Never mind simply curling hair and straightening it and covering up blemishes. Beside that row of school washbasins, I practically invented contouring before it became a social media sensation. I graduated, got the job at the tv network, fell in love with Bart and then had my own little girl to cherish, my baby Phoebe.
I was only seven when my mother died, but I reached twenty one before my father died. At least he died doing what he loved – playing squash.
His attorney gave me a key and a number and the address of a bank vault in Seattle.
Back then, Bart called on me all my time to do his hair and makeup, and it wasn’t until Phoebe left school, that I remembered that key.
Bart was wearing toupees by then, so no longer needed me for his hair before he went on air. He still needed me for his “invisible” makeup, but I drew the line at giving him injections. I just couldn’t do it.
While he was recovering from plastic surgery, I took that trip to Seattle, drove up in my little van. I sourced more old furniture and upholstery for my shabby chic business on the way, along with a few more lamp bases, and finally visited the bank.
Ahead of me, a woman with a howling baby waited in line for the teller. She rocked and jiggled her bundle, and I offered to help, but just then, a man in a black jacket stepped away from the window and she pulled out her card and spoke to the teller. The baby patted at the glass screen and quietened, and I studied the posters, of boats and happy families and European holiday destinations.
Butterflies rose in my stomach as I stepped forward and slid the key and documents under the barrier. The teller stared at them, then called a supervisor. They both demanded identification, and when I produced it, the manager beckoned me aside, towards a door, and made a phone call as I waited in a red faux leather chair.
The manager disappeared as a man with a blank face and a gun stood guard. He returned with a metal box and faced the keyhole towards me.
Inside the box were half a dozen tiny old boxes and an envelope bearing my name, in a shaky script; inside, a simple sheet of paper, folded twice, and a message.
My darling Lucy,
Wishing you rainbows day and night. Be happy.
Love always,
Mother
My fingers trembled as I opened the first box – tissue paper, creamy with age, and inside it, an elegant, old-fashioned ring set with three diamonds, already transforming the ordinary room with its icy fire and light. I slid it onto the middle finger of my left hand. It fit perfectly, outshining even Bart’s ring, the bold solitaire – our wedding ring. In the box at the bank were all the rings I’d admired and played with on my mother’s fingers. So many memories came back to me as I slipped each one onto my own fingers. I haven’t taken them off since.
People say diamonds are inanimate things, too white and too cold, but to me, they’re close to magic. They cheer me up. How I would love to continue the tradition and pass these rings to my own daughter one day – if only she’d agree to see me.
That these diamonds exist for me beyond my mother, beyond the tragic shrinking of her body, is almost miraculous. They hold the moment she slipped them off her frail fingers and left them as a glittering promise to me that her love would never really leave me.
Well, Bart made the same promise when we married. Shame he didn’t keep it. But life moves on.
Chapter9
