And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“Better not take if off in the Ritz,” she said. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. “I’ll come to your place round eight, and you can give it back to me then.” She gave him that smile one last time before walking out of the morning room.

A few moments later, Arabella was standing outside De Beers. The door was opened immediately: the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, the Balenciaga bag, and the Chanel watch all suggested that this lady was not in the habit of being kept waiting.

“I want to look at some engagement rings,” she said shyly before stepping inside.

“Of course, madam,” said the doorman, and led her down the corridor.

During the next hour, Arabella carried out almost the same routine as Jeremy, and after much prevarication she told Mr. Crombie, “It’s hopeless, quite hopeless. I’ll have to bring Archie in. After all, he’s the one who’s going to foot the bill.”

“Of course, madam.”

“I’m joining him for lunch at Le Caprice,” she added, “so we’ll pop back this afternoon.”

“We’ll look forward to seeing you both then,” said the sales associate as he closed the jewel box.

“Thank you, Mr. Crombie,” said Arabella as she rose to leave.

Arabella was escorted to the front door by the sales associate without any suggestion that she should take her clothes off. Once she was back on Piccadilly, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Lowndes Square. She checked her watch, confident that she would be back at the flat long before her father, who would never find out that his watch and cufflinks had been borrowed for a few hours, and who certainly wouldn’t miss one of his old school ties.

As she sat in the back of the taxi, Arabella admired the flawless yellow diamond. Jeremy had carried out her instructions to the letter. She would of course have to explain to her friends why she’d broken off the engagement. Frankly, he just wasn’t one of our set, never really fitted in. But she had to admit she would quite miss him. She’d grown rather fond of Jeremy, and he was very enthusiastic between the sheets. And to think that all he’d get out of it was a pair of silver collar stiffeners and an old Etonian tie. Arabella hoped he still had enough money to cover the bill at the Ritz.

She dismissed Jeremy from her thoughts and turned her attention to the man she’d chosen to join her at Wimbledon, whom she had already lined up to assist her in obtaining a matching pair of earrings.

When Mr. Crombie left De Beers that night, he was still trying to work out how the man had managed it. After all, he’d had no more than a few seconds while his head was bowed.

“Goodnight, Doris,” he said as he passed a cleaner who was vacuuming in the corridor.

“Goodnight, sir,” said Doris, opening the door to the viewing room so she could continue to vacuum. This was where the customers selected the finest gems on earth, Mr. Crombie had once told her, so it had to be spotless. She turned off the machine, removed the black velvet cloth from the table, and began to polish the surface; first the top, then the rim. That’s when she felt it.

Doris bent down to take a closer look. She stared in disbelief at the large piece of chewing gum stuck under the rim of the table. She began to scrape it off, not stopping until there wasn’t the slightest trace of it left, then dropped it into the rubbish bag attached to her cleaning cart before placing the velvet cloth back on the table.

“Such a disgusting habit,” she muttered as she closed the viewing-room door and continued to vacuum the carpet in the corridor.

THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY TELEGRAM*

2

Her Majesty the Queen sends her congratulations to Albert Webber

on the occasion of his 100th birthday, and wishes him many more

years of good health and happiness.

Albert was still smiling after he’d read the message for the twentieth time.

“You’ll be next, ducks,” he said as he passed the royal missive across to his wife. Betty only had to read the telegram once for a broad smile to appear on her face, too.

The festivities had begun a week earlier, culminating in a celebration party at the town hall. Albert’s photograph had appeared on the front page of the Somerset Gazette that morning, and he had been interviewed on BBC Points West, his wife seated proudly by his side.

His Worship the Mayor of Street, Councillor Ted Harding, and the leader of the local council, Councillor Brocklebank, were waiting on the town hall steps to greet the centenarian. Albert was escorted to the mayor’s parlor where he was introduced to Mr. David Heathcote-Amory, the local Member of Parliament, as well as the local MEP, although when asked later he couldn’t remember her name.

After several more photographs had been taken, Albert was ushered through to a large reception room where over a hundred invited guests were waiting to greet him. As he entered the room he was welcomed by a spontaneous burst of applause, and people he’d never met before began shaking hands with him.

At three twenty-seven P.M., the precise minute Albert had been born in 1907, the old man, surrounded by his five children, eleven grandchildren, and nineteen great-grandchildren, thrust a silver-handled knife into a three-tier cake. This simple act was greeted by another burst of applause, followed by cries of speech, speech, speech!

Albert had prepared a few words, but as quiet fell in the room, they went straight out of his head.

“Say something,” said Betty, giving her husband a gentle nudge in the ribs.