London, May, 1939
Come to think of it, diamonds were just rocks. It was us, who came and filled them with meaning. Made them stand for luxury caring, love.
This particular one, on a baby-blue silk cushion, which George held in his slender hands, stood for expectations I could not meet. It stared at me with a cold gleam of its polished surface as if it knew.
I bet everyone in the restaurant did. Cab drivers on Oxford street, passers-by and street traders. The waitress, who'd just taken our orders. The gentleman at the table next to ours gave me a knowing glance, before forcing out a fake laugh at the joke of his date.
At that particular moment, it seemed to me that everyone knew.
Everyone, but George. Poor George, who sat in front of me in a crispy shirt, holding out his grandmother's ring as an offering.
"I...I need to go to the restroom," I couldn't make myself meet his eyes. I didn't know what to say. Even though I knew this moment was coming.
George was tall, well-educated, and handsome. He had that type of face, which comes to mind when you think about golf, and old money. It's been five months since we started dating. I met his parents in the Jersey country club and he met mine in London bakery. We went fishing and skiing, riding horses and sunbathing, to the theaters and the ballets. I kissed him for hours on the shadowy park benches and at the backs of the coffee shops, willing myself to feel something I've read the girls in the novels did. I wanted to fall madly in love.
But despite this longing, and warmth that I felt towards him, he never made me feel weak in the knees. I didn't lose sleep to the fever dreams about his lips. Didn't feel the slightest inclination to start writing poetry about the specks in his eyes. I didn't even blush when he whispered sweet nothings into my ear.
He was painfully perfect in a million little ways. So it must have been me.
"Don't you dare spoil this. You won't find a better husband. I wonder what he sees in you, but if he does indeed see something, you'd be an idiot to take his eyes off it."
The words of my sister played in my head like old tape, as I stared at the girl with makeup smeared eyes, who watched my every move from the mirror.
This mirror must have witnessed a lot of trivial happenings. The French restaurant, where we had our date, stood at the crossing of two busiest London streets and surely had its own share of broken hearts and rejected lovers.
It was half past seven.
George must have been sitting there, in front of an empty chair, for a good ten minutes. With Dom Perignon, oysters on ice and fresh-cut roses in a vase to keep him company. He probably felt terrible, waiting for the girl, who he just proposed to, to come back from the ladies' room with an answer.
I played with a lock of my hair. The hairdresser outdid herself. She was my mother's friend and I had to listen all about her three marriages while she cut my fringe. I didn't like myself, but I could appreciate the results of the occasional intervention. Makeup, nails, hair. The dress was nice as well. I would have preferred pantsuits, but it wasn't the way a girl dressed on a date, no.
Now all this fuss seemed irrelevant. I've spent so much time, preparing to break a man's heart.
Was I really that selfish?
I breathed out air with the noise of a plan taking off.
Two ladies entered the bathroom, laughing about something, dangling their heavy pearls around their necks. One of them threw me a sympathetic glance, before disappearing behind the stall door. Perhaps I imagined it. Maybe it was wishful thinking.
I wished for an escape. A solution.
Why could I not fall in love?
People fell in love left and right. For handsome strangers in the parks, for actors and father's friends. For bosses at work, for pen pals and childhood friends. It didn't take much, for all I knew. People fell for the jokes, said in the right time, for a glance and a smile, for a shade of eyes.
Why was I different?
"But does he need to know that?" A familiar icy voice slithered into my consciousness. It entertained the notion that lying wasn't bad as long as it did no harm.
My thoughts buzzed. I didn't want to make a scene. I didn't want to make someone unhappy just because I was. I could see it all roll out in my mind: he would smile politely and apologize for his mistake, all good manners and poise. Take the ring and put it back in his chest pocket. We would finish the dinner in silence. The waitress would ask if we need to open the champagne and we would say that we no longer need it. And then I would excuse myself, unable to bear the silence, and leave earlier, and that would be the last time we talked to each other. He would go to war. I would fight with my parents and his parents would hate me forever. And then, at the railway station, I would come to see him before he goes out of the country. One of the hundreds girls on the platform, I would wave with a handkerchief and he would send me a bitter smile. The train would leave. Maybe, he wouldn't come back. And all that I will remember would be that smile.
I splashed cold water on my cheeks and pinched myself.
I smiled at the girl in the mirror. She was going to have to stay here.
I turned my back and walked out of the restroom. At that moment I knew I was turning my back on myself. On the version of me, who would have chosen to tell the truth and admit her real feelings. Who had no idea what love was and did not lie for a greater good.
As I walked into the restaurant someone started signing a loud happy birthday to a friend. Glasses clanked merrily. The light cut through the curtains, and for a split second, I noticed fine dust dance in front of my eyes. Everything around me looked like it was veiled with the layer of specks as if it was already a memory, a dream which was passing. As if I was watching my own life from a distance.