Folly by Jassy Mackenzie Read Free Book Online Page B

watching her simply shook his head until she fumbled her wallet back into her tatty bag and got up, head bowed, swiping her straw-like hair away from what I saw was a sun-ravaged face. Her legs looked like pipe cleaners inside those skinny jeans.
    She walked out fast, looking at the floor, and I wondered whether she was the owner of the ancient Toyota or the Mercedes Benz, and then decided that she was clearly so far down shit creek that it wouldn’t make a difference either way.
    And then the man behind the glass nodded at me and I got up, heart thumping with nervousness, and sat down opposite him, smelling the trace of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke that the blonde had left behind.
    â€˜What do you have?’ he asked, his voice as sharp as his eyes.
    I placed the rings, which I’d put in a clear plastic bag, on the counter. Beside them I put the necklace which was stored in its original container, a smart gold box lined with blue velvet, which bore the name of the specialist supplier on its lid.
    â€˜Two rings and these pearls,’ I said.
    â€˜Right. Let’s have a look see.’ He opened the bag. Carefully, he took out the wedding ring. Examined it closely, and used a jeweller’s loupe to study its eighteen-carat hallmark. Then he weighed it on a digital scale and scribbled a few notes on a pad.
    The engagement ring took longer; I assumed each of the stones had to be checked in order to make sure they were genuine. I waited, trying not to bite my nails, and resisting the urge to guess what amount I might be offered. The ring hadn’t been cheap, that much I knew, because the central diamond was large. One carat, Mark had told me proudly.
    Like so many of his decisions, the purchase of the ring had been guided by the need to impress rather than by any actual budgetary sense.
    The man behind the counter eventually finished examining my engagement ring. He picked up the box containing the pearl necklace and I saw an expression cross his face – I could only hope that he recognised, and was impressed by, the supplier’s logo on the front.
    He opened the box, took out the pearls, but to my surprise gave them only the most cursory inspection before turning towards me again.
    â€˜You want to sell these outright or take a cash loan against them?’ he asked.
    â€˜A cash loan, please.’
    â€˜You must read through these terms and conditions before filling in the form and signing.’ He handed me a printed sheet of paper. ‘And I need to see your id.’
    I handed it over.
    â€˜The necklace …’ He paused, and once again I saw an expression I couldn’t identify cross his face. ‘I can’t take that because it has no value. You do know it’s fake, right?’
    I had wanted so badly to appear poised, cool, unconcerned by my circumstances and above all, far from vulnerable. But that piece of information floored me as effectively as if the chair had been yanked out from under me. It literally robbed me of speech. I stared at him wordlessly for what seemed like a very long time as the shock of what he’d said sunk slowly into my brain.
    â€˜It can’t be fake,’ I managed eventually, my voice hoarse and pleading, sounding just like the blonde had done. He’d given … that was right. I remembered now. Mark had actually given me a certificate of origin along with the pearls, although where it was now, I had no idea.
    â€˜Costume jewellery,’ the man said. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
    â€˜But you didn’t do any tests …’
    â€˜Didn’t need to. Here, take it.’ He put the necklace back in the steel tray and pushed it under the sheet of bulletproof glass. ‘Rub the beads gently
    against your teeth. Yes, like that. Can you feel they’re smooth?’
    â€˜Yes. Perfectly smooth.’
    â€˜Real pearls feel gritty. That’s just one of the basic ways to tell the difference. But this is