Shaking his head with remorse, he picked up a brooch he’d been working on. He switched on his gooseneck lamp and his face reflected in the shiny black metal.
Stone was a good name for him. His hair was short, swept back and graphite grey, the same colour as the stubble that peppered his upper lip and chin. Estelle said that he had a kind face, like when kids draw eyes and a smile into uncooked pastry. His hands were so large they looked as if they’d been inflated by a bicycle pump, but his fingers were surprisingly nimble when handling delicate silver findings.
Everything he wore was neutral, from his suit to his socks, except for his size fourteen burgundy loafers. He’d ordered them custom-made, online, but the company had sent the wrong shade.
‘I’m sure you can live with a bit of colour in your life for once,’ Estelle had said with a sigh. ‘Dark red shoes won’t kill you.’
But each time Benedict wore them, he felt conspicuous. His width and height attracted attention, and now he sported berry-hued loafers.
As usual, Cecil arrived at the shop ten minutes late. He had a tropical dress sense, wearing a powder-blue suit, with a peach shirt and an emerald-green tie. His white hair was waxed into a small triangle which reminded Benedict of a budgerigar’s quiff. Cecil spent a lot of time with his two young nieces, so often spoke as if he was on social media.
Each day, he brought his cat, the fearsome Lord Puss, into work. A white Persian, who thought he was superior to humans, Lord Puss sat on a purple velvet cushion on the counter, where he greeted customers with narrow lemon eyes and a flex of his claws.
‘Aloha,’ Cecil called through into the workshop.
‘Hello. The kettle’s boiled,’ Benedict shouted back, pleased to hear Cecil’s voice. He’d spent the weekend alone, mooching around listlessly and wondering what Estelle was doing without him. He watched too many action films and wondered where the heroes got their energy from.
‘Coolio.’ Cecil set his cat basket down and Lord Puss swanked out. The cat blinked around with disdain and settled onto his cushion.
Cecil made two cups of tea – one black for him and one white with three sugars for Benedict. He placed coasters on the workbench and set the cups down. ‘Ooh, what are you making?’ he asked.
‘A silver brooch.’ Benedict held it up for Cecil to see.
‘Another triangular one?’
‘Yes.’
‘It looks a bit Star Trek-y.’
‘Great,’ Benedict said.
‘Yes, if you want to look like Captain Kirk…’
Now that Cecil said this, Benedict thought the piece did look a bit space age. He placed it at the back of his bench.
‘We should make more effort to follow trends,’ Cecil said. ‘What about festival jewellery, or friendship bracelets? How about ear cuffs, or adding gems to your work?’
Benedict stared at him, as if he was speaking a foreign language. ‘This is Noon Sun,’ he said. ‘The villagers like simple, classic things.’
Cecil opened the appointment book and flicked through it. ‘Well, I can see that you’re not going to be rushed off your feet, when I go into hospital for my hernia op. I’ve told Lord Puss that you’re going to look after him.’
‘I don’t know how I’ll cope without you,’ Benedict admitted. He imagined Stone Jewellery being as still and quiet as his own home and the thought made his jaw ache. He wished that he could chit-chat with customers like Cecil did, but his own words queued up in his head like cars in a motorway traffic jam.
‘I don’t like to leave you on your own here, especially with Estelle moving out. How are things between the two of you?’
Benedict’s smile slipped. He picked up the triangular silver brooch and gave it a polish on his trouser leg. He would only allow his friend to see his hurt. Even though Cecil was a gossip, cooing and flattering customers, Benedict knew his assistant had integrity and always looked out for him. ‘All fine, I suppose,’ he mumbled.
‘Benedicto. You don’t have to put a shine on things, for me. How are things really?’
Benedict’s shoulders sloped. He wished that his life could be as shiny and simple as his jewellery. ‘Not good. Estelle’s still staying at her friend’s apartment, whilst Veronica’s working away in America. She’s been gone for six weeks now…’
‘Couldn’t she just check on the apartment each day?’ Cecil asked.
Benedict looked down at his big hands. ‘She wants a proper break, to clear her head. But the longer she’s gone, the more it feels that she won’t come back. Anyway’— he lifted his voice, to try to sound more positive— ‘I hope she’ll be back for our tenth anniversary, in three weeks’ time.’
‘Fingers crossed. Have you got anything spesh planned?’
Benedict opened the drawer in his workbench and took out a long grey box, lined with white satin. The necklace inside wasn’t yet long enough to reach a quarter of the way around Estelle’s collarbone. It was made up of hundreds of interlinked jump rings, each the circumference of a ladybird, in platinum, rose gold, yellow gold and silver. If Benedict didn’t think that a ring was good enough, he dropped it into an old teacup on his bench. It was almost full to the brim of the ones he’d rejected.
Cecil nodded. ‘Très elegant. But what else are you planning to do, to win her back?’
Benedict frowned. ‘I’ve bought her flowers, I took her out for coffee… What else can I do, but wait for her to make up her mind?’
Cecil moved the lamp out of the way and sat on the workbench. ‘You’re going to have to make a proper effort to stop her slipping away. In the medieval days you’d get on a fine white charger and joust for her.’
‘I can’t ride,’ Benedict said as he picked up a link. ‘I’d squash the horse. I want her to come home, but the thing we want more than anything, is the one thing we can’t have…’ His throat suddenly felt like there was a pebble stuck in it and he couldn’t swallow it away. ‘We’ve really tried, but I don’t think it will ever happen for us…’
‘Children?’ Cecil asked quietly.
Benedict nodded. ‘We want a family so much.’
No matter how many times he thought about his and Estelle’s unsuccessful attempts to have a baby, it always felt like he’d been shoved off a railway platform onto the track, in front of a speeding train. He was forty-four years old now and time was flying by. He longed to feel tiny fingers curled around his own and a small heart beating against his chest. The ache of wanting a child weighed him down like wet cement.
‘Estelle says she’s come to terms with being childless. But I haven’t.’ He swallowed. Not wanting Cecil to see that his eyes were growing watery, he shifted his seat closer to the bench and stared at the necklace. ‘I’m happy to adopt, but Estelle doesn’t want to. I hope that staying at Veronica’s gives her time to realise that it’s the best way forward…’
Cecil gave his shoulder a firm pat.
Benedict moved his lamp back into place. ‘I’m sure everything will work out for us,’ he said, sitting more upright in his chair. ‘I just need to bring Estelle home.’
That night, finding it difficult to sleep on his own again, Benedict ambled downstairs in the dark. He wore his grey suit jacket over the top of his striped pyjamas, and his burgundy loafers with no socks. The only sounds he could hear were the creak of the hallway floorboards, the Noon Sun village clock striking twelve, and his own heavy breathing from