinned wickedly. “Hurry, let’s get inside, I can’t wait to show you.”
He patted a black satchel worn across his slim body. His Cuban heels looked as though they’d had a bit of a polish; even his trademark bun hairstyle looked a little neater today. Maurice was on the up.
I followed him into the apartment building, feeling just as wowed by its splendor as the first time I set foot in there, just over a week before.
“So what’s in the bag? The suspense is killing me,” I begged as the little lift rattled it’s way upward.
“Not here, wait until we get inside,” he whispered, his hand hovering over the clasp of his satchel, as it had been since he exited the cab.
We entered the apartment and headed straight for his lounge. The birds in the birdcage seemed to spring to life as soon as they saw him.
“Bonjour mes douces filles!” he exclaimed. “No time to let you out today, I’m afraid, my friend and I have work to do.”
I walked along beside him, absorbing more about the grand room as I went. On every table were framed photographs and little trinkets, porcelain pill boxes, statuettes of dancers, and pretty vases of flowers. Maurice clearly took great pride in maintaining his ancestor’s former home.
He pulled aside a chair and ushered me to sit down. And then he opened the satchel and took out another bag—a fairly large black-velvet drawstring pouch, clearly filled with something reasonably heavy. He set it down on a side table positioned between us.
“I had an idea,” he began. “That photo of Marianne, you remember—the one that struck you, in the hallway, where she looks sad and is wearing the bejeweled ruby bra?”
I smiled. “Of course, it’s a beautiful photo.”
He pulled it out of the bag now, too. I hadn’t noticed it was missing from the wall when we came in.
“Clark Claybourne—that’s the name of the multi-millionaire boyfriend who gave it to her.”
I nodded as he continued. “Well, it turns out he’s still alive. He’s being looked after by a private nurse in his Long Island mansion.”
He got up and moved across the room to an ornate French walnut desk with inlaid brass embellishments and three deep drawers. He opened the middle drawer and I could see from the other side of the room that it was full of letters. He ran his hand through them, lifting up a pile to show me that it was full to overflowing—there must have been hundreds in there.
“These are all letters from Clark,” he said, eyes shining. “He has been writing to Marianne every week for years now. I opened the letters at first, but then I gave up. They all say the same thing—that he thinks of her every single day and his one big regret in life is ending their relationship, that he would give anything for another moment in her company.”
My mouth fell open; it was such a sad story.
“But what are you going to do with the letters, Maurice?” I asked, wondering what this had to do with what was in the pouch.
“Clark always leaves his phone number, and so, as part of my journey to move on with life, I thought it was about time I put him straight.” He sighed. “So I called him, and he immediately invited me to Long Island. He said he had something he wanted me to have. So that’s where I’ve been. I went yesterday and stayed the night in a nearby motel. I met Clark for dinner—I took him a picnic of French foods and we ate it together, with me sitting by his bed. It was quite magical, as we told stories of Marianne into the evening. He really did love her. But he was never formally divorced from his first wife, so it was impossible for them to be together, he said. He eventually felt duty-bound to return to his wife because she was terminally ill. But he never forgot Marianne. He said she was the one who got away.”
Now my eyes were beginning to fill with tears, too. He continued. “Anyway, as I was about to leave, he handed me this.” He held up the velvet pouch.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
Gently, he teased it open and pulled out a string of the most stunning, shimmering red rubies. As more and more rubies cut into the shape of petals appeared from the bag, I could see that it was heavy—much heavier than a necklace or another piece of jewelry. Other than the Crown Jewels exhibition at the Tower of London, I had never seen so many glittery precious stones on one item. I looked back at the black-and-white photo of Marianne.
“The ruby-encrusted bra . . .” I sighed.
“Mais, oui. Clark insisted I take it. He had given it to Marianne when they were dating, but she returned it in the post when he called things off. Miraculously, it reached him without his wife ever getting wind of it, and he kept it hidden for seventy years, in case he ever saw Marianne again. I guess I turned out to be his only link to her and when I told him about my career in fashion, he knew I would put it to good use. He didn’t want to just leave it to a grandchild who wouldn’t fully appreciate its beauty or understand the significance of it. He wanted it to be close to Marianne again—and the closest thing to her, is me.”
“That’s so romantic.” I sighed. “What an incredible piece. How much do you think it’s worth?”
“Clark told me to insure it for one million dollars,” he whispered, and looked over his shoulder toward the birdcage, as if he didn’t even want his feathery friends to be privy to such information.
“One. Million. Dollars.” I repeated, awestruck. I put my fingers out to touch the cool, smooth stones; there must have been at least a hundred of them covering a very delicate boned bra. It was in immaculate condition. Maurice offered the bra to me and I held it. It was much heavier than I imagined—it would be quite a thing to wear. I realized I had never held something so valuable before in my life—the closest I had come was a limited-edition crocodile Birkin bag in Smith’s, a snip at sixty-two thousand pounds. Holding something so valuable and rare had a strange, kind of hypnotic, effect on me. As the gemstones twinkled in the light, I marveled at its uniqueness and beauty. “That’s incredible, Maurice, it’s absolutely out of this world.”
“My darling, I, too, nearly fainted when he told me. But this guy is a multi-millionaire, remember. One million dollars is a drop in the ocean for un homme with that kind of bank account.”
“So what will you do with it?” I asked, imagining ways that I could burn through a million dollars: property around the globe, vintage Chanel handbags, exotic holidays for all the family, a bathroom cabinet full of Crème de la Mer, a classic cream Porsche . . .
“Why, I would never sell it,” he stated.
I batted my eyelids and muttered, “Of course not.”
“But I know what I’ll do with it,” he continued. “The timing of all this, it is quite incroyable. I can’t think of a better, more eye-catching centerpiece for Liv’s Egyptian Queen outfit for the Met—can you? The ruby has long been associated with love, beauty and balance—in fact the Ancient Egyptians honored the gemstone for these qualities. It is perfect for Liv, in so many ways. And I would bet that she is a very similar size to Marianne when she was in her twenties. It would be an honor to see it take center stage once more and there is no bigger event—I’m sure Marianne would be deeply moved and it will entertain Clark, for sure.”
“I think that’s a brilliant idea!” I said. “It’s just so sad that Clark was never able to give it back to Marianne, under happier circumstances, himself.” I exhaled deeply, and looked back at the lovelorn image of Marianne in the photo.
“I know, it is tragic,” he murmured, consumed by it all once more.
“And what will you do with the letters?”
“He asked me to burn them,” Maurice replied, glancing at the overflowing drawer. “And I intend to fulfill his wish, they have no use now. This bra is the only legacy of a love story that was never consummated.”
We both took a few moments to ponder this beautiful, bittersweet tale.
“Anyway, come this way,” he said, pulling himself together and placing the bra back in the pouch. “We have work to do.”
* * *
It was dark outside and well into the evening by the time I looked at my phone and realized how late it had gotten. For hours, Maurice and I worked side by side in his makeshift studio in Marianne’s room in the apartment.
“I’m finally ready to put this room to use,” he had said, when he led me there. It already looked different from the shrine to Marianne I had found when I was last here. “You have had such a profound effect on me, Amber. I’m finally ready to move on.”
And without even knowing it, Maurice was helping me to move on, too. The whole time I was with him, I didn’t once think about posting on social media. It would seem so crass to trivialize this wonderful story—the seventy-year journey of a one-of-a-kind red-ruby bra—by condensing it into 140 characters for a tweet or a filtered photo. Plus, any sneaky behind-the-scenes Instagram photos of our project would be a terrible faux pas. No, our Egyptian Queen creation for Liv was back on—I would convince Dana to let me do this job and prove to her that I was better than a disastrous baby shoot. And the rubies would remain strictly between Liv, Mickey, Maurice and me, plus these four walls and a flock of songbirds, until Liv appeared on the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s red carpet in just one week’s time, I swore it.
Chapter Nineteen
I treated myself to a cab home that evening, wondering whether anyone was actually going to be in our apartment when I got there. I’d had five missed calls from Tina and three texts from Vicky—the final one telling me she was off out. She was clearly annoyed because there was no kiss at the end. But I didn’t care. For once, it isn’t all about Vicky. There was also a text from Rob saying he was working late again, and presumably Tina wondered if I wanted to pop by for a drink. I considered ringing her back, but decided a long soak in a hot bath was probably a more sensible option for me this evening, and it was nearly ten o’clock. But that idea went swiftly went out of the window—because when I pulled up outside our apartment building it was lit up like a film set. A big red fire engine was parked right outside, its ladder extended as it reached into—Oh, Jesus, our bedroom window!
Before I had even paid my taxi fare, I saw Rob striding toward me. “Your bloody best friend, Amber!” he was yelling.
My heart began to thud. What the hell has Vicky done now?
“That’s it—she is never setting foot in this building again,” he fumed.
“What’s happened? Is everyone okay? I thought she was going out?” I uttered, my eyes no doubt big and round, my mouth hanging open, aghast, as I took in the scene.
All the tenants in our building were congregated in the street. There were at least ten people—including Max and Tina, who were huddled together, chatting to another couple on the doorsteps; they were nursing mugs, which, knowing them, probably contained red wine.
“Everyone’s fine, our stuff is fine. But it might very well not have been if Tina and Max hadn’t been home. We could have lost everything,” Rob said. “Luckily, Tina noticed a strange smell and called the fire brigade, at the same time as calling me. She couldn’t get hold of you.” He said the last sentence with exasperation.
“Sorry, I was in the middle of everything with Maurice,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, and I was in the middle of an important shoot,” he hit back.
A couple of fireman strode past me—I recognized one of them as one of the guys who’d helped us when we got locked out, the day after we moved in. He gave me a look that screamed, “You again!” but not in a good way. It was nothing short of a miracle that we had chosen to move into an apartment opposite a fire station.
“How did she do this?” I muttered, grinding my teeth together.
“She left your hair straighteners turned on, on our bed,” Rob said. “One of the guys said he’s seen a whole building go up in minutes thanks to faulty straighteners. We’re bloody lucky it seems to have only ruined our bedcovers.”
Vicky, you idiot.
I looked up at our wide-open bedroom window; a curtain was blowing through and the light was on inside. A hose pipe had been fed into the apartment and a fireman’s helmet could be see bobbing around inside. I assumed he was pouring water over the ashes on our bed. There wasn’t any sign of smoke billowing out, so it looked like we were lucky. I never really liked that bedspread anyway. But by association, because they were my hair straighteners and she was my friend, in Rob’s eyes, this was my fault as much as Vicky’s. Everyone in the block seemed to be looking at me as if it was my fault, too. At this moment, I felt embarrassed by my ineptitude for picking friends. How could she do this to me; to us?
I dialed Vicky’s number, but of course it went straight to voicemail. She was probably downing her umpteenth cocktail on her forty-grand date night with Noah West. The thought of her giggling with him, without a care in the world, made my blood boil. I texted her:
Call me ASAP
No kiss. No friendly emoji.
God knows, there wasn’t a hashtag to cover this situation.
Rob had joined Max and Tina on the steps; he didn’t seem to want to speak to me. For a moment I just stood there, staring up at our window and then back at Rob. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Minutes later a fireman appeared at the main doorway and told everyone they could return to their apartments. Head bowed, I followed Rob inside. I was sure everyone was itching to see the damage to our bedroom, but we went into our apartment alone. Tina hung back to speak to me as we went in. “One of the benefits of the early stages of pregnancy,” she whispered, winking, “a strong sense of smell.”
I turned to give her a hug. “Oh, Tina, that’s amazing news! I’m so happy for you.”
“Shhh,” she said, patting her belly, “it’s only very early days, but I’ve got a good feeling.”
* * *
“It’s not so bad,” Rob said, as he pushed open our bedroom door to survey the damage. We both took in a pile of wet bedding on the floor. Thankfully, the mattress and bed itself were unharmed, just a bit damp on one side.
“Thank goodness,” I said, breathing out deeply. “Honestly, I’m going to kill Vicky for this. She’s pushed us too far this time.”
“Let’s see if I get to her first,” Rob said, sitting on the edge of the dry part of the bed. “But, let’s face it, things haven’t exactly been amazing between us recently anyway.”
He looked at his shoes as I stared at the side of his head, searching it for clues. A nasty feeling began to creep up on me again. He’s not in love with me anymore. He’s going to end it. This is it. Daring to think these horrible thoughts made me feel bereft. I
was aching to feel his lips on mine, because I already knew how good that kiss would be. But instead of turning toward me, he stood up and went to leave the room.
“It’s nearly eleven, there’s no point in me going back now, they’ll have wrapped,” he said, without looking at me. His tone was flat and tired. “I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight, seeing as the mattress is only half habitable. You take the bed.”
That sofa’s seen more action than our bed this last fortnight.
“But I want you to stay with me,” I said abruptly, thinking how being forced to snuggle up on one side would have been sexy and fun, once upon a time.
“Well, maybe you can’t always have what you want,” he snapped.
I tried and failed not to look completely desperate.
“Please,” I said, shutting my eyes, tears building up behind my eyelids. He went quiet. “Otherwise, what are we doing out here together? What’s the point of it?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” he said, before getting up and leaving the room.
* * *
It was sometime in the middle of the night and I couldn’t sleep. I was chilly, with only one sheet and a blanket wrapped around me on half of our bed. I decided to check on Rob, in case he was lying awake in the darkness feeling cold, too. I reached for my big house cardigan from the chair and slipped my feet into the slippers Lucy had sent over to keep me warm. Slowly, I teased open the bedroom door. It was much darker in the open-plan room, and I had to open the door a little wider to let some of the light from the bedroom help my eyes focus and make out the shape on the sofa. As I crept forward and my pupils adjusted, I realized that the lumpy shape on the sofa was just cushions. No Rob. No Vicky, for that matter, though I hadn’t imagined she would come home last night. Where the hell is everyone?