'Cheers,' said Petra, though she had no gla.s.s to raise.

'Get the girl a drink!' Laura told Rob who flung his hands up in defeat and made his way to the bar.

'Oh dear,' Petra said, trying to look fondly after him, 'he looks slightly the worse for wear.'

'All the blokes do, they are all worse for wear,' the other girl leant across and said, 'whereas we girls are just pleasantly p.i.s.sed.'

Petra wondered whether to toast this fact, but not having a drink enabled her to just nod and grin while the other women drained their champagne flutes. She didn't much care for champagne, or wine bars. She preferred vodka and tonic in friendly pubs. This place was heaving yet echoey and she wasn't sure whether she liked the milieu, a noisy rabble of suited men and highly well-heeled women bragging and flirting; money mingling with cigarette smoke and arrogant laughter. She felt intimidated and that irritated her. However, when Rob returned with a bottle of champagne but also a vodka and tonic for Petra, she reprimanded herself not to be so provincial and judgemental.

She sipped her vodka and grinned awkwardly while Rob and his colleagues talked about stuff she didn't understand and people she didn't know. She found herself making mental notes: pay bills, speak to her bank, ring her father her mother too. It had been ages since she'd spoken to either, let alone seen them. She'd try and arrange to visit one on Sat.u.r.day, the other on Sunday. She'd take Rob along. Over the last ten months, her mother had met him only a couple of times and her father just the once. She glanced over at Rob, a slight sheen to his face from euphoria and the effort of the day, his voice loud and fast from alcohol and high spirits. He looked nice in a suit, she thought, and wasn't it good to see him in his element, holding court amongst colleagues, reeling off extravagant anecdotes and technical data from the working day just gone. Just then, Petra felt a wave of resentment towards Eric and Kitty and Gina who were not particularly subtle about their doubts over Rob. Particularly Eric. And Kitty. Gina slightly less so.

And yet look how Rob's lot include me, Petra thought to herself Laura and the other girl asking all about our relationship, that bloke with the wet patch on his shirt asking me about diamond merchants, that other one buying me another vodka and tonic. If Rob hadn't been stressed out and moody that day he visited the studio, perhaps my lot would be more accommodating. And I probably haven't helped taking into the studio my daft insecurities and niggles. They're very quick to criticize, my Studio Three. I bet they wouldn't say my slippers are cute.

Petra tried desperately to stifle a yawn.

'Are we keeping you up?' one of the men teased her.

'You do look a little tired,' Laura commented.

'She was up half the night,' Rob said.

'Phnar phnar,' one of his colleagues nudged him.

'Not likely,' Rob laughed. 'My girlfriend gets up to all sorts of shenanigans at night but it's nothing to do with me.'

'I sometimes sleepwalk,' Petra mumbled in, hoping to curtail details.

'Yesterday Christ, the early hours of this morning,' Rob was saying, 'I get a call from the police asking me do I know a Petra Flint, does she have wellingtons and a Snoopy T-shirt and is there any way she could have walked towards Whetstone whilst asleep.'

'You're joking,' Laura said, the focus of her pity directed at Rob which disappointed Petra.

'Appalling,' Petra said quickly. 'Hence the slippers from my blisters.'

'Mind you, at least she was clothed,' Rob said, raising his gla.s.s at Petra and winking.

Oh G.o.d, don't, Rob, please.

But Rob was bolstered by Bollinger and he had a captive audience and he quite liked the power of being a raconteur.

'When I took her to meet my folks down in Hampshire, she walked into their bedroom, switched on their light, opened their cupboard doors, had a rummage around and then walked out again.'

'Rob-'

But Rob paused for dramatic effect only. 'Starkers!' he told the table. 'I don't know who it was worse for Petra, or my parents.'

Petra hid her head in her hands.

'Do you really not realize a thing?' the other girl asked, slightly accusatorily. Petra shook her head without raising her face.

'Why don't you go to bed wearing something just in case?' Laura asked her.

'I do,' Petra said, 'especially when I'm staying away from home. I put on layers and layers before I go to bed. I don't know why I take them off I don't know why I take off.'

'Can't you take a sleeping pill or something? It could be dangerous.'

'So could taking sleeping pills,' Petra said. 'I've seen specialists, had tests. No one knows why I do it or how to stop me.'

'I can't believe she walked into your parents naked,' Laura said to Rob, and Petra would rather she'd said it to her.

'I don't mean to,' Petra said, trying to look imploringly at Rob who didn't seem to feel her gaze. 'I don't like it.'

'Petra will kill me for this one apparently, before I met her, she actually got into bed with complete strangers.'

'Oh my G.o.d did you have s.e.x with them?'

'Of course not,' Petra said crossly. 'I was staying at a place in the country for my friend's thirtieth birthday. I didn't know the house and I think I was getting flu anyway. But yes, I walked in my sleep into another bedroom and got into bed with a couple.'

'What did they do?'

'Tried to get me out,' Petra said. 'I only stayed for a few minutes anyway and then I went out of my own accord.'

'Out?'

'Into the grounds of the house,' Petra explained, 'but someone was having a spliff outside and they led me back.'

'They must've thought it was d.a.m.n good skunk,' one of the men laughed.

Petra shrugged. 'I know it sounds funny and crazy but it's not. Believe me.'

'It's a liability,' Rob said. 'That's why I'd like to say that I'm particularly proud of the deal we did today, chaps because I was up half the night in Whetstone b.l.o.o.d.y police station.'

Everyone raised their gla.s.ses to Rob, and Petra suddenly wondered whether it would have been entirely her fault if he hadn't closed the deal with the j.a.panese. Poor Rob, she thought, I am a liability. So she raised her gla.s.s highest of all. And though she was desperate to go home and snuggle up with him for an early night, she stuck it out at the bar because she felt he deserved it.

Later, much later, they took a cab back to Rob's flat in Islington. Petra was beyond exhausted but woozy with vodka too. When she sobered up, she would think how it was not particularly logical to be mad at Rob for humiliating her yet also to want to impress him, seduce him, enamour him of her so that perhaps he wouldn't do it again. When she sobered up, no doubt she would wonder why on earth she hadn't just said, Rob, you sod, please shut up it's private and you're embarra.s.sing me. But she was a little drunk and her heels throbbed and she'd knocked her knee on the side of Rob's chair and it was the same chair she'd once wet in her sleep. And suddenly she loved him for having not humiliated her by revealing that episode to his colleagues. And foremost in her conscience was that she'd p.i.s.sed Rob off the night before and so now she ought to make it up to him because she didn't like upsetting people and she didn't like arguments and she didn't like conflict and she wanted to remind Rob that there was more to her than Snoopy T-shirts and calls from the police. And it would be so very nice if this relationship could last beyond a year.

Before he had time to pour himself a whisky, Petra was behind him, encircling her arms around him. She kissed him between his shoulder blades, huffing hot breath through his shirt while she travelled her hands down his stomach and unzipped his trousers.

'What's all this?' he murmured though he took her hand and thrust it down his boxers. He turned and kissed her hungrily. He tasted slightly rancid, of too much beer and champagne on top of a liquid lunch, but Petra told herself to block it out. She kissed him back thoughtfully, taking care to skip her tongue around his mouth, her teeth grazing his lips. She looked into his eyes which were a little bloodshot but no doubt hers were too. She didn't really like his face so much when he was drunk it was what Eric would term 'leery' and Eric had seen Rob p.i.s.sed once before. But leery was fine for now because s.e.x was on the agenda. He squeezed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and bucked his groin against hers. She swept her hand downwards and thrilled at the feel of his erection holding the fine wool of his suit trousers aloft. He fumbled with his belt and pushed his trousers and underpants down. His hands at her shoulders urged Petra to squat down though she stifled the wince of pain as her knee objected.

'Suck my c.o.c.k,' he panted and Petra obliged, though she didn't need his hands guiding her head and she wished he wouldn't because it made her gag. 'G.o.d, I'm h.o.r.n.y,' he murmured, pulling her up to standing, which again sent waves of pain through her knee as it was straightened. 'Got to f.u.c.k you now,' he said, groping and pulling her trousers as he backed her towards the sofa. His desire for her was what turned Petra on most about Rob. He could be arrogant, he could be moody. They hadn't that much in common, really. He wasn't what she'd term tender, which was a quality she rated, and he was attentive really because he could afford to be flowers and gifts and nice dinners in upmarket restaurants. But he was very good at s.e.x, and it was obvious that he thought Petra was very good at s.e.x. He liked s.e.x a lot and he liked lots of it and it flattered Petra that she appeared to turn him on so much and it was a thrill for her to take credit for his libido and his satisfaction.

So he f.u.c.ked her rudely and quickly on his sofa and she thought to herself that, though her knee was being scuffled painfully against the fabric because he was taking her from behind, if they had been in missionary then both her sore heels would have suffered anyway. So it was OK. It was good, wasn't it, as he humped into her, his hand between her legs fiddling around for her c.l.i.toris. As he came, his mouth was at her ear and his gasps and groaning turned her on more than his c.o.c.k or his hands and she moved herself urgently so that she came too.

They lay in a post-o.r.g.a.s.mic, drunken slump.

'Nice f.u.c.k,' Rob said at length, easing himself off her. 'Petra,' he said sternly, 'pop socks?'

'You weren't meant to see,' she said with a coy smile, 'but you were in a rush to have me.'

He raised his eyebrow and shook his head. 'Sometimes I think of you as so refreshingly quirky but sometimes I think you're just odd. Come on, girl. Bed-time. And dear G.o.d, don't go walkabout tonight.' He locked his front door and locked the key in his briefcase which had a combination code Petra didn't know.

But she did walk. A couple of hours after they'd fallen asleep she'd left the bed and walked into the wall where she thought there was a doorway as she a.s.sumed she was at her flat.

'For f.u.c.k's sake,' Rob said, not that Petra could hear him. He found her in his sitting room, standing stock-still. He turned her shoulders and gave her a little shove every few steps.

'Petra, I can't be doing with this.' She looked at him directly, her eyes vacant though she spoke at him.

'I know what you mean,' she said flatly.

'I doubt it,' Rob said back though he knew they weren't conversing.

'But I wouldn't agree with you about Gordon Brown.'

She made to turn back to the sitting room but he steered her to the bedroom and she lay down without a murmur.

'Sorry, babe,' he said, 'but I'm f.u.c.king knackered.' And he took a tie from his cupboard, binding it around her wrist and securing it to the bedpost.

Chapter Six.

Petra's knee healed faster than the blisters so she continued to wear her Birkenstock sandals with socks to the studio all week, and still had to wear her pop socks and slippers when she saw Rob a couple of evenings later. I'm wearing pop socks again, she advised him, so if you want to do unmentionably rude things to me, can you give me warning so I can take them off first. Rob had called her a little hussy much to her delight. And in the event, she left her socks on and they had s.e.x energetically while he slapped her b.u.t.tocks and called her a naughty naughty girl. When she woke the next morning, though her b.u.t.tocks felt decidedly tingly it was her left wrist which felt really sore and when she looked at it, it was red; scorched like a burn. She showed it to Rob who'd said, Don't you remember me pinning you down as I rogered you senseless? However Petra couldn't remember, precisely. But the s.e.x had been kinky and mostly in the dark and perhaps all that spanking had distracted her, so maybe he had. As she showered, she did quietly consider how, as good as they were at s.e.x, it would be nice if she and Rob could be a little better at the bits in between. But she quickly washed away the notion that, quite possibly, it was beyond Rob's natural personality to loll about chatting idly, or to hold hands whilst walking, or to make love rather than always f.u.c.k.

'Petra, what have you done to your wrist?' Gina asked her in the studio.

Petra pulled her sleeve down but gave Gina and Kitty and Eric a saucy lick of her lips. 'Rob's a bit of a tiger,' she giggled, sashaying out to the toilet.

'He's a bit of a prat,' Eric said dryly when Petra was out of earshot.

'He's a lot of a prat,' Gina defined.

'I don't like it,' Kitty said darkly. 'Petra is naturally gentle physically and emotionally. I'm sorry, but I don't like to think of someone being rough with her.'

'She can look after herself,' Eric snapped because actually he wished he'd come out with Kitty's insight.

'No, Eric. I can look after myself,' Kitty said. 'Petra was born someone to be made love to I'm someone born to f.u.c.k.'

Gina giggled. 'Kitty, you are outrageous. You're putting me off my work.'

Kitty shrugged, her skeins of blue-black hair snaking around her shoulders like a latter-day Medusa. 'Sorry, Gina,' she said, 'but I do have authority to speak. I've had more s.e.x with more people than all the hyphens in the double-barrelled surnames in your street.'

Gina giggled again. 'Rob is a prat but it's not for us to say so. Anyway, Petra is very fond of him. And she's really set on making this relationship last.'

'Even if it doesn't necessarily work,' Eric sighed. 'Christ.'

'True,' said Kitty, 'but if I think he's hurting her, then no one's b.l.o.o.d.y 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 d.i.c.k 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 sn.o.b,' said Kitty.

'And he looks like their love child too,' Eric said.

'You b.i.t.c.h,' 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 la.s.s, his father a solid Geordie. At nearing six foot five and eighteen stone, Charlton looked more like an oversized cliche, 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 s.e.xuality 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 could swoop down on promising talents and quickly appropriate them as his proteges, as if their genius was of his making and that he alone was responsible for tapping into their potential. Though ruthlessly ambitious, he liked to exude an air of benevolent altruism and eagerly promoted himself as a philanthropic patron and mentor. He still loved designing jewellery but he also loved the showmanship of owning his galleries. He had neither the time nor the inclination to physically make up his own pieces any more and so as well as having bench-workers in the workshop behind the gallery in Hatton Garden, he also sent out his designs to skilled jewellers he trusted. Petra Flint being one of them. She didn't mind. She didn't find it demeaning and it didn't take her away from her own designs; she used her out-work from Charlton as a way of keeping her current account healthy and honing her dexterity as a jeweller something she believed could always be more and more finely tuned.

What Petra loved most about Hatton Garden was its history and its honesty. It wasn't as chic or salubrious as the West End but there was a definite sense of it being the genuine hub of her industry. The retailers in Knightsbridge, in Regent Street, lower New Bond Street and South Molton Street were simply trading the wares which could be mostly traced back to the Hatton Garden area anyway. She knew some young jewellers who had studios in Hackney, in Kensal Rise, but though she paid a little more for the privilege of renting studio s.p.a.ce in London's true jewellery quarter, it was money well spent for the buzz and the impetus it gave her. She loved the naffness of some of the shops; the lack of pretension of window displays haphazard on faded flower paper or frayed velvet boxes or cracked plastic cushions; she enjoyed the delusions of grandeur of others from the geographically schizophrenic Beverley Hills London to the blingtastic Go for Gold with its windows stuffed full of solid gold chains thick enough to hoist anchor. She liked the way that the modern and ultra-chic could coexist quite happily with the old-fashioned and low key. R. Holt, with its frontage resembling a hardware store in need of a dust nevertheless nodded proudly at Nicholas James opposite, all uber-hip and with a minimalist take on window design. Cool Diamonds believed in the lure of its name alone in lieu of any window display while Petra's personal favourite, A. R. Ullman, was endearingly d.i.c.kensian in the higgledy-piggledy jam-packedness of its diminutive shopfront. As she walked to Charlton's, she browsed; said hullo to familiar faces, detoured via the Wyndham Centre to enquire about reflexology for sleep disorders. Kitty, Gina and Eric had sent her there for her birthday last December, booking her a crystal healing with chakra balancing session. She'd felt well and truly stoned afterwards.

When she was buzzed in at the Charlton Squire Gallery, the eponymous owner, in all his enormous campness, was locked in discussion with a young Hasidic Jew whom Petra recognized as Yitzhak Levy, from a family of renowned diamond dealers. Charlton stood a head and shoulders taller than Yitzhak and compared with the latter's paleness, Charlton looked positively orange. But whatever Yitzhak lacked in physical stature, his magnificent hat and beautifully tonged sideburn ringlets gave him gravitas. From Charlton's leather trousers and contour-skimming silken shirt the colour of midnight, to Yitzhak's eighteenth-century Polish dignitary's dress, the men epitomized the theatricality, the tolerance, the unique and unchanged trading mores of Hatton Garden. Petra knew what would happen next. There'd be gesticulations, perhaps some banging of fists and the throwing up of arms and then shrugs and nodding and handshakes. The diamond merchant dug into his overcoat pocket and produced the stone which Charlton exchanged for a wad of banknotes. More handshaking. Shalom. Kol tov. Deal done for the day. The 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 s.p.a.ce at a premium.

'He buys my diamonds,' Yitzhak shrugged, 'but none of his good money will buy your tanzanite, hey, Miss Flint?'