The Anniversary Gift
Tagua
Last year I forgot our anniversary, and I had to resort to all sorts of acrobatics to be forgiven. In the last few weeks I have been actively thinking about what to get her this time. When she used to worship Mammon, it was easy, one got her a diamond pendant or a pearl necklace, but the Green God has taken over, and she has become quite aggressive in her pacifism. She now calls diamonds the teardrops of starving bands of the near slaves of Kimberley, and loudly enough for Araminta Hervey to hear, she said that the old dowagers wearing pearl necklaces should be strangled with them. Who but Effie could have thought of inviting our friends to a barbecue, with, for the overture, a solemn throwing of all our ivory artifacts into the flames? Her middle name is Drama.
I was the poor boy from the council estate, the catalyst in Eton’s social engineering soup, who went to Caius’ and made his first million in the City before he was thirty. Which does not mean that I have learnt proper table manners or can tell the difference between a Piccasso and a Banksy, although I have espoused classical music, and regularly donate to Scottish Opera. She, on the other hand was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, went to Cheltenham Ladies’, was head-hunted by Sotheby’s before throwing it all up to work for the Green Party. As an unpaid volunteer. The trajectories of our societal paths crossed each other from opposite directions. As mine plummeted from utopian egalitarianism to aspirations of a knighthood, hers rose from nimbyistic let-them-eat-cakeism to Ghandian self-abstinenc, sirloins excepted.
My fears that on top of everything she was going to turn vegan mercifully has not materialised_ yet. I think she loves Wagyu beef too much. She’s no longer into haute couture, and now buys everything from Shelter or Oxfam, but as she has never lost her flair, few people would recognise that her toilette had been bought for under a tenner, except that she would make sure to mention it herself. Only her stunning elfin charisma stops her friends yawning when she waxes lyrical about her new faith and pontificates about what is halal.Call me a sentimental fool_ or a hypocrite_ but I love and admire her the more for it.
I really needed to get her the right gift this time. Then Serendipity reared her blessed head. On a business trip to Colombia, I stumbled into a small shop in a dark alley in Bogota, and bought her the most striking necklace she was likely to see, and earrings, bracelets and a brooch in the same style.
Although there is a waiting list of eighteen months to get a table at the Double Helix, Amy (my P.A.) pulled a reservation for us, and we duly went there for our anniversary dinner. We ate caviare and drank Kruger, followed by lobster (for me), and Kogoshima (what else?) for Effie.
All evening my mind was on the gift, and I was as excited as the nine-year old boy I was when I managed by dint of extra shifts on my paper rounds to get enough money to buy mum a silk scarf for her fortieth. She wore it until she died.
After the Armagnac, it was finally the time to produce the gifts. I think you’re gonna love this darling, I said producing my offering. Her eyes lit up, as she began to tear open the wrapping. This quickly turned into a scowl as she caught sight of the necklace, as I knew it would. What’s this, ivory? she asked. It’s vegetable ivory, I said, with a self-satisfied smile, tagua nut is edible, like macademia, I’m told… Feel its weight … ever so light. She had the lot in her hands by now. It’s from the tagua palm, I mansplained, no elephant was harmed.
‘Happy anniversary,’ I said joyfully. She was still scowling. How could I have forgotten her deninciation of faux-fur, as something which still glamourised animal skins, and therefore just as bad.
‘People seeing this,’ she said sadly, ‘would not know that it is simil-ivory, and would be encouraged to buy …’ She suddenly stopped, and looked at me with forced gratitude.
‘Oh, I’m such an idiot, darling, don’t mind me. I should be saying thank you for respecting my caprices and whims … you must have put a lot of thought into this … sorry to be a damp squib… they are absolutely lovely.’ I made a superhuman effort (and failed) not to show my disappointment, and we had a silent trip back home.
Next morning, at breakfast, I made a desperate attempt to save the day.
‘Of course I eh … wouldn’t expect you to wear the tagua pieces too often, but perhaps you could splash them out tonight at that embassy do. I think Rishi will be there.’
‘Wear the tagua?’ She began giggling.
‘What’s funny?’
‘I woke up in the middle of the night and was feeling peckish in spite of all that I ate,’ she answered, the giggles intensifying, ‘and … well … you said it tastes like macademia.’
