Monte and the Ring-Bearer

The best a lost luxury item can hope for is to be found by someone worthy.

The Moron just shoved me into his pants pocket again! He knows I'm not secure there like that! What does he think the finely-crafted, monogrammed silver clip is for?

So here I am, jammed between the cushions of the limousine, while he goes gallivanting off to who-knows-where with his little trollope who's a third his age. And a third his weight too, for that matter, poor girl. Well, good riddance to him. Maybe whoever finds me will take better care of me.

The chauffeur opens the door, the mechanism making a weighty and well-engineered kerchunk. A bride! Not quite what I had in mind, but could be worse.

The young woman gathers her lace skirts and train, ducks her flower-encrusted head and slides across the seat. I snag a passing waft of tulle in the hope of being rescued. I can be her something blue! But she doesn't notice.

An older man is next, beaming from ear to ear. Father of, no doubt, and happy with his daughter's choice by the looks. Cheap suit, but he scrubs up alright. Maybe he'll see me?

No such luck. He just slides in next to his daughter and I'm buried between them. The rest of the bridal party climbs into the car, but they're hidden from me, and then we're off. I try jabbing my cap into the butt cheeks of first the bride and then her father, but they each just shift in their seats and ignore me.

We arrive at the church, or wherever, and the party piles back out. 'Daddy' and 'Pickle' (the bride) last. I consider hanging on, but decide it's not worth the risk of being dropped outside. I can wait until after the ceremony. Maybe the groom will notice. The door closes with a beautiful weighty-but-soft thunk.

"Wait! I forgot something!" It's heavily muffled by the sound-proofing in the door, but is that a child's voice?

'Daddy' says something in reply that I can't make out.

"Ye-es! I left the rings in the car!"

The door opens again. Oh no! The child! Anything but that! I do my best to hide between the cushions. The girl clambers into the cabin, across to the rear-facing seats at the front and grabs the ring box. I can't make out the jeweller's logo, but it looks disappointingly generic. She turns back toward the door, placing her hand right next to me to steady her exit. Oh help! I slide into the dimple made by her hand and collide gently with her pinky. She looks down, hesitates, then picks me up and clips me to the inside of her sleeve. Nightmare! At least her hands are clean and she's been more careful than The Moron. She climbs out of the car, slams the door a little too hard and scampers to join the rest of the bridal party, while I cling for dear life to her sleeve.

The party arrange themselves, the signal is given, and the music starts up. Traditional bridal march. Good. At least they have some sense of taste and decorum. The Ring-Bearer walks in behind the Flower Child (thank goodness it wasn't that that found me) and ahead of the Pickle-bride, turning aside to sit in the front row while the ceremony gets underway.

She's a fidget - stroking my cap as she waits for her big moment. It's quite nice really. At least she's gentle about it, and her hands are clean. Did I mention that already?

The moment arrives. She gets up and hands the ring box to the priest, or celebrant, or whatever, and then we're back to our seat. Duty done and both hands free, she surreptitiously slides me out of her sleeve, runs a freshly manicured finger along my barrel. She's smiling. Not with mischief, but adoringly... at me! Maybe I judged too harshly? Jumped to conclusions? Maybe she is worthy after all.

We reach the signing of the certificates. I was made for this, but they're organized enough to have pens ready. Not in my class at all, of course, but at least they're proper pens, not some mass-produced plastic riff-raff. Still factory, probably, but with a bit of class and at least some quality control. The Ring-Bearer slides me back into her sleeve, giving my cap a final stroke, as Mr. and Mrs. Pickle are presented and then lead the procession out of the church, venue, place, whatever. The Ring-Bearer folds her arms to cradle me in her sleeve as we make our way outside for photographs.

Then it's back in the limousine and off for more photographs, and then on to the reception. Ring-Bearer's mother is there to meet us out of the car.

"What does Montblanc mean?" She noticed? She's asking about me!

"Mont blanc? White mountain, I think. It's French. Why?"

"Just wondered. I saw it written somewhere."

We make our way inside. Mother Ring-Bearer signs the guest book and turns to go into the dining room. Ring-Bearer hesitates, then slides me out of her sleeve. She uncaps me and rolls me gently between her fingers for a moment, then signs her name in the book. Daisy Jane Templeton. She gives a little shiver and a barely audible squeal. She loves me! And has the grace to be discreet about it, too. She carefully puts my cap back on and slips me back into her sleeve. Maybe I got lucky after all.

She trots up behind her mother. "Can I have my bag, please?"

"Now? Don't you want to wear your pretty dress for dinner?"

"Yes, but I have to put something away first."

Her mother hands her a decidedly ordinary backpack and I'm whisked away into a corner of the room. Daisy unzips the bag, slides me out of her sleeve and swaddles me in a fair-quality wool cardigan, stroking my cap once more before she tucks me in.

"When we get home," she says, "we're going to write the most amazing stories!"

I can't wait.