by Freya North
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 entitled to say, Who the fuck 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 gratitude 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? Shit 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 dick.’
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 fuck 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 fuck-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 bitch.’
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 shagging – but actually I was suddenly jealous.’ She paused, looked at Arlo, shrugged. ‘Actually, I was evil, Arlo. I couldn't stop myself. Have I fucked 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 scrap 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 pissed 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?
‘Bloody 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 passed. 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 passed. 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 space, a sturdy 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 assisting 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 assistant at the till was taking quick sips from a large Arsenal mug.
‘Excuse me,’ said Arlo, trying to swallow a butterfly stuck in his throat, ‘I'm looking for Petra Flint.’
‘Petra?’ the sales assistant 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 assistant, hoping to come across as warm and affable and convincing. The sales assistant 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 assistant. Should he talk about Arsenal 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 fluster. ‘She's a jeweller of some repute, I believe? Works for Charlton Whatsit. Big into tanzanite.’
The sales assistant 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 bloody Arlo.’
They sized each other up for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said, offering his hand, ‘I'm bloody Arlo.’
It raised a smile and she no longer looked as though she might bite. ‘About bloody time,’ she said. ‘What kept you?’
‘Logistics,’ Arlo said. ‘And the headmaster.’ He looked at her squarely. ‘And nerves.’
She nodded. She took the scrap 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.’
They left the shop and Kitty set off at a fast walk.
‘Hold on,’ Arlo called after her, ‘you'll have to wait up a minute. I'm not quite ready.’
She stopped, turned, took a long look in Arlo's direction, couldn't quite believe what she was seeing and burst out laughing, which eventually lessened into a surprisingly feminine giggle. It softened her face, as if giving voice to the natural prettiness beneath the hair dye and the Halloween make-up and the piercings.
Arlo shrugged as he approached. ‘What could I do?’ he said to her. ‘It's the middle of term. I am a bloody teacher.’
He was told to wait on the pavement but as Kitty disappeared into the building, she cast a fleeting wink over her shoulder, which Arlo caught gratefully. The door shut. It was a shabby door painted in flaking undercoat, a variety of locks which had obviously been changed a number of times, a small pane of glass so dusty it was opaque, a rusting metal grille behind it. That damned butterfly was caught in Arlo's throat again. He thought about The Silence of the Lambs, remembered something about butterflies in victims' throats. Incongruous – but it kept his mind off the fact that Petra was just inside the building and he had no idea what was going to happen next.
Inside:
‘Petra – someone downstairs for you.’
‘Ta, Kitty.’
Nothing unusual in that. The Studio Four often had deliveries to be personally signed for.
As Petra descended the stairs, she wondered if she just heard Gina say, Good God; and did Eric just say, Fucking hell? But her conclusion was, Oh Kitty, not another tattoo.
Petra is wondering, What have I ordered? Didn't I tell Dan I'd come into Bellore early next week for the platinum? I won't be able to pay him until then, anyway.
And Arlo is wondering, What the hell was it that I was going to say? I had it all planned. My mind's gone blank.
The door is opening.
Out into the bright light of a summer's day.
‘Hullo, you.’
She can't answer. She can only stand and stare.
He can't say another word. All he can do is gaze back.
* * *
So they stand and they gawp in the middle of the pavement and they are tutted at, knocked into, by people bustling between Leather Lane and Hatton Garden. Life is going on. It's just a Thursday afternoon in June. It's only Petra and Arlo who feel that they are standing at the still point of the turning world.
‘What are you—?’
‘—so I could see you.’
He gives her the sketchbook. But it is the enormity of Arlo's complete gesture, that he is here, which is the immediate salve, and in itself it has more resonance than any soliloquy. Whatever he says, wherever this goes, the point is he came. He found her.
‘You sod,’ she says, ‘I can't hit you now, can I? Not after you've come all this way.’
‘If it makes you feel better, then you can.’
‘I've been getting on with my life, buoyed by the thought that if ever I saw you again, I'd give you a good old-fashioned whack across the chops.’
‘Petra, no one but you could say “whack across the chops”.’
‘I have a mean left hook.’
‘I'm sure you do. But I've come down from Yorkshire to see if you'd rather just kiss me.’
&
nbsp; After a moment's deliberation, she steps towards him and Arlo wonders which it is to be. A kiss or a slap.
She comes in close, lifts her face to his and places her hands gently on his arms. A kiss. Yet he steps away. He looks flustered, a little flushed. ‘Not here. Not now,’ he murmurs. She frowns, backs off. The urge to belt him is back.
‘Boys,’ Arlo says over his shoulder. ‘Guys – this is Petra Flint.’
Her field of vision widens. There are four schoolboys – tall ones, Sixth Formers perhaps, loitering a respectful distance behind Arlo. In their uniforms. Eyes agog.
‘Felix Sutcliffe, Callum Jones, Thomas Allsop, Alexander McLeod. And there would have been two more only I couldn't track down their parents in time to process all the paperwork.’
One by one, the boys step forward to shake hands with Petra who hasn't a clue what to say or what today is all about or what will happen or what she's meant to be feeling.
‘Hi,’ she says.
‘Hullo, miss,’ they say. They look as confused as she feels.
‘We're off to a gig tonight,’ Arlo says brightly, ‘at the Forum in Kentish Town. Then tomorrow we are going to a lunch-time concert at Wigmore Hall. In the morning, an old friend of mine, Michael Smith, is showing the boys around Columbia Records. Tomorrow evening we're going to the Troubadour. We leave Saturday morning.’
Petra pauses. ‘Oh.’
Arlo nods. ‘Fleeting visit. Packed schedule. Should be fun.’
She pauses again. ‘Yes.’
‘We came down in the mini-bus.’ Arlo is floundering. ‘We're staying at quite a nice B&B in Swiss Cottage. With off-street parking.’ With each mundane detail, the previous poetry of the caught moment diminishes. He and Petra are no longer at the still point of the turning world, they are standing awkwardly in the middle of the pavement, getting in people's way.
‘Mr Savidge – aren't we meant to be at Ronnie Scott's now?’
Arlo looks at his watch. ‘Shit. Ronnie Scott's too. I clean forgot. And Ronnie Scott's was basically the key selling point to the headmaster. Thanks, Felix.’ He fiddles with his watch. ‘They said three, three thirty. You don't turn up at jazz clubs early. We're having a little tour of the club,’ he tells Petra. ‘I organized it. The boys can see the sound check – which is a contradiction in terms but I'm sure you know what I mean.’