Return to Tiffany

Return to Tiffany

 

By Robin Hoselton

 

‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’ I’ll always remember that movie and my kinship with its star, Audrey Hepburn, who assured me that nothing bad happens in Tiffany. Okay, Audrey didn’t say that, but her character Holly Golightly did. I trusted her because I was only 22 and still believed in magic.

Thus in 1964, I made the pilgrimage to that famous jewelry store which inspired countless parents to name their female offspring, Tiffany.

The film faithfully depicted the store’s interior and the middle-aged gentlemen who presided over spotless glass counters displaying costly treasures. These guardians wore black suits with ties, crisp white shirts, and black shoes polished to a high gloss. Their buffed nails and precise haircuts revealed their allegiance to manicurists and barbers. They radiated an aura of snobbish superiority as they watched over the precious gems in their custody. Only the prospect of a substantial transfer of cash induced them to extract a diamond tiara, an emerald necklace, or ruby ring from its velvet bed inside the cases.

My blue jeans and hippie hairstyle telegraphed my lack of refinement the moment I stepped through the door.

One of the sentinels approached. Aloof, but excruciatingly polite, he asked, “May I help you, Miss?”

Feeling like a ragamuffin trespassing in Buckingham Palace, I mumbled something about just looking for a gift. He nodded and retreated, his raised brow the only indication that I was out of my league and had no business there. His gaze penetrated my bravado as I circled the counters, pretending to study the jewelry within. Although I couldn’t discern the difference between valuable gemstones and pretty colored pieces of glass, I noted there were no price tags. Need I say more?

At last I neared the door and hurried through,  engulfed by shame for letting myself be so intimidated by clerks who were probably just grandfathers off the job. With a little money, I could masquerade as a genteel lady of good breeding.

A hairstylist could give me an elegant upswept coif and Lord & Taylor could clothe me in sophisticated fashion. I could educate myself about jewels and master the lingo, i.e. cuts, carats, facets, mountings.

I resolved to return someday and make a purchase.  In my own way, I’d announce to the world in general and to Tiffany in particular that I was somebody.
Twenty-five years passed. I grew up more or less. I got a job, married, bore a child. Although I matured on the outside, on the inside I remained that girl who yearned to return to Tiffany. I never did acquire a lot of money but I had credit cards to make up the deficiency so one day I boarded the plane for New York City.

I sported a chic hairdo, a stylish suit and high heels. I knew exactly what I wanted from Tiffany: a blue topaz ring with a marquis-cut stone of four carats with a white gold filigree mounting, size six. So there!

I strode merrily up Fifth Avenue with my head held high, and entered Tiffany with the air of a queen arriving to survey her realm. I gasped in shock as I stepped over the threshold. This was not Tiffany! I must have made a mistake. I turned around and walked out to crane my neck at the name over the doorway. It was Tiffany.

Dismayed, I re-entered the store. The glass display cases still stood there, but smudged with handprints and littered with cigarette butts. Gone were the gentlemen’s gentlemen standing by to offer their assistance. In their places lazed young women wearing nondescript clothing, chewing gum, and totally indifferent to customer service. Gone were the elite clientele. Ordinary shoppers leaned irreverently on the cases. Even a couple of street punks scrutinized diamond earring studs.

Alas, the magic was no more. In my naivety, I had not made allowance for the passage of that funereal specter, Time. It had not occurred to me that those middle-aged men were all deceased by now. Neither had I considered the economy that caused such startling changes in store policy. In its pursuit of profit, Tiffany & Co., had opened its doors to accommodate the masses. Price tags were attached to its jewelry. Need I say more?

I could have bought my ring with the blue topaz.  But I didn’t. It was just a piece of colored glass now.