‘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
‘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
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