Page 7 of Date with Destiny

The rings are my favourite area of the store. They’re our speciality. We do a broad range of jewellery, but engagement rings account for probably three-quarters of our trade. And despite the many idiots we see in here, like that particular sleazo idiot still staring at my sister’s boobs over there, I love, love,lovemy job. There’s nothing like helping people with this huge, exciting moment in their life. Even if you’re not a big, fat, hopeless romantic – which I am, for the record, despite everything I’ve seen about much of the malepopulation – it would be impossible for anyone to work in a boutique jewellery store andnotget sucked into the romance of it all. For every guy like Sleazo, there are five adorable, sweet couples who are head over heels, dribbling love out of their very pores and thrilled by the notion of promising the rest of their existence to each other.

Actually, I keep a secret list of my favourite proposal stories clients tell me – what they’re planning or what they’ve done – and read them sometimes when I get yet another cynical sleazo in store. I’ll definitely be pulling it out to read later.

‘Absolutely,’ I lead the young woman over to a nearby counter, a discrete distance from Sleazo. I don’t want anything to ruin this exciting moment for her.

I give her a moment to review the gleaming gorgeousness, taking in the array of yellow, white, rose gold, platinum and palladium options. We have every type of gemstone here, from amethysts to sapphires, in every kind of setting. Her eyes scan across the vintage section now, lighting on one of my favourites: a yellow gold heirloom from the 1800s, with three deep blue and green opals surrounded by tiny diamonds. She won’t be able to tell through the glass, but there’s an inscription on the inside that reads: 9th November 1867. It makes me want to cry thinking about everything it must’ve been through and seen since that date.

‘Is it a gift or a, er, special occasion?’ I fish as the woman hops excitedly from foot to foot. Her eyes are lit up with excitement at the prospects before her.

I really want her to say she needs an engagement ring. She’s too young to be getting married, obviously, but Iloveit when women propose.

Though, to be honest, most people who come in here on their own are just here to gawp at—

‘So, like, oh my god, it must be sooo cool to work for Celeste Bretherton!’ The young woman is no longer looking at our rings. Instead she’s suddenly very close to my face, stage-whispering as she eyeballs a huge framed photo behind the counter. It’s a promo shot from the third series ofEngage!

In the poster, Celeste stands in a power pose, hands on hips. She’s covered head-to-toe in sparkling diamonds, looking huge and Amazonian, glaring down into the camera at her feet, as an oncoming storm darkens the sky behind her. The tag line declares, ‘Engage!Returns for a new series on 8 Jan.’

Five years ago, my mum screen-tested for a brand-new streaming show calledEngage!, where contestants with an eye for design create bespoke rings within a time limit. It was billed asGreat British Bake OffmeetsMasterCheffor jewellery fans, and right from the start, my mum was an obvious candidate for judge. By that point Celeste’s Stones had already established itself as the newer, sexier Tiffany & Co., more modern than Cartier, more upmarket than Pandora. And with my mother as its face, the brand had acquired a huge cult following online, close to a million followers on Instagram, with people clamouring to watch her daily reels. She would describe, in her throatiest voice, all about her high-end,hand-curated stock; every item depicted in intimate, sexy detail. Every diamond was ‘naked’, every gleaming gem ‘erotic’. She was accused of being the Nigella of jewellery and when she early-adopted TikTok ahead of the teenagers, there was no stopping producers piling through our door.

I smile, a little tightly. ‘Yes, it’s incrediblycoolto work for your mum,’ I add a small laugh, covering my disappointment. She’s not really here for a ring; she’s here to celebrity-spot my mother.

Her eyes land on me with astonishment. ‘She’s yourmum?’ She takes me in, disdain lighting her eyes at my obvious lack of star quality. ‘Wow, that’s amazing. Do you ever get to go on set?’

‘I have done,’ I nod. ‘But it’s probably not as exciting as you think. I watched a bit of filming, but mostly just sat around on the catering bus talking to crew.’

‘Oh.’ She’s dissatisfied again.

‘So,’ I clear my throat, ‘back to the rings…’

She looks caught out for a second, before smoothly replying. ‘Sure, er, I need a ring for my… gran. She’s turning sixty-five. But, er, actually I’m mostly just, y’know,lookingtoday. Doing my market research, you get it.’

‘Of course,’ I reply smoothly.

We go through the rigmarole of discussing options before I leave her to wander around on her own. I know before I’ve walked two feet away, she’s already WhatsApping her friends about the encounter. She went into Celeste’s Stones and mettheCeleste Bretherton’s daughter! And she was lame!!!

That might be the biggest problem with this job. I don’t really mind the sleazos or the cynical celeb-chasers. But I do mind my mother. Working for your mum would be bad enough but she’s also the world’s worst manager. She’s a short-tempered, controlling, micro-manager who wants you to do everything for her but then will also redo it all because it wasn’t exactly the way she would’ve done it.

It’s what makes her such sensational telly, but, as her eldest daughter, I can tell you – Celeste Bretherton is A Lot.

And, oh god, speak of the mother-devil.

Celeste sweeps in through the back entrance, already booming out in that lusty voice of hers.

‘Where’s my darling birthday girl?’ She yells this at me, even though I’m right in front of her. ‘I need a cuddle, my darling!’ She opens her arms wide and I glance around, embarrassed. The young woman with the fake gran is by the door, face white, eyes wide; her hands visibly shaking. Sleazo is watching with big eyes, too, Toni and her boobs momentarily forgotten.

There’s no denying my mother has that celebrity thing. Shesparkles. Which, yes is another one ofEngage!’s tag lines, but it’s also true. Celeste is effervescent in that undefinable way some women are. She’s other-worldly, somehow. I think that’s why I always think of her as Celeste, rather than Mum. I know it bothers her and I try my best to say Mum out loud. She says she doesn’t mind being Celeste Bretherton to the world, but she wants us – her family – to see someone else underneath.

The trouble is, she so often forgets to leave the characterat the door. I guess, when the whole world sees you a certain way, how can you not be affected by that? I watch Celesteperformeven for us, like we are her fans and viewers. It sometimes feels like I don’t know the real person there, underneath all that Celeste Bretherton. Maybe it’s easier; hiding. I wonder if my dad ever gets to know the real her?

The truth is, I don’t even know how old she is. Her stage age is between forty and fifty-five but I think she must be closer to sixty, if not tipping over. But her skin is flawless. She loves all the non-surgical surgery and has weekly laser-y, sonic-y, Gwyneth-y facials that keep her looking tight and blank in an ageless way.

Myfanwy says the moment she turns forty, she’s going to get everything Celeste has done. Personally, I’ve always said I wouldn’t do it, but now I’m in my thirties – thirty-two today actually – I’ve started noticing certain upsetting changes. Things are happening around my face that are really starting to bother me. In my twenties, if I had a rough night or got ill, sure, I’d have awful eyebags and my face would sag a bit, but after a decent night’s sleep, it would spring back to its usual self. That doesn’t happen so easily now. The eyebags and sagging have just become part of my existence. I find myself looking in the mirror every day, whispering at my reflectionhopefully you’ll look better tomorrow.

Now I wish I hadn’t said quite so publicly that I would never get anything done.

It’s easy to say you’ll age gracefully before you’ve really started ageing.

I allow myself to be enveloped in a Celeste hug, and it’s a lot nicer than last week’s hen-do sick one. The huge silk dress she’s wearing – perfect for a red carpet, or apparently, a visit to the office on a Wednesday in late June – rustles around me.

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