House of Diamonds

by Amber Jakeman

  As for setting up and running her own business? She’d known it wasn’t going to be easy. Plenty of small businesses failed in their first year. Cash flow was a challenge for everyone.

  But it hadn’t stopped her. Finally, that day when she’d walked out, her old dreams resurfaced. They bubbled up from way back before Damian, before Exos, back from her youth and childhood, dreams of a creative life - an artisan’s life they called it now - a simpler life, immersed in doing what she loved. She wanted to bring beauty into the world. She truly believed that everyone deserved to shine, that the act of giving and wearing jewelry brightened people’s lives and they would value what she offered, enough for her passion to become her new career.

  Simple! Too simple. She studied her statement and nearly cried.

  She’d known it could be a challenge. She wouldn’t be able to make money without spending some, too. And there would be plenty of unknowns. She would have to trust that her passion for what she was doing would carry her through the hard times, that she would learn from her mistakes, that if it was worth doing, she would make a go of it, eventually.

  When she’d left Exos, she’d had too much time and not enough materials. Realizing she could make more money by working in silver, she’d bought up big, keen to avoid delays and simply begin. Maybe she’d have to rethink her pricing. Had James been right?

  Then there was the fee to hire the stall from the council in Sydney, three months in advance, a real stretch.

  Each figure had a story.

  There was the Flame factor, always a wild card. From time to time over the years, Flame would phone Stella or Jeannie with what the sisters had dubbed “the ask,” when their mother would seek “just a little bit of a loan” to tide her over. In conversation it would become clear she was on the move again, perhaps living in her car for a stint, or “just a bit short this month.” Stella never gave her more than she could afford to give, as the “loans” were rarely repaid.

  “Just keep it, mum,” she’d learned to say. It made her feel good to help out Flame. She’d been a great mum in many ways. Her restlessness meant she and Jeannie saw more of Australia than most young people, and despite her failings, Flame was fun - more like a wild big sister than a mother. There’d been plenty of hugs and laughter in their childhoods, and freedom galore.

  But Flame’s many schemes made Stella wary of her own dreams. Flame’s “investments,” with and without various partners, had included planting garlic, milking goats, and even learning the celtic harp.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, mum?” Stella would ask.

  “Why not? Life’s for living!”

  When she’d made her latest move, to the northern NSW coast, she’d asked for another hand.

  “Thank you, Stella dear!” she’d managed when Stella had forwarded her $1,800 for another scheme, this time growing mesclun for local restaurants with someone called Grady. It had seemed a lot to Stella at the time, for little green leaves which grew by themselves anyway but Flame said some something about a cool room. Her approach was always big on faith and short on logic, so there was rarely much point discussing finer details. At the time, Stella was anxious to get her off the phone so she could continue stock piling product. She’d need to, to make up for the money she’d just given away.

  Setting up Stellar wasn’t cheap. She’d registered her business name, taken out third party liability insurance, then purchased the domain name for her website. Even though Jeannie built the website for her for nothing, everything else had added up.

  Another unexpected cost was the loss of her rental bond. The agent fined her for leaving a tiny brown mark on the kitchen benchtop from when she soldered some links closed and accidently pointed her blowtorch away from the fireproof mat for a few moments.

  And what was that figure? Oh yes. That whopping huge payment at the airport for her extra heavy luggage. Tools and silver. So much heavier than shoes. She should have known.

  And then interest. Lots of it. She’d known she shouldn’t have let her repayments mount up like this! It was punitive. Known she’d cop a slug of interest.

  Her first thought was to grab the statement and share her woes with Jeannie, but she stopped herself just in time. Jeannie was already going out of her way to help her, offering her a rent-free bed and so much more. No. She would have to solve this herself. All the more reason to focus on her business and make it pay her way.

  She drew in a deep breath. There was a lesson here. She must force herself to study her electronic statements more regularly, and reconsider every single purchase before she made it. Too much was at stake. She literally couldn’t afford to let her finances come unstuck like this.

  The Exos letter. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath and reached for it.

  Dear Miss Rhys,

  In view of your years of excellent service at Exos, we officially offer you a $25,000 bonus and a 20 per cent pay rise to return to work with us as Director of Exos Administration. We look forward to having you on our team again.

  This offer will lapse in 28 days.

  Yours sincerely,

  Damian Beaumont

  Managing Director

  Damian had struck out the “Miss Rhys” with his characteristic thick black pen and hand written “Stella,” and signed it simply Damian.

  Twenty-eight days. They’d well and truly lapsed. There was no point even thinking about it. Besides. Damian and Exos were history.

  Had she gone in too deep setting up Stellar? She’d gone in too deep with Damian, and wasted years of her life. Maybe it was a fault of hers, going in too deep. Maybe that was why Flame had kept moving all her life, escaping similar mistakes. Was Stella no different to her mother after all? The debt sat like lead in her stomach, with Damian’s offer a dark cloud of temptation.

  That letter. The “bonus.” The bribe, more like. Did he think she could be bought, like one of his cars?

  She grabbed Damian’s letter, scrunched it tightly, then twisted it and threw it into the corner.

  Should she get another job, here in Sydney? Most other people had jobs for a reason. She wasn’t the only person who knew the fear of debt, who had shivered in winter without a proper coat and been afraid to eat the last few slices of bread, knowing there’d be no school lunch next day for her or Jeannie.

  She could do it. Get her nails done again. Straighten her hair. Haul out an office outfit and high heels, and nod and smile and spend her days solving other people’s problems, all for that vital slug of money every fortnight. Maybe she’d be able to make time for making jewelry at night and on weekends. Maybe. But her fingers were itching to create, all the time, not just after hours. And she’d come so far already. If she ditched it all now, she’d be no different to Flame, who always took the easier path to the greener grass.

  She closed her eyes. There had to be another solution.

  Like trading her way forwards, one piece of jewelry at a time. Surely it was possible.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning was surprisingly cool, so Stella hauled out an old black office outfit, teaming it with a green scarf and pinning it in place with one of her purple brooches.

  She loved the freedom of being able to wear what she wanted, loved the new routine of snuggling her little nieces each morning, throwing all the washing in the machine and sharing tea and cereal with Jeannie before heading out for the day.

  Her roller bag was heavy with polished stock.

  Her fellow commuters were usually in a daze, scrolling through the news or browsing on social media, but when she swung into her seat as the bus lurched away, she found herself next to an older woman who was wearing one of her brooches, the pale blue version, nestled into a bed of silver wire pulled into a celtic knot. How extraordinary, to see her own creation being enjoyed! It suited this woman.

  “Snap,” she said, giving the woman a smile.

  “Oh. I should have bought the purple one, too, dear. Looks lovely on you. I’ve had so many comp
liments wearing this one, I’ve barely taken it off.”

  The woman looked at her a little shyly.

  “You’re not...”

  “I’m Stella.”

  “I thought so! I’m Beverley. I was too busy looking at all your other jewels to see you properly when I bought this. I love it. Do you make these all yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “So clever. Your stall’s amazing, and your jewelry is absolutely beautiful. It would be such a shame if ...”

  Stella’s blood froze. That sick sensation, the alarm jangling at the centre of her being; it was back. She’d been so focused on trading and restocking, and now on her financial challenges. Was there another threat? Her response was urgent.

  “If what? Have you heard something?” She searched the woman’s face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I hear all sorts of things. My husband works at the council. Shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t you worry, dear. Probably nothing. Now you have a nice day. Excuse me.” Beverley gathered her bag, and Stella stood to let her out.

  She pulled out her phone, thinking maybe Jeannie could phone the council and find out whether there was some kind of problem with her licence, but was immediately distracted by the latest social media tussle.

  Huntleys: Diamonds are forever.

  Stellar: Fake gems glitter just as brightly, for a fraction of the funds.

  Huntleys: Fake gems for fake love.

  Stellar: Love isn’t only for the rich. Lighten up and sparkle. Have fun with Stellar jewelry.

  Jeannie clearly had enough on her plate. Just let her handle the social media stoush she’s created, Stella grimaced, turning off her phone again.

  ...

  The mall had begun to feel like home. She must trade, trade, trade, and pay off that credit card debt. She waved at Fritz and then at Clint, a fellow stall holder who boasted a bag for every occasion. Clint, who came from a long line of farmers in South Korea, used to have a stall at Paddy's Market near Chinatown, but he’d told her he’d missed being outdoors. He was setting out all his wheelie bags and arranging the briefcases, which always fell over like dominoes. She gestured at the larger wheelie bag she’d bought from him and gave him a thumbs up.

  Further up the mall, she could see Marita at the coffee shop setting out the chairs and tables, then pulling out the box of toys, ready for the playgroup parents. Some of them would wander past her stall later, maybe picking up a treat for themselves or each other. She made a mental note to create a little lucky dip for the children - maybe with some of those toothbrush bangles - so all of them might visit her more often.

  Just then, mournful strains of slow jazz trumpet filled the mall.

  Fritz greeted her with a dip of his hat and a roll of his eyes. His arm swept sideways, showing her the busker.

  “Lennie,” he told her. “‘Nam.”

  She nodded and unlocked her stall, wondering just how slowly it was possible to play St James Infirmary, and for how long.

  Lennie was still there when James turned up, dapper as ever in his pale grey suit. Stella was startled to notice a slight change in his routine. Instead of bounding inside Huntleys’ ornate doors, he made a bee-line for Lennie. James reached for his wallet and pulled out some notes.

  Lennie paused mid phrase and tucked the notes safely inside his jacket, nodding his thanks. To Stella’s surprise, James stayed and exchanged some remarks, then offered Lennie a farewell handshake and another nod of respect before heading on up, head high.

  Lennie’s tune, when he resumed, was considerably more upbeat, something cheery, something dixieland, and the whole atmosphere of the mall under that cloudy grey sky had changed for the better.

  She’d considered herself a good judge of character, thought she’d read James’s thoroughly. She’d met his type before, people like Damian, privileged, blind to the needs of others, self-interested. She studied Huntleys’ impressive facade, captivated by the current namesake. James was clearly far more interesting than she’d assumed.

  Catching herself at it for the fifth time, replaying and reinterpreting all their encounters, she took some coins across to Lennie herself, just as he was packing up.

  “Good morning?” she asked.

  “Could say that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Always good when James’s about.”

  “You know each other?”

  “About as much as anyone can know this lot, but he’s the best of them. Oh, the stall holders, they’re alright. It’s them permanent shopkeepers who give me a hard time, always moving me along. Never James, though. Never too busy for a kind word. Generous, too. Told me his grandfather served. Shows a bit of respect.”

  ...

  Time disappeared as she wound more wire for jump rings and polished her silver bangles, the ones with the celtic catches, dreaming up new designs and selling more stock to tourists who kept posing for selfies.

  At 2pm, she was practically panting. Even the seagulls seemed too hot to move, skulking beside the bin in the shade.

  They were just moving away when an ice cream cone appeared out of nowhere. Was she hallucinating? No. It was starting to drip. Slowly, she turned. The hand and wrist were familiar, the shirt sleeve rolled up.

  It was James, his white shirt blinding in the sunshine, a cone in each hand.

  Spirits soaring, she couldn’t decide which was more appealing, the prospect of the first mouthful, or the vision of James’s lips already destroying the perfect swirl of his own. Could he guess the effect he had on her? She wouldn’t risk a glance at his eyes. Practically drooling, she accepted the unexpected gift. Some drips start rolling down her wrist.

  “But why? What’s this?”

  “You don’t have these in Perth?” Was he flirting with her? She took a lick, the cool sweetness heaven in the heat.

  She chased the runaway drips with her tongue. Messy. She blushed, and rushed on, turning away. She could hardly hand it back.

  A minute later, done with it, she turned back again and met his eyes.

  “Thank you. That was delicious and totally unexpected, but we need to talk, James, you and I. Right now.”

  “We do?” He was still finishing his. Distracting. She closed her eyes, blocking out the bright white shirt and his matching smile.

  “I don’t understand why you’re being so nice to me in person when you’re so aggressive online.”

  “Why not be friendly? You come into our business. Why can’t I drop in on yours? That online stuff. Nicole does our PR.”

  “I only want to make a living.”

  “So do we.”

  And he was gone. Bright. Breezy. Into his air conditioned building, leaving her with a temper, a sticky hand, and the sun too hot on her head.

  She washed her hands with some of her precious water and sat on the planter box, leaning into the shade of the small tree, defeated, heart still jumping.

  Had she been too honest?

  Chapter 11

  At her stall, all was quiet. Stella had her notepad out, sketching, when a slim young man on an electric skateboard caught her eye, far away at the other end of the mall. She admired his technique as he wove in and out of the crowd at quite a pace. His sense of balance was superb, his movements supple and mesmerizing as he bent his knees then raised himself to full height, hands and elbows tucked into his body then lifted high as if he were a skater on ice, doing a lap of victory. By dropping a knee or shoulder he could turn with ease. Beautiful.

  Most surprising was his speed, even as he came towards the stalls, breathtaking. Stella was so swept up observing his grace, she didn’t realize what was coming. He came past close, too close, and in one swoop, he grabbed her bag of takings and sped on, disappearing around the corner towards the railway station while she could still feel the sweep of air in his wake. The audacity stunned her.

  “Wait!” she called out. “My bag!” But he’d already gone. She tried running after him but remembered she’d left her stock unguarded.

&
nbsp; Anger. Shock. She shook her head, nauseous. She did a mental calculation. At least $400. Maybe closer to $600. More maybe. It had been a good couple of days, and she hadn’t had a chance to get to the bank. At least she still had her credit card reader. And her personal credit card, hidden away for emergencies, secreted in her makeup bag where she wouldn’t be tempted to use it.

  “Did you see that?” she called out to Fritz.

  He shook his head. “You call the police, yah. Have to make statement. Happened to me maybe three years ago, or four. Young people. No respect. Don’t know how to work. Here. You need change?” Fritz pulled out some $5 and $10 dollar bills and brought them across to her.

  “Heart of gold, Fritz. I’ve gone all shaky.”

  “You sit. I bring you lemonade. Sugar.”

  ...

  Within an hour, Ruben had arrived, thrusting his microphone first in his own face, and then in hers.

  “I’m here at the site of the daring raid that took place in broad daylight here in busy Oxford Street mall at the popular new jewelry stall, Stellar. How are you feeling, Stella, shocked?”

  “Yes, I ...”

  “Riding a battery powered skateboard at break-neck speed, the thief simply helped himself to Stella’s cash bag then took off towards the train station. What do you have to say about this?”

  “I’d like him to bring it back, of course, Ruben. I’ve worked so hard to make Stellar a success and I need every dollar. Making jewelry is my dream, but I can’t make ends meet if someone steals my profits. It’s hard enough as it is...”

  “Thank you, Stella. She’s understandably upset. Stella’s stall really brightens up the mall. I’m sure your customers would hate it if you had to close, so let’s hope the thief reconsiders and you find your bag back here again. I’m off to the police station now to see whether the thief has struck elsewhere. If anyone saw anything, they can contact me. This is Ruben Slavonicus, multimedia influencer, keeping our streets safe.”