Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

began the process of sitting down too, and Amy jumped up to help him.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said, then looked at her expectantly. She sat down and looked back. ‘Did you bring me a little something?’

‘Of course,’ she said, jumping up again and going to her bag. She removed the half-size bottle of red wine that his grandson had told her to buy. Arnold grinned back. ‘There’s an empty Ribena bottle in the bedside drawer,’ he told her, his voice an exaggerated whisper. ‘Be a love and fill it up, will you?’

Amy obeyed, careful not to spill any on the pink carpet, then gave the Ribena bottle to him. He lifted it to his lips and took a shaky swig. ‘It’s not a bad place this,’ he said, wiping his mouth and breathing out a satisfied sigh. ‘Proper cooked breakfast and hot lunch. Just sandwiches at dinner, mind. But they’ve got a ridiculous no booze policy. Like anyone would notice if us lot were drunk.’ He laughed and offered her the bottle. ‘Half of us are off our rockers anyway.’

Amy shook her head. ‘It’s yours,’ she said.

‘So, what can I do you for?’ Arnold beamed at her, clearly in a good mood. He took another swig of the wine and Amy watched a drip escape from his mouth and make a run for it down his chin. He reached his tongue out and caught it. Frog-like and surprisingly quick. ‘Sure you don’t want any? You look like you could use a drink.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Amy. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘My grandson said you had something you wanted to show me, from the shop?’

Amy removed her necklace, then slid the ring off and held it out to Arnold. He took it, then reached in a pocket and popped on a pair of glasses. He peered at it carefully. She watched him, looking for a sign of recognition on his face.

‘I liked stocking jewellery,’ he told her. ‘I never had much of it and it always took a while to sell, so I remember every piece. It was Dave who stopped it, in the end. My grandson. I think he was worried we’d be robbed. But I liked seeing the expression on people’s faces when they bought something special like this. Some women bought jewellery as a treat for themselves. Sometimes men came in to buy stuff as an apology. God knows what they’d done.’

He looked at Amy, who nodded patiently. ‘Do you remember this ring?’ she asked.

‘I liked to imagine who’d buy which piece, and why. I wasn’t always right, of course. I remember, I picked out a lovely brooch, Art Deco it was, silver filigree in the shape of a dainty little beetle. Citrine for eyes. I was sure that one would be bought by a man who had a wife who loved gardening. But then this woman came in, must have been about your age, and got it for her twelve-year-old son. He liked insects and jewellery. Strange world, eh?’

Amy nodded again. ‘And this ring?’

‘My Dave sounded quite taken with you,’ Arnold said. ‘Said you bought that owl?’

‘It’s lovely,’ said Amy. Her thwarted longing to know about the ring was curdling in her throat.

‘Ah yes, I can tell you have a good eye. Artist, are you?’

‘Yes,’ replied Amy, taken aback. ‘Well, no. Not any more.’

Arnold took another sip, then looked down at the ring again. ‘This ring,’ he said, his voice affectionate, ‘I always knew it would be bought for love.’

‘You remember it?’ she asked, leaning forwards. She could smell wine and blackcurrants on Arnold’s breath. ‘You remember who bought it?’

‘I picked it up at a car-boot sale,’ he continued. ‘Got it as part of a job lot. Some junk, some fun costume stuff, a rather lovely malachite bracelet. But really I bought it all for that ring.’ He frowned at it. ‘Lovely Art Deco piece,’ he said. He handed it back to her. ‘Aquamarines aren’t the priciest of stones, and the diamonds are tiny, but it is very elegant, don’t you think?’

The ring felt warm from Arnold’s grasp, and Amy allowed herself to slip it on to her finger. ‘But you don’t remember who bought it,’ she said, eventually.

Arnold looked up. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘I’d been imagining who’d buy this for years, and the lad fitted the bill perfectly. Tall chap. Dark hair. Handsome. Bit fidgety. Hummed under his breath a lot.’

Amy squeezed the ring. That was Tim.

‘I thought he was sure to propose,’ said Arnold. ‘That the ring was for an engagement. I can tell when someone is in love.’

‘No,’ said Amy. ‘He didn’t.’

‘Shame,’ said Arnold, sadly.

‘I haven’t seen him in over eleven years,’ added Amy.

‘Eleven years,’ said Arnold. ‘That’s about the time I sold the ring, give or take a year or two. Maeve was still alive, because I remember telling her about it. It was the most expensive thing in my shop, at the time. I remember wondering how a lad like that had found the money.’ He grinned. ‘Not crazy money, like some of those rings you’d get on Hatton Gardens, mind, but more expensive than a china bird. Higher margin too.’ He winked at her, and Amy was reminded of his grandson.

‘Thank you,’ she said, wanting to think about the significance of what she’d discovered. Tim had bought the ring around the time he’d disappeared. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she said.

‘Not a problem, darling,’ he said. ‘My grandson visits, but it’s good to have the company of a pretty young lady like yourself.’ Amy certainly didn’t think of herself as young any more. Everything was relative, she supposed.

‘Look after that ring,’ he told her. ‘It’s a lovely piece, very much of its time. Understated. But still beautiful.’ He looked up at Amy. ‘Like you.’

The ring couldn’t talk. It could only hint, and Amy could infer. But hearing the words from Arnold. Love. Engagement. Proposal. She had to try again. She had to try to find Tim again.

What if she’d been