As I write this post, the roubelitte cocktail ring on my finger catches light, refracting it into pink rays. When I wear it, I can see people’s eyes following the trajectory of my hands, pink reflexes in their irises. It’s not so much the gem itself but rather the seize of the ring, its unapologetic boldness is what catches strangers’ attention.
It’s showy, almost balancing on the verge of vulgarity, making one and one statement only. There is no denying that it’s a grown up piece. That’s not to say that you are only allowed to wear it over a certain age. It’s more to do with an attitude, a swagger if you like. Best seen in a company of a martini glass, it announces to the world that the owner’s sole purpose tonight is to have fun.
But what do I wear it with? Going through my wardrobe in search of an appropriate outfit I realise that it’s the ring that choses the dress not the other way around. And that it hates competition. The ring is a star in it’s own right.
Finally, I settle on a Ralph Lauren one shoulder column dress, beautifully cut but incredibly plain canvas to set the ring against it. I decide to take off all my other jewelry save for my wedding band. Suddenly ALL you see is my cocktail ring.
It’s looks obscene- says The French, busy tucking white shirt into his trousers and reaching for his tuxedo. We must go. Driving along Thames River I think of the opulence of tsarist Russia, of Faberge eggs, sumptuous velvets and glossy furs. Is opulence on par with obscenity? I guess on one level it might be. One ring. So many contexts.