‘One thing you are not is predictable or dull,’ Kitty protested. ‘You have daughters called Harry and Henry – how much more rock-and-roll can you get?’
‘But that’s short for Harriet and Henrietta,’ Gina said.
‘But you call them Harry and Henry and when people see you loading them into your Sloane Range Rover, that’s what they hear.’
Eric Bartley, far more girly than any of the women, felt it his duty to cluck over them like a mother hen. He brought in cakes and treats and new-fangled organic tonics and was the one who made the tea most often, earning him the moniker ‘Teas Maid’. If any of the women seemed below par, he’d give them a grave, sympathetic nod. He constantly sought their advice: from Clarins versus Clinique, to his frequent relationship dramas and what to cook that night; from his hair colour or his weight, to whether to buy Grazia or Men’s Health. But when he was working on his strong, masculine, classic designs, he worked in utter silence, interspersing long periods of extreme concentration and productivity with bursts of manic chatter and scurrilous gossip.
Today, all eyes are on Petra. She may have washed the grass from her hair and restored its long, glossy mahogany curls, her fingernails may now be clean and jogging pants hide the plaster on her knee, however it is not the odd white socks and Birkenstocks which betray her in an instant, it’s her demeanour. Everyone is used to Petra being the quieter member of their tribe, but today she is exceptionally wan. It casts a pallid mantle over her already delicate features; darkened hollows compromising the rich hazelnut of her usually bright eyes. She’s slim, but today she looks brittle. Though her clothing rarely courts much attention, today she looks a mess.
‘Are you all right, Petra darling?’ Gina asks.
‘Because you don’t look it. You look crap,’ says Kitty, ‘if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I had a bad night,’ Petra tells them. ‘I’m fine now. Just a bit tired.’
‘Rob?’ Gina mouths to Eric who shakes his head.
‘Not Rob,’ Petra hurries. ‘Rob came to my rescue. I just went walkabout whilst I was asleep. You know me.’
‘Right out of the house,’ Eric whispers to the other two. ‘She was walking to Whetstone.’
‘I don’t even know where Whetstone is,’ Gina says, as if it was possibly as far flung as the Arctic. ‘I thought you just tottered off to rearrange things in the kitchen, or bumped into the odd wall or door.’
‘I do, usually,’ Petra says.
‘Do you have any history there?’ Kitty asks darkly. ‘In Whetstone? A past life? Or ancestors? Bad blood?’
Petra smiles and shakes her head.
‘Then maybe you weren’t so much walking, as being led?’ Kitty suggests in a hush.
‘I just walk,’ Petra shrugs. ‘I don’t know where I was going, or why, because I can’t remember. But the police found me and Rob came for me.’
‘Did you hurt yourself?’
‘Bashed, bruised and blistered,’ Eric interjects, ‘the poor lamb. Look at her footwear – that’s necessity, not fashion.’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ Petra says, suddenly tiring of the attention. ‘I’m just knackered. And pissed off with myself because I haven’t actually left a building in my sleep for a good few months.’
‘Not since the fire-escape incident?’ Eric asks, with a sly wink.
‘God,’ Petra says, covering her face in horror.
‘You escaped from fire?’ Gina asks ingenuously.
‘You were in Bermuda, Gina,’ Kitty growls. ‘Petra was staying at a hotel in the country for her friends’ wedding.’
‘And woke up freezing cold and stark naked on the fire escape,’ Eric adds.
‘And the only way back in was through the main entrance,’ Kitty says.
‘And of course she didn’t think to take her room key,’ says Eric.
Gina is flabbergasted. ‘What were you wearing to Whetstone last night?’ she hardly dares ask.
‘Gumboots and an oversized Snoopy T-shirt,’ Petra mumbles from behind her hands.
‘Well, that’s better than nothing,’ Gina says kindly though the look from Kitty says that she begs to differ.
‘There must be something in it,’ Kitty says. ‘Whetstone, the wellies – don’t you think? Tarot will tell you. I have my cards with me – do you want me to read for you?’
‘If sleep specialists can’t tell me why I’ve sleepwalked since I was eight, then I’m not sure the answer lies in tarot,’ Petra says. ‘Not after nearly twenty-five years. Perhaps there’s nothing in it anyway. Maybe my body is just restless. Or my brain just can’t quite switch off. No one seems to know. It’s just my – thing.’
‘But the cards will know,’ Kitty says darkly, fiddling with the hoop in her right nostril.
‘Go on,’ Eric says, ‘let her read for you. You might discover you’re to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger.’
‘But I have my tall, dark, handsome Rob,’ Petra protests and raises her eyebrow defiantly at Eric who has already raised his at her.
Kitty shrugs. ‘Another time, then. I need to get on with my cuff.’ She unwraps from a soft cloth her current work in progress: delicate swirls and serpentines in white gold, like calligraphy in three dimensions, which she’s designed to be worn around the upper arm.
‘It’s stunning,’ Petra tells her.
‘Thanks,’ Kitty says shyly. ‘I just wish I didn’t owe my gem dealer so much – I really want those rubies for here, here, here and there.’
‘Those earrings you made for Gallery Tom Foolery – they’ll sell like hot cakes,’ Gina says encouragingly.
‘Hope so,’ Kitty smiles and tucks herself in to her bench.
‘Is it a Radio 2 day or a Classic FM day?’ Eric procrastinates.
‘Two.’
‘Two.’
‘Don’t mind.’
And the group settles down to work. Kitty filing and filing in pursuit of perfection; lemel, or gold dust, gathering like specks of wishes glinting in the pigskin slung like a hammock, hanging over her lap from the curved inlet of her bench. Gina is scrutinizing turquoise and amber. Eric buffs and polishes two wedding rings he’s just finished, his hair safely away from the spin of the machine in a girly topknot, his eyes protected by goggles.
Petra wonders what she actually has the energy to do. She has some out-work from Charlton Squire, the gallery owner and jeweller who takes a sizeable commission
