Hold the Ice
I like diamonds, when they’re sitting in a straight flush. Preferably king high. The other ones, the rocks, the sparklers, those I can do without. There are much better ways to spend two months’ salary, thank you very much. Fortunately, my lifestyle is such that this particular dislike causes little or no conflict--no one is presenting me with stray baguettes or solitaires, nor is Harry Winston begging me to wear his new double festoon necklace with matching diamond spray brooch to my annual luncheon with the Queen of England. Being a prole has its compensations.
But then I went and got engaged, and suddenly my bijouterie leanings became the cause of much concern and comment. Because I wanted a ring, just not a diamond.
“Darling, this is a phase,” said the woman behind the counter at Antiquarius in Beverly Hills, “don’t make a decision you will regret.” Sensing that I was a hopeless case, she addressed her molasses-over-gravel tones to my beloved. “I am telling you, this is a phase. Get her a diamond. Forget what she’s saying now. In 10 years, you’ll call me and, if I am still alive, God willing, you’ll thank me.”
She was not alone; the women urged caution--”think of the children, consider your daughters”--while the male jewelers eyed my fiance as if he were either the biggest skinflint in town or the luckiest man alive. “I wish my wife felt the same way,” said one, “then I could get into another line of work.”
I decided this was our punishment for shopping in Beverly Hills, so we headed downtown to the jewelry district, which harbors more jewelers representing more countries than a Benetton ad. But a woman who does not like diamonds is, apparently, a freak in any language.
“No diamonds,” muttered one young man, “OK, how about this?” He held up a trio of glittery baguettes. I shook my head.
We moved from building to building, stall to stall, eyes dazzled, searching trays and trays of square-cut and pear-shaped, seeking color, any color--rubies, emeralds, garnets, topaz.
“Here is a lovely sapphire,” said one woman who claimed to understand, as she produced a stunning blue stone surrounded by, you guessed it, diamonds. I felt my resolve begin to waver; fortunately my fiance’s did not.
“She doesn’t like diamonds. At all,” he said loudly, adding in a lower and, yes, sincere tone, that it was only right that I should have exactly what I wanted.
Finally, Navid, at Fox Jewelers, produced a ruby, in a ring swathed with diamonds of Liberacian proportions, and proposed putting it in a much simpler setting, with just two tiny accompanying stones.
“Just small, small diamonds,” he said. “Tiny. You will hardly see them.”
“Emeralds,” I said.
“Emeralds? What kind of engagement ring is that?”
“Mine,” I said.
And it is. The most beautiful ring in the world.
