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“Mr. Titone,” Bruno says with a deferential nod.
I nod back. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” A strange impatience is poking at me. Maybe it’s even excitement. Getting a ring for Deirdre makes this all feel so much more real. I wish I’d had the chance to do this before she left this morning. So that she could have gone out into the world wearing it already.
Bruno comes around to my side of the bed, not saying a word about the fact that I’m shirtless and bedbound. He’s a pro and he knows when to keep his fucking mouth shut. I watch him as he sets a large case on the bedside table and opens the clasps.
Bruno isn’t what you’d imagine when you think of one of the finest goldsmiths currently alive on the planet. For one thing, he’s fucking young for what he’s achieved. He’s only in his thirties, but he crafts the most exquisite shit that looks like it’s got sixty years of experience and training behind it. His shop is frequented by the elite from Toronto and beyond. People fly here from all over to get custom work completed by him. His waitlist runs more than two years long.
Not for me, though.
He’s impeccably dressed in a dark navy suit with a crisp white shirt beneath it. His ink-black hair is cut and styled to perfection. Despite his profession, he doesn’t wear any jewellery besides a watch, and oddly, in contrast to his designer clothes, it doesn’t look particularly fancy or expensive. He opens the case and watches my face with cat-like keenness. His eyes at first glance look brown but are actually an exceptionally dark blue.
There’s so much sparkly shit on the velvet tray in the case that I don’t even know where to start.
I must look frozen, like a fool, because Bruno mildly asks if I might like some suggestions.
“Fucking obviously. What the hell am I paying you for?” I grunt, trying to ignore a sudden flare of pain in my side that climbs up my ribs like a ladder, burning all the way into my head.
“May I inquire as to Miss O’Malley’s tastes and preferences?”
I stare at him, furious at him for asking such a simple fucking question because the answer is, I don’t really know.
“She doesn’t wear much jewellery,” I mutter. That is actually true. Even before I took her from her house, I never saw her wearing much beyond earring studs or maybe a simple pendant at some of her violin performances. I’ve never seen her wear a ring.
“Something simple, then?” he prods. “Refined. Maybe something subtle?”
“No,” I snap. “I don’t want subtle. I don’t want anybody coming within ten metres of her without seeing my fucking ring on her finger.”
Bruno’s used to dealing with even more demanding clients than me. He doesn’t even bat an eye at my surliness. He just moves onto the next question.
“When is her birthday?”
“January first,” I answer instantly. Don’t need to hesitate or think about the answer to that one, at least.
“Ah. A garnet birthstone. A red stone,” he clarifies.
Of fucking course it is.
Bruno opens a smaller compartment inside the case. He removes a black velvet pouch, then an even smaller plastic bag from within it. Very gently, he spills the contents into an empty, velvet-lined rectangle inside the case.
About a dozen stones in shades varying from blood-red to fire orange send spangles of burning light across the black velvet. It feels like somebody’s driving a white-hot spike through the top of my skull. Hitting me over and over again, perfectly in-time to the throbbing at my side and in my right hand.
“Nothing red,” I groan.
Instantly, Bruno whisks the precious stones back into their pouch, like they’re rat droppings or something, not fit to be viewed.
“Do you have another colour preference? Or does she, perhaps?”
Something the exact opposite of the flame-like colours from a moment ago. Something soft and cool, like water.
Or her eyes.
“Maybe blue,” I mutter, suddenly aware of how dry my mouth is. “Or just white. Like a diamond. A big one.”
Bruno nods and begins pulling rings from their perches on the tray, putting several of them together in the empty rectangle the garnets had been rattling around in a moment ago. After that, he removes two more pouches with little bags in them, spilling blue and brilliantly white stones among the rings.
“Sapphires and diamonds are both excellent choices for engagement rings,” he says. He holds up one ring for my viewing. “They also go very well together, as is the case for this ring, which has both.”
It’s a big, fat, blue oval surrounded by a sunburst of dazzling diamonds, all perched on a white band. It’s alright, I guess, but it’s not right for Deirdre.
