House of Diamonds

by Amber Jakeman

  He must think I’m seeing Damian, she realized. Damn Damian!

  James held out the package to her. It looked like a chocolate box, but as she took it, she felt its weight, unusually heavy.

  “Merry Christmas, Stella,” he said. “Happy New Year.” He was sombre, deliberately keeping his distance.

  She jolted herself out of her fury for Damian, tried to bring her mind to this moment, to be fully here, with James.

  “James! How’ve you been?”

  His eyes grazed her face as if he were deciding whether to answer, and her heart pumped staccato. Surely his own was doing the same. Did his hand tremble a little as he’d brushed her fingers handing the package over? She wanted him to touch her the way he’d touched her that weekend. She wanted to reach across the distance and grab the lapels of his summer suit and pull him closer but it was awkward between them.

  How had she sent this man away?

  “Huntleys has been really busy,” she tried again. “I really like your new website.” She looked at the wave at his forehead and then forced her eyes down to his chest. She wouldn’t seek his eyes, either then, if he wouldn’t share his with her. It was too sad.

  Again, part of her wanted to leap forwards, lean up and kiss him, claim him, tell him she’d been a fool. But the ornate box was in the way and he was keeping his distance, and just then, her phone pinged its message again.

  “I’m going away for a while,” he said, eyes dropping to her phone. His voice was level, devoid of emotion.

  “Oh?”

  “France. The US.”

  Then he turned abruptly and walked away.

  She was still numb. She could neither think nor act quickly enough, holding this big box at the end of a long day.

  “Good luck,” she called after him, his tall figure so remote. Should she drop everything and run to him? Tell him she’d made a mistake? Tell him she wanted him back in her life, in any capacity, that she missed him and wanted him, all of him, anything of himself he wanted to share? Her heart was pumping and her mouth dry. And now the moment had passed.

  She despised herself. Despised her own desperation. It reminded her of the way she used to think about Damian. Desperate to please him. She couldn’t allow herself to be that pathetic. Not ever again.

  She continued locking up her stall as if she were an automaton, replaying James’s visit again and again, trying to work out what his visit had meant, and to talk some sense into herself.

  He’s said he’s going for a while, not forever. That’s all. And it wasn’t as if she had nothing to do while he was away. There’d be all the crowds to serve during the post Christmas sales. And she’d promised herself that in the quieter weeks at the end of January she would enter some competitions and research some conferences and expos, plan an expo display featuring her best work, see if she could attract some distributors, and maybe even find suppliers to help her with the more repetitive work.

  She was clutching his package to her heart. Too bad if they were chocolates. They’d all be melted.

  Stella packed it carefully in her roller bag where she’d stashed some gifts for Jeannie and Matt and the girls, then took up her phone and carefully typed in a response to Damian.

  Do not ever contact me again.

  Then she walked slowly to the bus stop and caught the night bus home, tiptoeing into the house of sleepers.

  Chapter 28

  Christmas Eve. Edging towards midnight. Stella scrambled some eggs, had a shower and sat cross legged on her single bed in her summer nightgown. She pulled James’s gift out of her bag and began to unwrap it. Had he wrapped it himself? Had his fingers touched this sticky tape?

  I’m losing it, she told herself. Like a lovesick teenager.

  Slowly she peeled back the paper. It wasn’t at all what she’d imagined it might be. It wasn’t a necklace, nor any other item of jewelry.

  It was a packet of professional color pencils, the brand among the most coveted in the world, and a new sketchbook of high quality paper. She ran her hand over a page and marvelled at the texture, creamy as skin. She opened the box of pencils, and began to draw.

  Already her design mind was playing with concepts. The tail of a lyrebird? Heads of bower birds with sapphire eyes? She was feverish with plans.

  Dawn was nudging at the sky and the sketchbook a third full before she stopped. She’d worked without regard for anything but the creations in her mind’s eye, a series of jewels based on birds, on lyrebirds, eagles, wrens and seagulls.

  The final picture was of the heads of a male and female bowerbird, superimposed, beaks crossed, the domes creating the top of a heart, a deep blue sapphire eye in the centre of each.

  Her own eyes red-rimmed and streaming from exhaustion, she finally closed them, curled up and slept, pad and pencils hugged close against her chest.

  ...

  Christmas Day was hot. Lucy ripped the wrapping off everyone’s gifts and toddled around distributing and redistributing them while Stella stopped Sienna from eating the paper. Stella had bought the girls a bright aqua blow-up paddle pool. For Lucy she had added a fluorescent green waterproof sunsuit with a matching hat, and for Sienna, a smaller, fluoro orange set. For most of the morning, Stella held Sienna in her sitting position in the shallow water as she splashed and squealed, while Lucy lay on her tummy in the water pretending she could swim.

  Matt, wearing a goofy pair of reindeer antlers, mixed cocktails and added tiny umbrellas stuck in pieces of pineapple while Jeannie brought out a feast of seafood and salads.

  Later, as they washed up, they phoned Flame. Jeannie put her phone on speaker.

  “Merry Christmas, mum,” said Jeannie. “Where are you?”

  “Byron Bay, with Grady. Beautiful. Picnic. Near the lighthouse. Dolphins, dears! Merry Christmas.”

  “How’s the mesclun?” Stella asked.

  “Hmmm?”

  “The lettuce?”

  “Hail storm. Last Tuesday. Not good. Most of it was crushed. Have to plant some more, won’t we, Grady?”

  There was a muffled sound of agreement.

  “Or maybe we’ll get a few ducklings. High demand for duck eggs. Grady says they love lettuce. Now. Jeannie. How are you? And Stella?”

  “We’re fine, mum.”

  “Follow your dreams, girls.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “Whatever your challenges. Isn’t that right, Grady? Grady? I might need to go, girls. The dolphins are back.”

  “Merry Christmas, mum.”

  “Is she getting loopier, Stell?”

  “Maybe we’re just getting more conventional.”

  “‘Follow your dreams, eh?’ She’d be proud of you, Stell.”

  “If she had half a clue what I was doing. Maybe.”

  “She knows. I phone her up sometimes.”

  “Thanks, Jeannie. I’ve been neglecting her. So. Ducks, now.”

  “Quack.”

  Worn out by their water play and full of Christmas pudding, the girls slept all afternoon. So did Stella, dreaming of James and wondering whether and when she might hear from him again.

  That evening, Stella checked her finances. She had to order more silver supplies, but she was steadily making progress on her credit card debt.

  In the cooler evening, she was glad to give the girls a walk along the esplanade in their double stroller, giving Jeannie and Matt some time alone together. The glow of the sunset on the horizon completed a perfect day. She wondered how James was faring, how it might have been to have him with her, striding along together, like some of the other couples. Her smile was wistful. How she wished he would come up out of the surf to greet her, eyes dancing with blue. Impossible.

  ...

  With the Christmas and Boxing Day rush receding, Stella turned her mind again to expo opportunities. She found one coming up in Singapore - Asia’s Fashion jewelry and Accessories Fair. Perfect.

  One evening, Stella took herself to the beach after work; wandered down to the sh
ore at Bondi and waded in, the cool waves fizzing at her ankles then rolling in to wash away the heat of the day and tumble her body in a great swathe of churning white froth.

  It was good to hand her body over to the motion of the surf, to be rolled and buffeted with the power of the waves, bobbed like a tiny cork on the edge of the ocean.

  She emerged clean, washed, fresh, renewed and reinvigorated.

  That evening, Jeannie met her at the door, all smiles.

  “Huntleys has launched a design competition, Stella! You should go for it; seriously. It’s a national design competition for all budding jewelers; to design a heart pendant for Valentine’s Day! You could win this with your eyes closed, little sister. The winner gets their design made up and there’ll be an unveiling. They get a pure gold H brooch, free tuition with Jim, their old goldsmith, for a whole month, and Huntleys will retail their limited edition design on their website for a year!”

  “What a great idea!” Stella didn’t let on it was her own, shared with James one cosy evening in Bowral after drinking too much red wine, before sinking into a glorious night of love making together, before she banished him. Unfortunately. She kept quiet.

  “It is. A brilliant idea. Will you go for it?”

  “How do you enter?”

  “Just with a sketch and a blurb. It’s so right down your alley. You’ve probably got some heart designs right now that would win. That’s clever to have the closing date next week, well before Valentine’s Day. Get people thinking of jewelry for gifts. Huntleys are really picking up their act.”

  A design competition. As if she had time for such things. She must prepare her expo display. And she needed to make more stock. Everything was running low. Keeping on top of demand was far more challenging than she’d imagined it would be. It meant finding more supplies of silver.

  She’d put in a big order online, trying to find a better price, but every day that passed without the order arriving, she was regretting her decision. What if her supply never arrived at all? What if someone had stolen it from Jeannie’s letter box? It wouldn’t be unheard of, junkies thinking about their next fix, ripping open every envelope or parcel they could find, seeking cash or something to sell. How long had it been since she’d placed her order? She checked her credit card statement. The total still made her wince, but she had to believe she was making progress reducing it. $1,040 worth. Seven weeks ago. Those silver supplies should be here by now, no question. She’d have to buy locally after all, spending more than twice that amount. Damn it. Running her own business was so hard. Harder than she’d ever expected.

  But that evening, she remembered Jeannie’s comment about Huntley’s competition. Maybe she could win that prize money. Worth a try. She grabbed her sketchpad and flipped through it, seeing the bowerbirds she’d drawn after receiving James’s Christmas gift.

  The design was pretty good. Heart-shaped, it was perfectly appropriate, and practically ready for submission. She took it in to Jeannie and tossed it on her lap.

  “That’s it! If that doesn’t win, then Huntleys have no taste. That is super classy, super Australian and unique. I adore it. I want one.”

  “Yeah. The design’s okay,” she laughed. “But it wouldn’t be easy to make.”

  “But that’s the beauty of this comp. They’ll teach you how to make it. That Jim can make anything, according to their Facebook posts. Have you seen their posts on old treasures people bring in? Jim explains how they were made. It’s fascinating. They’ve been running a whole series of workshops, on the lost wax method, etching, setting gems. Silver and gold. He’s got quite a following. It’s all the rage among the yummy mummies. Everyone wants to make their own rings, bracelets and brooches.”

  “Good for them,” Stella said. And she meant it. James was steadily turning her ideas into reality. It was impressive. There was a little glow in her chest. She was proud of him. She made her way back into her room, filling in the entry, smiling to herself. There was a box which asked about the contestant.

  In as few words as possible, describe yourself or the purpose of your business.

  What to write? What was her business? Why did she care about it so much? It wasn’t just about what she loved to do; it was about what her business made possible for others, the enjoyment she witnessed in the faces of her customers. It was simple, really. Whether they bought her jewelry for themselves or as gifts, she wanted them to experience joy.

  Stellar - so you can shine.

  She was grateful for this opportunity to review what she was doing, grateful to James for believing in her, and for giving her the sketching set. Had he known then that the competition was coming up? Maybe. For just a few seconds, she allowed herself to close her eyes and savour the memory of their weekend once more. They’d been so close in the storm, safe in each other’s arms. The memory thrilled her, gave her strength. James believed in her talent. She would get over these challenges of not having enough materials and stock, of labouring day and night, of an almost insurmountable credit card debt, of surviving on no wage, thanks to Jeannie and Matt’s kindness.

  “Follow your dreams,” Flame had told her girls every day of their lives. She crossed her fingers as she pressed “send.” Stella was already living her dream. She just had to make it pay.

  She scrolled through her inbox. It was so hard to keep up at this time of year. Suddenly something official caught her eye, something about Stellar, something she’d missed. It was from the council.

  Dear Stellar stallholder,

  Stellar must cease trading by 4 January. due to trading condition 73 c.

  By order.

  General Manager

  Surely this was some kind of joke.

  She checked it again, focusing on the message, these words from nowhere, in black and white, pulsing on her screen. Doom. She scrolled up and down and found an attachment, a long list of trading conditions. There it was, 73 c. The words were officialese, but it all boiled down to exactly what James had explained when she’d raised with him her concern about what Donna had told her she’d heard, the day of their picnic. James had said a stall could only be closed if a permanent trader complained that their goods were too similar to their own, creating unfair competition. Donna had been right!

  But surely there’d been some kind of mistake. James had told her that the only store which could do this to her was Huntleys, and he’d said...

  Had James lied to her? Surely not.

  But it seemed the only possibility.

  Stella’s world went white. She felt as insubstantial as a tissue, empty. Blank. Until a great wail of panic rose in her, like a tornado.

  She studied her screen again. Was there a phone number? Was there any right of appeal? Was it all over?

  Worst of all was the suspicion she’d been wrong about James. Surely not. Everything had felt so right with him. Yet there seemed no other explanation. Unless he wanted to force her to come and work for Huntleys by taking away her livelihood. Impossible?

  Emotions cascaded through her.

  What a fool she’d been to trust James, to fall for his charms!

  So. James had betrayed her utterly. Played her so he could steal her jewelry ideas and use her body for sex. Maybe it had all been some kind of game for him after all. If so, this was sabotage. Traitor!

  She was weary, drained.

  If she couldn’t even trade tomorrow, what was the point? Rage and weariness and confusion washed over her. She could barely speak.

  What was the fine for trading without a permit? Would there even be an inspector in the heat of high summer? Was there a phone number she could ring?

  We are here to serve you, said the recorded message, except they weren’t. Council is closed until the twelfth of January. Please visit our website FAQs or ring back later.

  Surely they couldn’t close her down with one email. Had there been a letter? Maybe it had gone the way of the silver supplies.

  And James. She could just phone him. Anger surged in he
r. Then bewilderment. Then fury again. White hot rage. She stared at her phone. No. Why would she ring James? He wasn’t even in the country. Off on some fancy international trip.

  She should just accept that James lived in another world. Disaster.

  She stepped into the hallway, thinking she could discuss it all with Jeannie, but Jeannie and Matt’s light was off for the night.

  She turned off her own and slipped into her single bed, reliving every memory of James, every exchange.

  She had to admit it. Huntleys had had it in for her since her very first day, and she’d been a fool, utterly blind, falling for every trap they could lay in her path, including James’s charm.

  She cried now, huge, hard sobs from deep in her gut, muffled by her pillow. What a fool she’d been. Especially about James. She’d felt they’d truly understood one another, unlike Damian. Was every man so untrustworthy?

  Maybe she was like Flame after all, doomed with relationships, bound to run from one failed love affair to another, again and again throughout her life. Had she expected too much? If Stellar had to close now, after all her hard work and high hopes, then coming to Sydney had turned into a disaster. Her life in Perth hadn’t been perfect, but this was a nightmare.

  Chapter 29

  James’s mother was waiting for him at Nice airport. It was surprisingly busy, but nothing like the crush of Charles de Gaulle.

  She was smaller than he remembered, and happier, proudly if nervously introducing him to a tall Frenchman, Émile.

  The two men regarded each other with some suspicion. Émile was protective of Cynthia, James noticed, as he sized him up, and more than a little uncomfortable at this unexpected addition to his mother’s life.

  James hadn’t imagined another man in the picture. The last few times he’d seen her had been in Bowral, where she’d been fussing about the condition of the house and its contents. His most vivid memories of her were from the bleakest moments of his father’s funeral, and in the years before, when she’d sat loyally at his father’s bedside, worried, comforting, patient, grieving.