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‘Petra, I can’t be doing with this.’ She looked at him directly, her eyes vacant though she spoke at him.
‘I know what you mean,’ she said flatly.
‘I doubt it,’ Rob said back though he knew they weren’t conversing.
‘But I wouldn’t agree with you about Gordon Brown.’
She made to turn back to the sitting room but he steered her to the bedroom and she lay down without a murmur.
‘Sorry, babe,’ he said, ‘but I’m fucking knackered.’ And he took a tie from his cupboard, binding it around her wrist and securing it to the bedpost.
Chapter Six (#ulink_2f357b3f-756a-5fb8-8327-03b01dd3fc7b)
Petra’s knee healed faster than the blisters so she continued to wear her Birkenstock sandals with socks to the studio all week, and still had to wear her pop socks and slippers when she saw Rob a couple of evenings later. I’m wearing pop socks again, she advised him, so if you want to do unmentionably rude things to me, can you give me warning so I can take them off first. Rob had called her a little hussy – much to her delight. And in the event, she left her socks on and they had sex energetically while he slapped her buttocks and called her a naughty naughty girl. When she woke the next morning, though her buttocks felt decidedly tingly it was her left wrist which felt really sore and when she looked at it, it was red; scorched like a burn. She showed it to Rob who’d said, Don’t you remember me pinning you down as I rogered you senseless? However Petra couldn’t remember, precisely. But the sex had been kinky and mostly in the dark and perhaps all that spanking had distracted her, so maybe he had. As she showered, she did quietly consider how, as good as they were at sex, it would be nice if she and Rob could be a little better at the bits in between. But she quickly washed away the notion that, quite possibly, it was beyond Rob’s natural personality to loll about chatting idly, or to hold hands whilst walking, or to make love rather than always fuck.
‘Petra, what have you done to your wrist?’ Gina asked her in the studio.
Petra pulled her sleeve down but gave Gina and Kitty and Eric a saucy lick of her lips. ‘Rob’s a bit of a tiger,’ she giggled, sashaying out to the toilet.
‘He’s a bit of a prat,’ Eric said dryly when Petra was out of earshot.
‘He’s a lot of a prat,’ Gina defined.
‘I don’t like it,’ Kitty said darkly. ‘Petra is naturally gentle – physically and emotionally. I’m sorry, but I don’t like to think of someone being rough with her.’
‘She can look after herself,’ Eric snapped because actually he wished he’d come out with Kitty’s insight.
‘No, Eric. I can look after myself,’ Kitty said. ‘Petra was born someone to be made love to – I’m someone born to fuck.’
Gina giggled. ‘Kitty, you are outrageous. You’re putting me off my work.’
Kitty shrugged, her skeins of blue-black hair snaking around her shoulders like a latter-day Medusa. ‘Sorry, Gina,’ she said, ‘but I do have authority to speak. I’ve had more sex with more people than all the hyphens in the double-barrelled surnames in your street.’
Gina giggled again. ‘Rob is a prat – but it’s not for us to say so. Anyway, Petra is very fond of him. And she’s really set on making this relationship last.’
‘Even if it doesn’t necessarily work,’ Eric sighed. ‘Christ.’
‘True,’ said Kitty, ‘but if I think he’s hurting her, then no one’s bloody gagging me. Silence has no place in the shadow of violence.’
Both Eric and Gina quietly hoped that this was the end of the matter and that Petra would not come into work with marks on her again. Neither of them fancied Rob’s chances against Kitty.
‘I’m taking Charlton’s piece back to him,’ Petra announced when she came in again. She showed them the ankh pendant she had fashioned out of gold according to Charlton’s precise design; Celtic ornament enlivening the surface. ‘Does anybody want anything?’
‘Can you pop into Bellore for me?’ Gina asked. ‘They phoned to say my turquoise is in – it’s all paid for.’
‘And I need some 4mm setting strip,’ said Kitty. ‘Can you lay out for me and I’ll pay you back?’
‘Anything else? Eric?’
‘Oh go on, twist my arm – I’ll have a cappuccino,’ Eric said. ‘But better make it a skinny one – my belt was tight this morning. Do you think I’ve gained weight?’
Petra raised her eyes at Kitty and Gina and left them to deal with Eric’s neuroses while she went about her errands.
On one side only of Hatton Garden there is a line of trees which bow subtly towards the kerb like some kind of benign, eco-friendly security grille. It is on this side, about halfway down, that Charlton Squire has the original of his two jewellery galleries. The other, opened last year, is off New Bond Street in the West End. Like Electrum in South Molton Street, Charlton Squire Gallery is revered as a hotbed boutique of cutting-edge talent. However, there’s a price to pay for such innovation in precious metals and gems and designs and it’s high; the pieces for sale are marketed meticulously as luxury goods for those who can afford them. There’s also a price to pay by the jewellers whom Charlton chooses to exhibit at his gallery and that is hefty commission charges. However, to exhibit at Charlton Squire means access to wealthy clients and occasional exposure in the pages of Vogue and Vanity Fair.
‘It’s a six and two threes,’ Petra had justified when she told the others at the studio that Charlton had selected her work.
‘It’s a rip-off,’ said Eric.
‘Your nose is just out of joint because Charlton didn’t select you,’ Gina chided.
‘More like Eric’s dick is out of joint because Charlton turned down his crown jewels,’ Kitty said.
‘I didn’t offer him my body,’ Eric objected, ‘only my work. I don’t fancy him anyway – he’s not my type. He’s too big and swarthy and I don’t like his accent.’
‘You Southern poof,’ Kitty teased him.
‘Charlton Squire sounds like the love child of Jimmy Nail and Molly Sugden,’ Eric said. ‘I only understand every other word.’
‘You snob,’ said Kitty.
‘And he looks like their love child too,’ Eric said.
‘You bitch,’ said Kitty. ‘Meow.’
Charlton Squire did not look like the love child of Jimmy Nail and Molly Sugden, in fact he looked quite unlike anybody. He certainly did not resemble either parent; his mother a whippet-wizened Yorkshire lass, his father a solid Geordie. At nearing six foot five and eighteen stone, Charlton looked more like an oversized cliché, alarmingly like a tribute act for the leather-clad chap from the Village People; a look which hadn’t gone down well in his home town of Stokesley but had gone down a storm when he hit the gay scene in London twenty years ago. He’d ditched the thick moustache in his forties and had more recently relaxed the tightness of the top-to-toe leather and the amount of chest on public view. But he still came across as textbook gay and he used it to his advantage, whatever the sexuality of his clients. He’d charm the straight ones, flirt with the gay ones and inhibit anyone pursuing a discount by wielding his weight alongside a winsome expression of abject hurt if they dared ask.
Though Charlton Squire’s own designs were coveted worldwide, his secondary skill was as a scout. He could swoop down on promising talents and quickly appropriate them as his protégés, as if their genius was of his making and that he alone was responsible for tapping into their potential. Though ruthlessly ambitious, he liked to exude an air of benevolent altruism and eagerly promoted himself as a philanthropic patron and mentor. He still loved designing jewellery but he also loved the showmanship of owning his galleries. He had neither the time nor the inclination to physically make up his own pieces any more and so as well as having bench-workers in the workshop behind the gallery in Hatton Garden, he also sent out his designs to skilled jewellers he trusted. Petra Flint being one of them. She didn’t mind. She didn’t find it demeaning and it didn’t take her away from her own designs; she used her out-work from Charlton as a way of keeping her current account healthy and honing her dexterity as a jeweller – something she believed could always be more and more finely tuned.
What Petra loved most about Hatton Garden was its history and its honesty. It wasn’t as chic or salubrious as the West End but there was a definite sense of it being the genuine hub of her industry. The retailers in Knightsbridge, in Regent Street, lower New Bond Street and South Molton Street were simply trading the wares which could be mostly traced back to the Hatton Garden area anyway. She knew some young jewellers who had studios in Hackney, in Kensal Rise, but though she paid a little more for the privilege of renting studio space in London’s true jewellery quarter, it was money well spent for the buzz and the impetus it gave her. She loved the naffness of some of the shops; the lack of pretension of window displays haphazard on faded flower paper or frayed velvet boxes or cracked plastic cushions; she enjoyed the delusions of grandeur of others – from the geographically schizophrenic Beverley Hills London to the blingtastic Go for Gold with its windows stuffed full of solid gold chains thick enough to hoist anchor. She liked the way that the modern and ultra-chic could coexist quite happily with the old-fashioned and low key. R. Holt, with its frontage resembling a hardware store in need of a dust nevertheless nodded proudly at Nicholas James opposite, all uber-hip and with a minimalist take on window design. Cool Diamonds believed in the lure of its name alone in lieu of any window display while Petra’s personal favourite, A. R. Ullman, was endearingly Dickensian in the higgledy-piggledy jam-packedness of its diminutive shopfront. As she walked to Charlton’s, she browsed; said hullo to familiar faces, detoured via the Wyndham Centre to enquire about reflexology for sleep disorders. Kitty, Gina and Eric had sent her there for her birthday last December, booking her a crystal healing with chakra balancing session. She’d felt well and truly stoned afterwards.
When she was buzzed in at the Charlton Squire Gallery, the eponymous owner, in all his enormous campness, was locked in discussion with a young Hasidic Jew whom Petra recognized as Yitzhak Levy, from a family of renowned diamond dealers. Charlton stood a head and shoulders taller than Yitzhak and compared with the latter’s paleness, Charlton looked positively orange. But whatever Yitzhak lacked in physical stature, his magnificent hat and beautifully tonged sideburn ringlets gave him gravitas. From Charlton’s leather trousers and contour-skimming silken shirt the colour of midnight, to Yitzhak’s eighteenth-century Polish dignitary’s dress, the men epitomized the theatricality, the tolerance, the unique and unchanged trading mores of Hatton Garden. Petra knew what would happen next. There’d be gesticulations, perhaps some banging of fists and the throwing up of arms and then shrugs and nodding and handshakes. The diamond merchant dug into his overcoat pocket and produced the stone which Charlton exchanged for a wad of banknotes. More handshaking. Shalom. Kol tov. Deal done for the day. The men turned and noted Petra. Charlton swaggered over, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. Yitzhak nodded amiably enough but kept physical space at a premium.
‘He buys my diamonds,’ Yitzhak shrugged, ‘but none of his good money will buy your tanzanite, hey, Miss Flint?’
Petra shook her head vehemently.
‘And if I give you top dollar for it – will you trade with me?’
Petra shook her head again and shrugged. ‘It’s not for sale, Mr Levy.’
‘It’s only for keeping in a cotton hanky under her mattress,’ Charlton said, exasperated, ‘isn’t that right, Pet?’ He often called her Pet, it being a common endearment in the North-East as much as a convenient diminutive of her name.
‘I’ve brought your pendant back,’ Petra said, because her tanzanite was not for sale, not even for discussion.
‘May I?’ Yitzhak asked and Charlton handed the piece to him. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘A bit heathen for my liking. You ever thought of designing a nice Star of David range, Mr Squire?’
‘Most my clients are goyim,’ Charlton bantered back, the Yiddish for ‘non-Jew’ coming as easily as a second language.
Yitzhak shrugged. ‘If you make them – they will sell.’
Charlton nodded. ‘You’re probably right. Now bugger off and flog your diamonds elsewhere.’
The men laughed and shook hands again. Yitzhak nodded at Petra and left.
Charlton scrutinized her work in silence. He compared it in minute detail with his design and analysed the craftsmanship under a loupe.
‘Excellent,’ he said at length. ‘Do you want cash or have it as a credit against commission?’
‘Has any of my stuff sold?’ Petra asked him though she could see her work displayed beautifully in a well-lit cabinet.
‘Not this week, Pet.’
‘I’d better have the cash then, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Planning to go crazy at the weekend?’
‘Hardly,’ Petra said. ‘I’m off to see my parents.’
‘Are you taking the boyfriend?’
‘I am,’ she said proudly.
‘He’ll be down on bended knee in front of your pa, Pet.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Petra said, though privately she thrilled to the notion.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_65a5908b-a1a3-5837-8b83-16cbe30df8f7)
‘Hullo?’
‘Dad?’
‘Hullo?’
‘It’s Petra.’
‘Petra. Hullo. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. And you? I was thinking about popping in tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes – is that OK? About elevenish?’
‘Oh. Elevenish isn’t very good as Joanna has ballet. How about after lunch?’
‘After lunch? Or what about lunch-timeish?’
‘After lunch is better. If it’s all the same to you.’
‘Oh. OK. After lunch, then. See you tomorrow. And Dad? I’m bringing Rob.’
‘Rob?’
‘My boyfriend – you met him before Christmas.’
‘Investment chappy?’
‘Yes. It’s going really well.’
‘Well, we’ll see you both tomorrow then.’
Rob couldn’t think of anything he’d like to do less with his Saturday than go on a day-trip to Watford to visit Petra’s father. And he certainly wasn’t going to give over his Sunday to journey out to Kent to visit Petra’s mother. He’d rather visit his own parents in Hampshire, and that was saying something. His week had been long, mostly lucrative but exhausting. He fancied having a weekend left to his own devices. Certainly not to be wasted by being paraded in front of Petra’s parents. Why was she so keen to do that anyway? It wasn’t as if she was particularly close to them. Rob knew he could make it up to her by begging her forgiveness and promising that he’d have theatre tickets awaiting her return on Saturday evening, and the finest sushi in London when she came back on Sunday. Bloody work, he said. Bloody boring, he said. He didn’t say that visiting her parents was hard work and boring.
On the Metropolitan Line to Watford, Petra fought a losing battle against nostalgia. It was always the same and on each occasion, only as she felt her spirits start to sap would she remember how she always asked herself why was she making this trip – uninvited yet feeling duty bound? She knew she’d leave deflated and reflective. She could be snuggled up with her boyfriend instead, if only he was a bit more into snuggling. Or she could be out shopping then. She could be cleaning her flat or curled up with a book. She could be having a nice, easy day.
The journey to Watford was relatively short but it was long enough for her to let the train window, against which she rested her head, judder memories and thoughts from the safe and private place she usually kept them. She always felt positive in advance about visiting one parent or the other, but as the destination neared so did a sense of trepidation and the hunch that on her homeward journey she would question why she made the trip in the first place. Petra envied people whose parents continued to live in the old family home, enabling them to return to the cornerstone of their childhood each time they visited. No matter how far away that home might be, by definition it would be an easy journey to make. But Petra’s childhood home had been sold when she was fourteen and her parents had divorced. She and her mother had moved into a flat nearby and her father had moved away.
Petra gently played her fingertips over her lap as if in silent piano practice; in fact she was totting up the years. It occurred to her that John Flint had lived in his current house in Watford with his new family for the past fifteen years. In the same house. Which meant he’d been there a year longer than all the time he’d spent at home with Petra. Psychologically though, he’d moved out of that house long before his bags were packed and his current house was much more his home than theirs had ever been.
She looked out of the window, glimpsing cars at a standstill. John had offered to buy her a car for her twenty-fifth birthday, but she’d sensed he’d hoped she’d decline because at the same time he’d made much of Joanna’s school fees and there being another baby on the way.
There’d been another since then. Something good had come out of the split between her parents and that was half-siblings for Petra. Joanna and Eliza and Bruce. She peeled back the cellophane on a bland-looking sandwich. It was hard not to feel hurt that she hadn’t been invited for lunch. But Joanna had ballet and no doubt big families were on tight timetables at weekends to cram everything in. Including visits from the daughter, the stepdaughter, the half-sister.
Christ, I’ve just realized Joanna is the same age as I was when Dad left.
‘Petra!’ Eliza flung herself at Petra’s waist while Bruce tried to squeeze in between their bodies.
‘What a welcome,’ Petra told them, noting Joanna slunk around the banister. ‘Hi Joanna, I’m loving your haircut. How was ballet?’
‘Jo,’ said Joanna. ‘I like being called Jo now.’
‘Sorry,’ Petra said. ‘Jo suits you.’
‘I’m giving up ballet – I’m just going to do modern and tap.’
‘Wow,’ said Petra.
The teenager approached and helped her half-sister peel Bruce and Eliza off her limbs.
‘Did you brung us things?’ Bruce asked.
‘Yeah! Presents!’ Eliza shrieked. Petra noted that even Joanna now had an expectant twinkle in her eye.
‘Let the poor woman in, you lot!’ It was Mary. Petra’s father’s wife. From the start, Petra had somehow seemed old enough, self-contained enough and simply didn’t visit often enough for her to appear remotely in need of a stepmother. So Mary and Petra’s relationship bypassed that aspect. To Petra, Mary was her father’s wife. To Mary, Petra was John’s daughter. They both referred to him as John. They liked each other well enough.
They kissed. ‘John is out – he should be back soon. I’m just doing an online supermarket order. Kids – show Petra in.’
