House of Diamonds

by Amber Jakeman

  “You were due for a break. You just had some bad luck early on. All that’s changing now.”

  “But look at you, Jeannie. You’ve been busy with both girls all day. You must be exhausted. And yet here you are, still slaving away for me, helping me when you should be getting some rest.”

  “We’ll both get some rest soon. And I’m only too happy to see you succeed, Stella. You’re so brilliant. You’ve always had that creative flair. I like making things, but I don’t need to design them. You’ve always been the one with the bright ideas.”

  “But I’m not even paying you two rent.”

  “It’s fine,” said Jeannie. “You’ve promised me a share in the online profits. How generous is that! No. Let’s get this business of yours going, and then we’ll reassess.”

  Stella looked at Matt. He opened his palms, taking in their cosy townhouse.

  “My wife’s happy. I’m happy.” And he laughed that great big laugh that made everyone laugh along.

  Stella returned to her work. It would be Jeannie’s birthday soon. How she’d love to surprise her - to buy her something really special, something of lasting value - a treasure that would alway remind her how much Stella appreciated the love and support she’d lavished upon her all their lives. She made a commitment then and there. She would do it. Buy her something phenomenal.

  Chapter 7

  Next morning, Lucy toddled back and forth, chatting in her own language, bringing Sienna a steady selection of toys as she lay on her play mat chewing on whatever she could find. Stella loved this warm family time, before the working day began in earnest. Four days a week, Stella disappeared to the garage for long hours to make and pack stock, but at this time of day, Jeannie was always glad Stella could help keep an eye on the girls while she checked her emails and social media on the big computer on the kitchen bench. Suddenly, Jeannie’s face fell.

  “Sorry, Stell. There’s good news and bad news.”

  Stella sipped the hot tea as she dragged a brush through her hair.

  “Okay, out with it.”

  “The good news is your fan club keeps growing. There are another couple of hundred Facebook followers, and - see this! Another 26 online orders! Seriously? Must be Ruben’s magic post. He already had a huge following, and his hashtags must have picked up a lot of Antoinette’s followers.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “Huntleys are fighting back. Take a look at this.”

  First there was Jeannie’s post on Stella’s behalf, linked to Ruben’s story.

  Great to meet Ruben Slavonicus out and about in Bondi Junction! Thanks for stopping by at Stellar, Ruben!

  The post had 24 “likes.” And then there was a comment from Huntleys: All that glitters is not gold, except at Huntleys, where the diamonds last forever.

  “I don’t even know why they bother,” Stella said, shaking her head and furrowing her brow, puzzled. “Have you seen their stuff? Their least expensive item would retail at 10 times what I’m asking. I don’t understand how they can even treat me like competition! My customers are completely different. My jewelry is affordable. Too affordable, so James tried to tell me. He reckons I’ll go broke.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve commented back.” Pleased with herself, Jeannie took another big swig of tea.

  “What?”

  ...because no one ever goes in there to buy them.

  “Jeannie! That’s just rude! You’ve made it sound like I’m saying that! Don’t you think there’s enough bad blood between us already with the Antoinette mix up, without you getting in there and stirring up things even more? Can you delete that comment? Please? It’s just not necessary.”

  “They asked for it. What business do they have telling you what to do? All you’re doing is running your business. Besides, it’s the truth. You told me so yourself.”

  “Yeah, but that was just chit chat. Confidential. Not to be broadcast to the world. If I was a Huntley I’d be furious. We’re in for it now.”

  “Nonsense. Controversies like this are great for both businesses. Gets people talking. Why would I delete it? It’s got 18 ‘likes’ already. No. Make that 21. And only one frowny face. From a ‘Nicole.’ Don’t know what you’d do without me!”

  At half past ten on Jeannie’s orange kitchen clock, there was no more time for discussion. Stella ran her eye over the extra stock she’d put aside on the bench, ready for Jeannie to package and post from the online sales, then pulled up the handle of her wheelie bag, ready to haul it to the bus stop.

  Part of her was bone tired, and the other part, elated. Stellar was flying. Maybe she’d have another sellout day.

  Jeannie shoved a peanut butter sandwich and recycled water bottle her way and gave her a pat on the shoulder and kiss on the cheek. “Go get ‘em.”

  ...

  Nicole gave Stella the ice queen treatment as she breezed past. No wonder she wouldn’t nod and say hello, after Jeannie’s social media dig. Too bad.

  New leaves on the edge of the street tree glowed bright green in the late morning bustle. A couple of noisy lorikeets were thrashing about in the highest branches of a bottlebrush, feasting on the first feathery red flowers of the summer. When a bit of bloom and three narrow leaves fell down on her she had the idea for some new summer earrings, Australiana.

  She pulled out her sketchbook and was capturing the shape of the leaves and flowers when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed an old lady in a black coat walk slowly towards her, bow legs encased in thick black stockings. She was bent with arthritis.

  Arriving at Stella’s stall, she hovered for a long time, silent, looking without touching. Stella laid down her pencil and gave the woman an encouraging smile.

  “I’m Stella. Can I help you?”

  The woman nodded and opened her black bag, rummaging inside and pulling out a man’s handkerchief, faded with decades of washing. She held it reverently in both hands for a moment, before handing it over.

  The bundle was soft as a whisper and warm from the old woman’s hands. Something heavy and hard was wrapped deep inside the folds.

  “May I?” Stella asked. At the woman’s nod, Stella lay the soft material carefully on the bench near where she wrapped her own goods, once sold. In a reverse process, she unfolded the handkerchief, revealing a gleaming rose gold locket on a golden chain, somewhat worse for wear. Several of the links had worn through, and the chain was in pieces.

  “This is very beautiful, very precious,” Stella said, and the woman nodded. “This broken chain... You need it fixed. Is that why you’ve brought it to me?”

  Again the woman nodded, holding up her arthritic hands in a shrug. “You make things. You fix for me?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do serious repairs. Not on something of this quality. Well, I could fix it, but it’s so very special it needs to be repaired properly. You need a goldsmith.”

  The woman’s face fell. Stella hated to disappoint her. Maybe she was still feeling guilty about Jeannie’s Facebook jibe, or maybe it was the original Huntleys post about quality which gave her the idea, but she saw a way to make amends.

  “Maybe you could take it into Huntleys, just here. I think they do repairs, on the second floor.”

  The woman stared at Huntleys, at the heavy doors and imposing facade. She was so small and frail and old and uncertain, Stella doubted she’d be tempted to make her way across to the entrance, let alone go inside.

  “I’ve been in there,” Stella said. “I was in there yesterday, in fact.”

  The woman held back, timid.

  “Look,” Stella said. “How about I come in with you? Would that help?”

  The woman smiled, showing a cracked tooth, her face creasing, eyes shining.

  “Just give me a minute or two.” Stella wrapped the locket and chain carefully back in the handkerchief once more and handed it back to the woman.

  While she nestled it back inside her black bag, Stella stacked her jewelry into her roller bag and hooked up her glit
tering clock signs on two sides: “Back in 10 minutes.”

  “Ready?” Smiling, she offered the woman her arm, and together they headed for Huntleys.

  As she swung open the heavy door and held it for the woman to enter, the faint odour of brasso and expensive perfume ushered them further inside. The door closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the traffic and busy chatter of the mall.

  Stella’s heart picked up its pace, remembering her brush with James and Nicole’s hostility, but she focused on the woman and her needs as she summoned the elevator. She couldn’t allow negativity to spoil her venture. Six months. That was all she needed to prove to herself she could make a go of it and carry out her plan to use her talents to create a different life to Flame’s. She would ensure she graduated from her stall and progress into something more substantial, into serious retail, online or in store. Prove she had a popular product. Make her name as a designer. Find funding for bigger dreams, expanding those online sales, or selling lines into established jewelers and upmarket department stores.

  Now, where exactly had she seen the repairs section? Second floor? Sure enough, when the elevator doors opened, there was a salesperson slowly dusting and polishing the tops of the glass cabinets, and, behind her, in the corner, a long wooden counter.

  Stella was fascinated. As they slowly made their way across, with the old lady’s hand tucked into the crook of her arm, Stella was dazzled by the jewels she saw - chains of every length and variety, in gold and silver; bangles and bracelets, with and without gemstones; lustrous pearls - stud and clip-on earrings of every size, single pearl drops, symmetrical and baroque; and a whole display of sparkling pendants featuring jewels of every kind - birthstones, perhaps. Her designing mind jangled with new ideas. She could hardly wait to get back to her sketchbook and capture them.

  She was so caught up in the wares, she barely noticed she was being studied just as carefully. In a long mirror on the back wall, she caught the attention of an old man wearing a visor. Gold framed glasses magnified his blue eyes.

  He’d been sitting on a tall tool, working on something, and he swivelled to the front as she and the old woman approached. He wore a denim apron, various tools in the pockets. Stella scanned his workbench, curious and envious in equal measure. Some tools were familiar, but well worn, used for a lifetime, and there were others she’d never seen before. She itched to inspect every item, every last corner of the place.

  “I’m Stella,” she introduced herself into the silence of the vast floor of sparkling but static jewels. The man’s expression was welcoming, genuinely enthusiastic, so she continued to open up.

  “I’ve just popped in with this lady because her necklace is broken. I do make jewelry and fix a few things myself, but not in this league. Really, I don’t actually have the skills to repair something so precious. Would you be happy to take a look, please?”

  “Of course! Of course. This is exactly what I love to do.” He beamed and unrolled a piece of heavy black velvet across the counter. He was patient and intensely interested as they unwrapped the locket and pieces of chain. The old handkerchief was humble beside the majesty of the velvet, but the locket gleamed out at them from another era, glowing with its century of wear, winking across the decades.

  The old man hesitated before touching it, as if asking permission. His gnarled fingers took to it as if he’d created it himself; respectful, loving even, cradling it. He raised his eye loupe with one hand to examine the hallmarks.

  “Oh, this is a special one. I haven’t seen one like this for many years. French. It has the boar’s head. Paris, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The old woman nodded slowly and smiled.

  “And this chain... It would have been for a watch originally. Ah. These were made properly. Made to last. 1890s, I would think.”

  She smiled again. “My husband’s father’s father’s,” she said. “A wedding gift.”

  He peered at the links through the thick lens. “Fourteen carat gold. Yes. I can repair this, though many of the links are very worn and it will take a while. It won’t be perfect, not like new, but I can make it safe for you to wear again. When will you need this back?”

  “My granddaughter, she’s marrying in February.”

  “Oh yes. That won’t be a problem. How long ago were you given it? Do you know any more about it? I would have seen the last one like this, maybe 12 years ago. They’re not common, no, but they’re memorable. You don’t forget a chain like this. You were right to come here, Miss ...

  “Stella.”

  “Ah yes. Stella.” When he gave her the full force of his eyes, they seemed so familiar she drew in a breath.

  “You’re...”

  “Just call me Jim.” He laid the piece down gently on the velvet and extended his hand to be shaken first to the woman, and then to Stella. He was utterly charming. There was no question James was a chip off the old block, and the old block was quality.

  Stella could see the woman no longer felt intimidated and would be happy to leave her treasure with Jim. The warmth of the man put them both at ease. It was in such contrast to the formal exterior of the building and Nicole’s hostility.

  Her mind whirled with the possibilities of this place, and how extraordinary it would be to work with real pearls, real gems and precious metals, as Jim did, with the kinds of materials the pharaohs enjoyed. Not for the first time, she regretted not pursuing an apprenticeship in jewelry.

  How she would have loved to stay and talk with Jim, browse properly through this floor of treasures, and learn more from him, but her jewelry wasn’t going to sell itself. For once she was reluctant to return to her stall.

  She forced herself to keep her mind on the job at hand. She must follow through with her plan. She must test her market, get to know her different kinds of customers, try out the popularity of her designs, gather statistics to prove which designs were selling best, and make her business pay.

  If she wasn’t careful, she’d flit from one idea to the next like Flame had done throughout her childhood. She didn’t want that. She wanted to be fully self supporting, maybe even build a world-class jewelry like Huntleys. Why not? Maybe she had the talent. Did she have the determination? She must find out. She must channel all her efforts into making her stall a success. Everything else was a daydream at best and at worst, a waste of precious time.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll slip away.”

  “Please,” the old woman nodded. Jim excused her with a warm smile, as if he was genuinely sorry to see her go. Understanding. Fine fellow. James’s grandfather, she realized with a rush, banishing the impulse to imagine how James himself might look in 60 years. Ridiculous.

  And Stella was out and down the staircase at a run, somewhat furtively, reluctant to run into James again, keen to make her business pay its way.

  Half way down the final flight of stairs, just before she reached the foyer, she froze. She knew the set of those shoulders. James emerged from the elevator, slim black briefcase in one hand, busy on his phone.

  “Yep, that’s better now. What was that again, Scottie? ... Ah. Okay...” Suddenly he halted, spun 180 degrees and began to bolt up the stairs.

  Three or four steps up, and still listening intently, he only stopped as he was about to run into her, so close she felt the rush of air he’d created, could smell the pure wool of his suit and something else. Aftershave?

  Halting mid flight, he narrowed his eyes, as if to say “you again.”

  Stella blushed from head to toe, though she’d done nothing wrong. Perhaps he thought she’d just been using his facilities again on the third floor. If only he knew.

  He backed against the railing to let her pass, polite as always, and she inched down past his scrutiny, every part of her prickling at their proximity.

  “Yes,” he continued, stepping back to give her space like a gentleman, ostensibly ignoring her. There was certainly no smile as he continued his conversation with “Scottie.”

  Sh
e heard him race on up the marble stairs behind her as she rushed onwards herself, with a belated attempt at dignity, for the exit.

  ...

  Noise. Movement. Heat. The mall claimed her once again as she ran back to her stall to resume trade, seagulls rising in a flurry of blinding white where they’d gathered beneath her workbench, down where someone had spilt half a bag of chips.

  A headdress of swirling pearls suggested itself to her, and she grabbed her sketchpad, rapidly outlining the piece while it was clear in her mind.

  Three tourists descended on her as she laid out her trays again. They were asking for Antoinette earrings. Word was continuing to spread. Excellent. She pulled out the tray of matching chokers and broaches and placed them near the earrings. Already the tourists were deeply engaged, mixing and matching possibilities.

  Upselling, Stella said to herself. Jeannie loved sharing marketing concepts with her. She still wasn’t sure what piggyback marketing was, but she loved the name of it.

  “It’s slightly cheaper per piece if you buy two, and cheaper again for three,” she said out loud.

  Chapter 8

  All papers now compiled and ready in the briefcase, James arrived at Scott & Sons accountants in the city several minutes late, musing on how often he’d taken the grey lift to the 21st floor since inheriting Huntleys a decade ago at the age of 20.

  As usual, Mr Scott the elder popped his head out to greet him, shake his hand and clap him on the shoulder. He seemed older this time, and a little stooped.

  He liked Mr Scott, had known him since childhood. He remembered all the times he’d cheered him on with his son, Scottie, at the end of their cross country races in high school, when, faces bright red and chests heaving, they’d gulped for air in the final strides at the finishing line, always so closely matched.

  Ron Scott had always said he’d been glad to take James under his wing when Jimmy was dying, and it was a great help to James that he’d known the Huntleys’ finances backwards, having handled the accounts for decades. It was only natural that he would pass the Huntleys’ business to his son to handle once Scottie completed his various accreditations. The boys remained firm friends. Scottie was always in the background if needed, ready to cast his eye over the books and offer advice.