Pillow Talk

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.’