not?’ he said.
‘Stay right here and play with me!’ Petra said. Rob hadn’t asked why she wasn’t going into work. ‘I feel a bit low,’ she told him, as if he had, ‘after the weekend. My parents. You know. It’s difficult.’ Rob didn’t ask why specifically.
He sat on the edge of his bed and traced the pinky beige aureole of her nipple thoughtfully, as if weighing up the merits and consequences of her offer to stay at home, but then he tweaked her nose between his fingers and slapped her buttocks as if she was a puppy. ‘I have to go to work,’ he told her, ‘and you should too. It’s not healthy to play hooky.’ And with that, he swept back the duvet and flicked cold water at Petra from the glass beside the bed. She giggled and shrieked and writhed about the bed.
‘I’m working late tonight,’ Rob told her, ignoring her nakedness which quite hurt her feelings. ‘And I’m away overnight tomorrow. I’ll give you a call later in the week.’
‘It’s your birthday on Friday,’ Petra said.
‘Whoopee doo,’ said Rob.
‘You can’t wake up alone on your birthday,’ Petra said, though she remembered she’d done precisely that last December.
‘You girls and bloody birthdays,’ Rob said under his breath, procrastinating over which tie to wear.
‘You realize you need never come back to an empty bed after a long hard day’s work,’ Petra said, making much of her coy expression though her heart was thudding as she let slip what was on the tip of her tongue. ‘That is – if we lived together.’
Rob looked at her blankly. ‘Those are the times when I need my space the most,’ he said.
She cringed, not at the bluntness of his response but at what suddenly seemed the misfired audacity of her proposal. She sat herself up and fiddled with winding her watch. Rob’s expression softened. ‘We’ll go out Friday night and you can celebrate my birthday for me in whichever way you choose,’ he said. He ran her hair through his fingers. ‘It’s a bit soon, for me, to be talking about cohabiting and whatever.’
Petra nodded. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘You’ve got keys, haven’t you – remember to double-lock when you go.’
Petra cursed modern technology for its failings. Emails and text messaging and phone calls were all very well for shrinking the world in an amicable web of global communication but the truth was that her oldest, closest friend lived abroad and though the phone was marvellous in making a mockery of vast oceans and time zones, what Petra wanted most just then was simply a cappuccino in Lucy’s actual company. Feeling a little sorry for herself, she made one from the coffee machine in Rob’s kitchen. Sitting at his breakfast bar, calculating the time differences with Hong Kong, she decided to send a help!
She waited; toyed with the idea of phoning too but decided against it – her mobile phone bill was large enough and realistically this wasn’t an emergency, it was just her feeling a little down. She finished her coffee. Her phone remained blank. She took a shower. Still there was no reply. There wasn’t anything worth watching on daytime TV. And there was no food in Rob’s fridge. Just champagne, which irritated her. He’s a bit of a cliché, my boyfriend, she thought and wondered fleetingly how much else would get on her nerves if they did move in together. There now seemed little point in playing hooky; Rob had gone into work and her best friend was apparently oblivious to her cry for help. There was nothing to do but leave Rob’s flat and head for Hatton Garden.
‘Good weekend?’ Eric asked.
‘Ish,’ Petra said with a shrug.
‘Rob?’ Eric asked, expectantly.
‘Parents,’ Petra said.
‘How’s Mother Hen?’ Kitty teased, but carefully.
‘Barking mad,’ said Petra.
‘Does her hair still look like alfalfa?’ Kitty asked, because she loved this previous description of Petra’s.
It raised a smile. Petra nodded. ‘You’ll have to visit with me one day, Kitty,’ she said.
‘Your mother would love that,’ Kitty said. ‘One look at me and her hens will be laying eggs for their life.’
‘The thing is, my mother would love that,’ said Petra.
‘Did Rob chauffeur you about?’ Eric asked.
‘Well, he would’ve,’ Petra said, ‘but he had loads of work to do.’ Though she’d said it airily, there was uncharitable silence from her workmates. ‘It’s his birthday on Friday.’ Gina, Kitty and Eric nodded but returned to their work. ‘I’m going to surprise him,’ Petra said, ‘but I don’t know how just yet.’ Quietly, she paused to consider how hard she worked at choreographing this relationship without truly knowing whether Rob was much good at dancing to her tune. Their musical tastes were another thing that actually (along with a taste for champagne) they did not share.
Petra sketched. Recently she’d spent a lot of her studio time sketching. Sketching or doing out-work for Charlton. Though he had a selection of her pieces for sale, realistically, until funds came in, she couldn’t really justify purchasing the gold or the gems for her new designs. In fact, she just couldn’t afford it at the moment. She had a tab at Bellore, the suppliers to the trade, but Petra didn’t like letting that run too high. For the time being, she would just have to be content making up her designs in copper or steel wire for future pieces in precious metal. Perhaps if Charlton or one of her private clients liked them, they’d commission the real thing. But Petra wasn’t a saleswoman and the thought of contacting a previous client with a direct pitch for business appalled her.
‘I’ll do it for you,’ Eric had offered.
‘But they spent one thousand pounds on that crocheted gold necklace with the aquamarine only six months ago.’
‘So you suggest matching earrings,’ Eric had shrugged.
‘I don’t know, Eric,’ Petra had said. ‘It seems a bit mercenary.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Petra,’ Eric said. ‘It’s your bloody job, woman.’
‘Don’t swear at her,’ Kitty growled from the background.
‘My friend Sophia is turning forty this year,’ Gina said helpfully. ‘I could ask her hubby if he wanted to splash out on a gorgeous Petra Flint something-or-other. They’ve got buckets of cash and a penchant for the finer things in life.’
‘But surely you should be pushing him to splash out on a gorgeous Gina Fanshaw-Smythe?’ Petra said.
‘My stuff is way too chunky and vulgar for Sophia,’ Gina had replied ingenuously. ‘She’s very refined, is Sophia. Your style is perfect.’
As Petra sketched that Monday morning, working on curlicues and arabesques and serpentines, she recalled Gina’s compliment and it gave her a boost. Perhaps if she showed Gina a couple of her designs it would prompt her to mention Sophia again and maybe
