lines. Then she took a blue pencil and a violet one and worked the hues over each other. The design was for a necklace. Fine rose-gold belcher from the back of the neck slinking just over the trapezius where it then met an undulating line of solid rose gold sitting sinuously along the clavicle. From the centre of this, a gemstone. Tanzanite. Something sizeable, 4 carat or so. Balanced by two smaller tanzanites, a carat each, uniting the junctions between the gold chain and the solid gold.
She stood up, stretched, looked out of the window to the hubbub of Leather Lane. It’s busy this morning, for a Monday morning, she thought until Eric suddenly announced, ‘Lunchtime!’ and she looked at her watch and marvelled how the hours had rattled by while she had been so silently absorbed in her work. She felt quite triumphant, stimulated, productive. And very hungry. Gina was still engrossed in hammering a silver bangle and Kitty appeared to have left the studio. Petra decided to leave her sketchbook open and accompany Eric to the sandwich shop.
When they returned, Kitty and Gina were poring over Petra’s designs.
‘It’s stunning,’ Kitty said. ‘Classic but contemporary, delicate but strong.’
Petra looked at Gina expectantly. ‘You’re a clever bunny,’ Gina said. And Petra said, Do you think so, thank you, thanks a lot. But she couldn’t bring herself to mention Sophia’s fabulously rich husband.
‘Don’t let Charlton see it,’ Eric said. ‘He’ll copy it, the sod.’
‘That wouldn’t be your tanzanite, would it?’ Gina asked.
Eric looked at Petra’s drawing. ‘Her tanzanite is twice the size.’ He squinted at the sketch. ‘Three times the size.’
‘Bring it in again one day,’ Gina said, ‘so we can all have a jolly good ogle.’
Petra hadn’t been home since before the weekend. She’d gone directly from Watford and later Kent to Rob’s place and stayed over both nights. She’d rented her flat for just under two years. Recently she had renewed the lease. She’d asked Rob’s advice a couple of months ago, hoping that he’d say, Move in with me, babe. But his advice had been solidly financial. He pointed out that she couldn’t afford the down payment for a suitable flat in an area she liked and, with it still being a seller’s market, she may as well continue to rent for the time being.
Her flat was small and fairly sweet. The lounge could take a gate-leg table and three folding chairs as well as a sofa; it also had a fireplace with coal-effect fire and alcoves with shelving to either side, stripped floors and sash windows. The bedroom accommodated a double bed and the narrow church pew which Petra had bought as a student and had taken from bedroom to bedroom ever since. As there was only a small cupboard and a very narrow chest of drawers, the pew’s surface was invaluable. The bathroom had no window, just a noisy Vent-Axia but, bizarrely for the lack of space, a bidet too. Her upstairs neighbours were the landlords and they were a friendly if heavy-footed family.
Today, she came home to a note from them saying, ‘There’s a leak!!! We’ve had it fixed. Hope nothing of yours is affected??? Insurance will cover if so!!’ Petra looked around the sitting room and suddenly noticed the yellowed bulge at the far end of the ceiling and the beige fingers of damp clawing their way down the wall; her paperbacks on the shelf directly beneath were puffed swollen and soggy but they appeared to be the only casualty. In fact, Petra found herself more distressed by the state of her fridge – that her milk had gone off and that the KitKats she thought she still had were not there. She was going to slump down to sulk, then she thought she’d stomp off to the corner shop, but then she noticed the flashing of her answerphone.
‘It’s me! I’ve just done the school run! Where are you? Phone me and I’ll call you straight back.’
It was Lucy. Or, rather, it had been Lucy, phoning from Hong Kong. Hours and hours ago. It was now gone six and over the seas and far away Lucy would be fast asleep. In fact, it was already Tuesday for her. If Petra waited until eleven, she’d catch Lucy at breakfast.
The conversation started as it always did: with brief marvelling at the clarity of the phone line and how much time had passed since they last spoke.
‘I miss you,’ Petra said. ‘What are you having for breakfast?’
‘Fruit salad,’ Lucy laughed. ‘Miss you too. I did phone yesterday. What’s up?’
‘Well, I feel OK now – because I had a productive day at the studio. But I woke up feeling crap – because I used up my weekend visiting my parents.’
‘It’s not Christmas,’ Lucy said.
‘I know.’
‘I thought we’d decided you’d only visit at Christmas?’
‘I know. I don’t know why I did it, really.’
‘How were they?’
Petra paused. ‘They’re both always so preoccupied. I just feel inconsequential.’
‘You are far from it,’ Lucy said, almost sternly.
‘Thank you,’ Petra said. She paused because she wanted Lucy to continue.
‘You’re the strongest person I know,’ Lucy said. ‘All your achievements are your own. God, it’s not as if your parents gave you a leg-up, a foot in the door or even a pat on the back. You’ve always managed to stride out by yourself. And look at your success.’ She said it with triumph. ‘Does that help?’ she added.
‘Ish,’ said Petra.
‘Don’t let them upset you,’ Lucy said, ‘because of course they don’t mean to. They’re not bad people – they’re just, well, crap parents.’
Petra paused.
‘You don’t really need them,’ Lucy said.
‘But sometimes I want them,’ Petra said.
‘Everyone needs a sense of family,’ Lucy said, ‘in every sense of the word. You don’t quite have that and that’s tough. How are you sleeping?’
‘Not good,’ Petra said. ‘I’ve been waking up knackered. I think I must be sleepwalking a lot.’
‘How is Rob?’ Lucy asked.
Petra paused. She was acutely aware that she never paused when Eric or Gina or Kitty asked the question. She always jumped to his defence; blowing his trumpet and singing his praises. But with her oldest friend, such exaggeration was pointless. Honesty though, required greater effort. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘Ish,’ Petra qualified.
‘I don’t like the sound of “ish”,’ said Lucy, wishing she was in the UK, wishing she knew Rob better because her first impression of him hadn’t painted her a particularly pleasing picture.
‘I’m not quite sure where I stand and I feel I should after ten months,’ Petra said. ‘After all, I’ve made it my mission to ensure that he wants for nothing from me. Sex. Support. Affection. Space.’
‘You give,’ Lucy defined, ‘but what do you get? Does he actually warrant all the effort you bestow?’
