men turned and noted Petra. Charlton swaggered over, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. Yitzhak nodded amiably enough but kept physical space at a premium.
‘He buys my diamonds,’ Yitzhak shrugged, ‘but none of his good money will buy your tanzanite, hey, Miss Flint?’
Petra shook her head vehemently.
‘And if I give you top dollar for it – will you trade with me?’
Petra shook her head again and shrugged. ‘It's not for sale, Mr Levy.’
‘It's only for keeping in a cotton hanky under her mattress,’ Charlton said, exasperated, ‘isn't that right, Pet?’ He often called her Pet, it being a common endearment in the North-East as much as a convenient diminutive of her name.
‘I've brought your pendant back,’ Petra said, because her tanzanite was not for sale, not even for discussion.
‘May I?’ Yitzhak asked and Charlton handed the piece to him. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘A bit heathen for my liking. You ever thought of designing a nice Star of David range, Mr Squire?’
‘Most my clients are goyim ,’ Charlton bantered back, the Yiddish for ‘non-Jew’ coming as easily as a second language.
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
‘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?
‘He buys my diamonds,’ Yitzhak shrugged, ‘but none of his good money will buy your tanzanite, hey, Miss Flint?’
Petra shook her head vehemently.
‘And if I give you top dollar for it – will you trade with me?’
Petra shook her head again and shrugged. ‘It's not for sale, Mr Levy.’
‘It's only for keeping in a cotton hanky under her mattress,’ Charlton said, exasperated, ‘isn't that right, Pet?’ He often called her Pet, it being a common endearment in the North-East as much as a convenient diminutive of her name.
‘I've brought your pendant back,’ Petra said, because her tanzanite was not for sale, not even for discussion.
‘May I?’ Yitzhak asked and Charlton handed the piece to him. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘A bit heathen for my liking. You ever thought of designing a nice Star of David range, Mr Squire?’
‘Most my clients are goyim ,’ Charlton bantered back, the Yiddish for ‘non-Jew’ coming as easily as a second language.
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
‘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?
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