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JEWELLERY

AFTER the austerity of January — often self-imposed — February turns out to be quite the blingy month. There are award ceremonies — the BAFTAs, Grammys, and still to come, the starriest of them all, the Oscars.

There are fashion weeks — London has just ended, then it’s Milan, and Paris. And we have just had Valentine’s Day, which traditionally sees a spike in jewellery shopping.

I wear an engagement ring and wedding band day in, day out and other pieces regularly. What I have, I treasure. What I have lost (my grandmother’s engagement ring, aaargh), or had stolen (a jewellery box from a university house) I still feel bereft of. From holiday trinkets to heirlooms, these symbolic pieces represent me, my past and hopefully my future.

The priceless yellow diamond of Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone, regarded as the first English detective novel, is nobody’s best friend.

Plundered from an Indian temple by a disreputable imperialist, then stolen from the girl it is bequeathed to, Rachel Verinder, on her 18th birthday, its brittle dazzle wreaks temptation and destruction.

In Sloane Crosley’s sharply observed contemporary quarterlife crisis caper, The Clasp, three dejected U.S. college friends, Victor, Keziah and Nathaniel, are reunited in an international hunt for a precious Nazi-looted necklace. Their quarry is priceless but elusive. If only they could see the value of what they have between them.

Holly Golightly and the unnamed narrator of Truman Capote’s bittersweet novella Breakfast At Tiffany’s could be their forerunners. In early Forties Manhattan, Holly, ‘an American geisha’, and her neighbour, an aspiring author, become confidantes. Tiffany the jeweller’s is Holly’s special place. ‘It calms me down right away, the quietness and proud look of it . . . that lovely smell of silver and alligator wallets.’

If you feel angsty, why not ring in Spring with some bling.