The Gang of Girls, the String

 of Pearls, by Mike Venables 

She was having a bad day. Jayne sat at the kitchen table looking around at the mess. Crumbs on the floor and unwashed dishes by the sink and a couple of flies, flying. God, and she hated this furniture, there wasn’t a single item in there that cost more than a hundred quid. She should’ve taken her medication but, frankly, she just couldn’t be arsed. Who wants to be bloody cheerful anyway? What’s to laugh about? Ryan would be home soon. She looked at the clock. 530. Yes, any time now.

“I’ll tell him to cook. I’m not bloody doing it.”

The real reason she was having a bad day, aside from not having taken the pills, was because of the Facebook post she’d seen by Amanda. Amanda was in the Caribbean with the gang of girls from school, each and everyone of them looking lovely and in each and every photograph designer clothes,  designer jewellery, handsome men.

Sickening. Sickening because she should have been there with them, but that could never happen. Those days were long gone.

She had been invited, oh, yes, that’s what made it all that much worse. Amanda had put on the post which Jayne had liked, “Shame you couldn’t be with us, Janey, waney. Hopefully next year, or do try and come and join us girls for skiing in Aspen.  We’re going in December this year, might even be there for Christmas. It's going to be fab.”

Ryan came in. There was an expression on his face that she didn’t often see. It was one of optimism, almost upbeat. 

“Wait till you see what I’ve got for you," he said, smiling as she looked at him.

“What?” she managed to say without sounding too cynical.

“Only two tickets to the Lord Mayor’s summer ball, that’s all. Two tickets and nearly the top table.”

“What are you going to do with those?”

“For us, we’re going!”

“What do you mean? How could we be going?”

“Tom gave me these, you know he’s on the board with ICI,  so he always gets two invites but he couldn’t go so we gave them to me. You couldn’t buy these. If they were on the open market they would be about £500 each. And we’re going, you, babe, you and me.”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” she said

“I’m not being stupid. Look, you can read them, I'm not joking.”

She did read them, the beautifully presented tickets, fancy script embossed on expensive card. And that was the thing. Everything would be expensive at this event. She thought she’d better put it to him straight.

“Do you have any idea how the other women will look at that ball?  Do you have any idea how expensive their dresses will be? There won’t be a woman in there wearing anything that cost less than £1000 whereas I have nothing that cost more than fifty. .People will be laughing at me. It's ridiculous, give them  to someone else. Or go on your own.”

Something in Ryan’s expression gave away a suspicion. She knew it, she read it. “And, no, I haven’t taken my bloody medication, who gives a fuck.”

She could see how he was struggling. Struggling not to say, “But you know they make you happier.” He probably realised that would make her throw something.

Ryan was silent for a moment and then said,  “How much would a dress like that really cost? One that would look okay?”

“Six, maybe seven hundred pounds would be ok.”

“We’ll get you one. I promise I’ll get you one. If I get you one can we go?

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“ Great, try to look happy about it.”

She forced smile that seemed to satisfy him.

The next day he came back from work and said “I’ve got £750 for you.” And he put the money on the table “Go and buy a dress.” She found out later he had sold his ticket to the European Cup final to a bloke in a pub. He had been saving for months for that.

And the next day she did indeed go and buy a £775 dress, emerald green, the same colour as her eyes. It was perfect. Beautiful.

She posed for him in the kitchen that evening and gave a little twirl. He looked pleased, she looked pleased, both pleased with glowing radiant faces. Hers then transformed into a visage of grief. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, Ryan, Ryan, I will have to take this back, we can’t go.”

“But why?”

 “Do you have any idea of the jewellery that the other women will be wearing there? There won't be a single woman in the place that isn’t worth wearing jewellery worth more than this house.”

She was deeply upset. She could imagine how the other women would be really cruel, how they would be smiling at her behind her back, laughing, saying things like,  “Well, the dress is okay but she obviously couldn’t afford any jewellery. Poor thing. Why did she marry a social worker? She could have had Ralph Couuttes, you know. He was mad for her.”

Ryan was crestfallen. They went to bed that night with their backs to each other, the bed as cold as ice. She had not taken her medication again. She was depressed, falling into a dark place.

Ryan suddenly sprang up wide-awake in the bed and shook her saying,  “Why don’t you go and ask your friend Clarissa in Chester? She’s rich, isn’t she, and no one down here in London, none of your old gang of girls, knows her. They won’t know you’ve borrowed something.”

Her back was still to him, but she murmured “Yes, actually, yes, perhaps I will.”

The next morning she was on the train to Chester, far from the gang. 

Walking into the six bedroom house to see Clarissa, she thought she detected in her friend’s manner a subtle but definite condescension, an awareness that Jayne was now living in a world far from this opulence. Jayne had known wealth as a child but had recklessly turned her back on her parents’ wishes by turning down Ralph Couttes. Her mother and father bought her a little house, as a sort of reluctant dowry, but said that was it, there would be no more. 

Well, if Clarissa was thinking this she had the good grace not to bring it up.

When Jayne explained her request, Clarissa looked shocked but recovered composure saying, “But,  of course, my dear, you may borrow something, I have just the thing. Come with me.”

And they went into her enormous bedroom in which there was an enormous dressing room in which there was an enormous jewellery box. In which was a beautiful velvet covered box, in which was a dazzling string of pearls.

* * *

On the evening of the Lord Mayor’s Ball, Jayne and Ryan had the night of their lives; how they laughed, how they smiled over the gaiety, over the joy and the glamour. And Jayne hadnydsnced like this since sge was a teenager. Wild.

Jayne secretly hoped that the others would guess Ryan was more rich than they had believed. Perhaps they might think he was a social worker as a philanthropic vocation and actually he was the secret heir to a fortune. She comforted herself with that thought. And as the evening wore on, she pondered,  “Maybe I’ll let him have sex tonight.”

But then she thought, no, he will start getting ideas and expect it all the time, but I will say thank you to him for this evening. He deserves that at least.

When they got home to the little terraced house in Millwall, the gift of her parents, their spirits were high; drink had softened relations between them and they were happy, smiling and joking.

Jayne said, “Well, I think I’ll go to bed now, darling.”  And for a moment she did wonder whether perhaps they could have sex tonight. Ryan looked hopeful. Too hopeful, which made her think, no, not tonight, although it has been a pleasant evening. She went upstairs while Ryan locked up and heard a scream from the bedroom. It was such a horrific scream he was sure there must be a burglar; he grabbed a cricket bat and rushed up the stairs but she was alone, staring in the mirror.

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“The necklace! It’s gone, I can't find it.”

It was the most horrible night of their lives. The necklace could not be found. They went back to the venue which was all quiet and dark. There was a porter who was just about to lock the final door and they insisted on being let in. They searched the whole place but the necklace was not to be found. They retraced the steps all the way home. They had walked home. They couldn’t afford a taxi. But there was no necklace on those streets. Jayne was distraught.

“What will she say when she finds out?” Rysn asked.

“She won’t find out.”

“What do you mean?”

“We will have to buy another one, will have to buy a replacement. I would be ashamed, far too embarrassed to say I have lost it. We would have to buy another one, anyway.”

They stayed up all night discussing it. Her pride would absolutely not, no way, not ever in this world or the next, would she go back to Clarissa and say that she had lost the necklace, and couldn’t afford to replace it. They would have to buy one. One that looked exactly the same, no matter what the cost.

“How much do you think something like that would cost?” 

“About a thousand pounds, I think, maybe two.”

“Alright,” said Ryan “We’ve got just about that amount in a savings account. Savings that we were keeping for when we, I mean if, we have a baby.”

Jayne knew they were not going to have a baby. It would be too much to cope with.

“Alright,” she said, “Get that money out and we’ll go to a jewellers tomorrow.”

* * *

The jeweller, Peter Daniels, asked to see a photograph of the necklace. He gasped in astonishment, at the image on her phone. “Oh, my gosh, it’s the one of the Duke of Marlborough’s strings of pearls. He had three of these, one for his wife and one for each of his mistresses.There are only three of these in the world. Well, two now.”

“Oh, wait a minute” The old jeweller had been struck by a sudden thought. “I heard a rumour that one of the two, er, remaining, necklaces, may be on the market. Would you like me to enquire?”

Hope leapt in Jayne’s eyes. “Yes. If it is, we will buy it. Absolutely.”

He went into a back office, emerged a few minutes later.

“Good news. The owner tells me it is going to auction in a few weeks but if a cash buyer appears before then, he will let it go.”

“Wonderful!” Jayne gushed. “We will buy it. How much does he want?”

“:I can’t say for sure, but I think he would sell for something in the range of two hundred to two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

Jayne did not hesitate, “We’ll take it. I should introduce myself. I am Jayne Beste-Chetwynde. Tell your seller we will have his money by the weekend.”

* * *

Back at the kitchen table, the atmosphere was tense. They hadn’t spoken all the way home.

It was Ryan who spoke first, “Jayne. I will do it. I will contact Peter Daniels and tell him we have changed our minds. You don’t need to do it.”

“Absolutely not, we will mortgage the house. I’ll get a part-time job cleaning or something and you just have to work overtime and that’s how we will afford the mortgage. Go to the bank tomorrow and borrow the money.”

 “No, no, no, we can’t do that, that's crazy we can’t take on a debt like that.”

“If I have to go and tell Cressida that I have lost that bloody necklace, I swear I will kill myself. I will do it now if you’re telling me that’s what I have to do. Give me that knife! Give me that knife!”

She ran across the room and grabbed the kitchen knife. She held it to her neck. It had been freshly sharpened and it nicked the surface of the skin, a bright scarlet drop of blood appeared. He ran to her, he wrestled it from her hand. And squeezed her wrists in restraint.

“You’re hurting me! You're hurting my hand.  I’ll kill myself.  I will kill myself. I will, I will, I’ll kill myself if I have to lose face to Cressida Vaniera. I will kill myself.

And the next day they mortgaged the house. And years they were re-paying the money. They had bought the necklace, they had returned it to Clarissa. And Jayne had not committed suicide. But Jayne had died inside. She had indeed got three jobs as a cleaner and worked all day, every day. Weekends too, scrubbing floors. Now five years years on, her good looks have vanished, her ravaged face deeply lined, exhausted from the backbreaking work in the posh ladies' houses.

And one morning she is coming home from her cleaning job, walking through Hyde Park. she barely notices her cheap threadbare clothes now.  She is almost reconciled to her life. She is one of the poor people; she has now become one of them.

She hears a familiar voice crying out. “Bruno, come away from the pool. I don’t want you falling in the pond, silly boy, you’re 10 years old, you’re too big for that sort of thing. We don’t come to visit London every day, I don’t want you spoiling it.” She would recognise that voice anywhere. Clarissa looks so affluent,  so youthful, fresh faced, white shiny teeth and rosy cheeks and a handsome bonny son. And all the years of bitterness well up in Jayne, all of the sacrifices she had made just so that she didn’t lose face to this bitch. What a fool she had been.

And she marches up to Clarissa, “Hello,” she says. But Clarissa does not recognise this frail old working-class woman in front of her and says, “I’m sorry, do I know you? Oh, sorry, are you Eleanor’s cleaning lady?”

“It’s me - Jayne.” A look of horrified recognition falls upon Clarissa’s face. She looks at this woman in front of her, this old thing who was the same age as herself and says , “My God! Jayne. What happened to you, have you been in an accident?”

And Jayne told Clarissa all about the necklace, about the sacrifices she had made over the years to buy her replacement necklace. After a long pause Clarissa says, “But, Jayne, those pearls were fake.”

* * *

It’s ten years later. 

Now in their late forties, Ryan and Jayne are divorced. She lives with her parents in Kensington. They never tire of saying “We told you so.” 

Ryan lives alone with his sorrow. And a cat.

And at 43 Parker Street, Hackney, the wife of a hotel porter is putting on a fake pearl necklace ready to go out. Bingo night.