will the years treat us well?

As she floats in the kitchen,

I'm tasting the smell

of toast as the b.u.t.ter runs.

Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed

and I shake my head.

And it's only the giving

that makes you what you are.

The goose b.u.mps from Jethro Tull lasted longer than from Mozart. Arlo wasn't quite sure on whom this looked worse, himself or Mozart. Of all the music ever written, it was Jethro b.l.o.o.d.y Tull cutting him to the quick. He returned to his folly. Stood with his eyes closed, conjuring the smell of hot b.u.t.tered toast. Petra's favourite. An image of her bringing a plateful back to bed. The divine juxtaposition between crumbs in the sheets and her sweet soft skin. Arlo slumped onto his living-room floor, staring into nothingness. Then his focus shifted and he caught sight of Petra's sketchbook, half under his sofa, waiting to be found.

A man with a mission. First, Arlo went to the computer room, surfed the Net, scribbled down details on a sc.r.a.p of paper. Then he made two phone calls before discoursing on Arnold Schoenberg and the emanc.i.p.ation of dissonance to his A level group. After this he went to his headmaster. After that he made further phone calls. At lunch-time, he found Nige.

'I'm going to find her, Nige,' he said. 'There's no way that I'm letting her go.'

'Good man,' Nige said.

'So I'm going to London.'

'Oh yes? When's that, then?'

'Day after tomorrow?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, mate!' Have you pa.s.sed it with Pinder?'

'Pinder and a dozen others. No red tape is going to trip me up.'

Arlo had thrown himself into the arrangements, he'd packed what he needed, but the night before he was due to leave, something felt greatly amiss. There was something missing, or something he'd forgotten and though he unpacked and repacked, though he checked through his paperwork, he was stumped. The Who, playing in the background, provided the answer. From "I Can't Explain" to "Behind Blue Eyes". No subst.i.tute. With a slow nod at the mirror, Arlo came out from behind Roger Daltry's shadow.

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

Of course. Miranda.

He'd been so preoccupied, he'd hardly given her a moment's thought. It occurred to him that if he'd been too busy to actively steer clear of her, then it was obvious that actually she'd been keeping herself out of his way. And as much as "Wondrin' Aloud" was his song with Petra, so "Behind Blue Eyes" was his song with Miranda. And however much he'd rather avoid her, Arlo knew he could not leave for London, he could not leave the school and he could not hope to truly find Petra until he'd sought out Miranda, to sort it out.

It was late. But as Arlo walked to her folly, he thought how it was never too late. He hadn't prepared a speech, he wasn't actually sure if it was forgiveness he sought or an apology. Whether it was an explanation he had to give, or whether he'd get a slap around the face. Or whether he would feel ent.i.tled to say, Who the f.u.c.k do you think you are talking to my girlfriend like that.

He knocked. Waited. She opened the door. They glanced away from each other's eyes to each other's feet. Hers were bare, her toenails now without varnish.

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

They looked at each other, their eyes darting to a point over each other's shoulders.

'You're off to London? It's the talk of the staff room.'

'Yes, tomorrow.'

'So you've come to take your leave?'

'Actually, I've come to clear the air.'

In one glimpse, Arlo saw both grat.i.tude and annoyance in Miranda's eyes. 'Come in,' she said.

He chose not to sit. In what order should they apologize? Ladies first? After you? Age before beauty? s.h.i.t before shovel? Whose crime was the greater? As Miranda opened her mouth, Arlo spoke first.

'Miranda, for my part I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lead you on. I should have been straighter with you. I should have thought with my conscience, not my d.i.c.k.'

She nodded.

'I know in these situations blokes say, "Hey babe, it's not you, it's me." But for me, it's not you it's Petra. I really did think I was done with love. Then Petra came along but then she disappeared. And then I thought that maybe a good old-fashioned zipless f.u.c.k would be the answer.'

'It's OK, Arlo,' Miranda interrupted, because though she appreciated Arlo's candour and though she knew she had an apology of her own to give, she really could do without hearing too much about St Petra. If she wasn't going to be Arlo's f.u.c.k-buddy, she certainly didn't want to be his confidante. 'I'm I behaved,' she sighed. 'I was a total cow, Arlo. No, worse, I was a b.i.t.c.h.'

Arlo shrugged.

'You'd been so clear about not wanting a girlfriend, per se. But then you said that if things ever changed, I ticked all your boxes.' She looked a little forlorn. 'That's flattering to a girl even if she says she's only after a little bit of fun.'

Arlo nodded. 'I misled you. I didn't want to be tactless. It was all so complicated.'

'You'd've been kinder if you'd've been a little crueller,' Miranda said.

'My head was saying one thing, my heart another, yet my body wasn't taking a blind bit of notice of either. Pathetic, really.'

Miranda smiled for the first time. 'Can I take that as a compliment, then?'

'You certainly can.'

'The madness of it is, I was actually feeling totally fine. We'd had our thing, you'd told me the score, I was cool. But then I came back to school early, came across the Walleys and asked them who was around and they said you and your lady friend. I was intrigued, infuriated. And then I saw her and immediately I saw why I'm not your type because she's, well, she's just so you. There's me, all brazen about casual s.h.a.gging but actually I was suddenly jealous.' She paused, looked at Arlo, shrugged. 'Actually, I was evil, Arlo. I couldn't stop myself. Have I f.u.c.ked things up for you?'

'We'll see.'

'Is that why you're off to London, then? Is there anything I can do? I could tell the truth, say sorry to her, tell a lie and pretend nothing happened between us? Ever. I don't know. Anything. As much to ease my conscience as to play Cupid.'

'Thanks. It's down to me now. And her.'

'It's late you'd better go.'

'Yes. Early start.'

'Good luck, Arlo you may need it.'

'Thanks. I can hear the Walleys on their rounds. Lock your door. Goodnight, Oatcake.'

Chapter Forty-four.

At a motorway services on the M1, over halfway to London, Arlo sat in Burger King, wolfed down a burger without tasting it, picked at the fries and fiddled with the straw in his drink. In his other hand, tucked tight, was the sc.r.a.p of paper with Petra's mobile number written on it. Eleven numbers should not have been difficult for Arlo to commit to memory especially as Petra's had a certain flow to them. After all, he could play great tracts of music off by heart and knew the dates of most of the hit singles since charts began. And the record labels. And the songwriters, too. But he hadn't been able to learn Petra's number by rote. He thought perhaps one had to own a mobile phone for such a sequence to stick. Maybe he just liked unfolding the paper and reading off her handwriting. He scrunched up the burger wrapper, pulverizing leftover bun and a few soft chips with it. Then he went in search of a pay phone. He inserted money, read Petra's number, hovered his finger above the keypad but returned the handset to the cradle. He hadn't pressed follow-on-call and he stood there, unfeasibly p.i.s.sed off that he'd lost his money along with losing his nerve. He told himself to get a grip or get on with the journey. Then he thought it was probably best to call her once he'd arrived, anyway. He considered phoning his mum. But decided against it, despite feeling guilty about this. She didn't know he was coming down, she needn't know. Time was going to be tight.

Once in London, unpacked and bolstered by a really good cup of coffee from yet another new chain of high-street coffee shops which had apparently sprung up since his last visit, Arlo studied the phone number again. There were two phone booths right in front of him. The proximity of Petra, just at the other end of the line, was tormenting. What would he say? Hi can we talk? But how might she respond? No sod off? Might she not answer at all then what kind of message should he leave? It wasn't as if he could say, Give me a call on the moby. And say he did get through and got beyond the greetings, what then? I'm in London can I see you? And what if she simply said, No, you can't?

'b.l.o.o.d.y stupid idea of mine,' Arlo said under his breath. He fiddled with the paper, folding and unfolding it, turning it over. And then he stopped. He'd been so focused on her writing, her number, he hadn't bothered to notice that she hadn't written on the front at all. She'd written on the back scribbled down her number on the back of an invoice. Bellore. Her suppliers. Their address, phone number, fax, email. Hatton Garden. It was a treasure map! It led directly to Petra's stamping ground. I'm looking for a jeweller named Petra Flint, he could say, Do you know where I might find her? Did he look like a client? A friend? Convincing? He had to look like one of the three. Or did he look like a lovelorn stalker from the sticks? He caught sight of his reflection in shop windows as he marched with purpose to the nearest tube station. He looked positive, that was the main thing.

This was Arlo's first visit to Hatton Garden. The swell of nerves at the tangible closeness of the woman he loved caused him to take his time with his route, to find inordinate interest in the shopfronts, in the buildings, the destinations of the red double-deckers which pa.s.sed. But then he came across the intersection with Greville Street without having to ask for directions. Initially, though, he turned right and found soon enough that this was the wrong way. He then read great significance into the fact that the wrong way had taken him to Bleeding Heart Yard: there must be a message in that. He retraced his steps with a sense of urgency as if he might just miss her if he didn't now hurry.

Bellore's premises was right at the end of Greville Street, practically on the corner of Leather Lane, opposite a rather insalubrious modern pub, and Arlo made a mental note to drown his sorrows there if it all went horribly wrong. The shopfront, though small, was chic and inviting compared to some of the supplier merchants he'd pa.s.sed. It looked more like a boutique and was most certainly open to the public. Strings of semi-precious stones trickled down the walls, cords of brightly coloured leather too. Central display cases presented the glint and sparkle of more expensive gems and precious metals. Towards the back of the shop, the walls were dominated by racks of tiny transparent drawers containing a myriad of silver and gold findings clasps and fastenings and rods and hooks and all manner of fascinating gubbins. A large squat safe sat intriguingly in the corner. In the centre of the floor s.p.a.ce, a st.u.r.dy measuring and cutting table, armed at one side by an alarming guillotine.

The shop was crowded. Arlo went downstairs where it was no less busy with customers poring over drill bits and rasps and tools that wouldn't look amiss in a dental surgery or torture chamber (which, from Arlo's childhood memory, were one and the same). But there was no Petra downstairs. He went back up to the main shop floor. No Petra up there either, not that he had really expected such an extreme coincidence. He'd come to Bellore because it was the most logical starting point, the most promising source for where to go next; it was a step in the right direction. She works around the corner, sir. I'm sure she's in the studio today she came in to buy some silver just this morning, sir. You ring the bell, sir, as clients often do. She'll be glad to see you, sir. Lovely Petra Flint.

But who to ask? Arlo observed the busy staff and their absorbed clientele all as varied and colourful as the merchandise in the shop. Older ladies with strong thin fingers that had possibly seen a lifetime of creativity. Jewellery graduates with chipped nail varnish scrounging for under a fiver's worth of bits and pieces. Well-heeled women of independent means, indulging their hobby with sizeable orders. Secretaries in their lunch-break wanting to rustle up a necklace for tonight's hot date. And people who looked like Petra active jewellers popping in from studios in the environs for essential supplies for works in progress. Arlo observed the staff, mainly young and eminently approachable but all of them occupied. He looked at his watch and reckoned a couple more minutes would be fine. Suddenly, there was the lull that Arlo needed. One woman with a long wish list and a member of staff a.s.sisting her, a couple of students dipping into the drawers at the back as if they were children in a toy shop choosing marbles, and a goth quite a pretty one inspecting tourmaline. A male sales a.s.sistant at the till was taking quick sips from a large a.r.s.enal mug.

'Excuse me,' said Arlo, trying to swallow a b.u.t.terfly stuck in his throat, 'I'm looking for Petra Flint.'

'Petra?' the sales a.s.sistant asked, his familiarity with her name bolstering Arlo.

'Yes I don't know where her studio is. I'm a friend. Fleeting visit from Yorkshire.'

Though Arlo could sense that someone was staring hard at the side of his face, he was utterly focused on the sales a.s.sistant, hoping to come across as warm and affable and convincing. The sales a.s.sistant suddenly looked over Arlo's shoulder, raised an eyebrow, gave a nod. 'She's the one you want,' he told him. Arlo turned. It was the goth.

'Oh no, no!' Arlo laughed quickly, returning his attention to the sales a.s.sistant. Should he talk about a.r.s.enal for a bit? Would that open the door? But Arlo was a Spurs supporter and even in extremis, he could not countenance such betrayal. 'Petra Flint?' he stressed. 'She's about so high just normal looking. Well, very pretty actually. Long dark curly hair.' He was starting to fl.u.s.ter. 'She's a jeweller of some repute, I believe? Works for Charlton Whatsit. Big into tanzanite.'

The sales a.s.sistant drained his mug and then motioned it towards the goth again, nodding as he swallowed. He cleared his throat. 'Yeah, we all know Petra but as I say, this lady will help you.'

'First time I've been called a lady, Dan,' the goth said with a flattered growl. 'I could get used to it.' Then she turned to Arlo who was suddenly transfixed by the bizarrely delicate pink gold chain running from the hoop in her nose to one of the many hoops in her ear. 'I'm Kitty,' she said. 'Don't tell me you're b.l.o.o.d.y Arlo.'

They sized each other up for a moment. 'Yes,' he said, offering his hand, 'I'm b.l.o.o.d.y Arlo.'

It raised a smile and she no longer looked as though she might bite. 'About b.l.o.o.d.y time,' she said. 'What kept you?'

'Logistics,' Arlo said. 'And the headmaster.' He looked at her squarely. 'And nerves.'

She nodded. She took the sc.r.a.p of Bellore invoice from his hand, observed Petra's handwriting on the other side. She nodded again. 'Come on, Sherlock,' she said, 'I'll take you to her.'