Pillow Talk (37 page)

Chapter Fifty-three

‘Where are we going?’

‘It's a surprise.’

‘I hate surprises, Arlo! Tell me where we're going?’

‘What kind of girl hates surprises?’

‘Well, it's not as if you are carrying a Tiffany bag, is it?
That's
a Tesco bag. What's in it? And don't say surprise.’

‘Supper.’

‘A picnic?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Oh good! Tell me where we're going.’

‘Dear God, will you just shut up, woman.’

The winsome, petulant pout that Petra fixed to her face was soon wiped off and the stroppy wiggle she'd adopted fell to a snail's pace when she realized Arlo was taking her back to Randoline Avenue.

‘Why?’ Petra asked.

‘I'm not entirely sure,’ Arlo said. ‘It's a hunch.’

‘You have
keys
?’

‘I know the estate agent,’ Arlo said. He opened the door. ‘Jonny said to be discreet. No lights blazing, no rock-and-roll.’

‘But what's your hunch, Arlo?’ Petra stopped on the doorstep, caught his arm. Her face was criss-crossed with anxiety which, in itself, suggested to Arlo that he was doing the right thing.

He put his hand on the back of her neck. ‘Look, this may sound simplistic – I just thought that perhaps if you came back here, stayed here, well, maybe you
would
remember stuff. Perhaps you might sleepwalk – you know, back in
time
? See if it was anything here which set you off in the first place?’

Petra stared at him. ‘But I never know where I'm going and I never remember where I've been,’ she whispered. ‘All this feels – odd.’

‘But you see, when you were little, there wasn't really anyone here for you. Now you're returning as a grown-up – and you have me.’

He put the key into the lock and then stopped. ‘We can go, Petra. We can go right now. You have only to say. I won't mind. I don't want to force you. It's probably a stupid idea of mine.’

There was a moment's heavy silence. ‘It's OK, Arlo.’ The frown had gone from her brow. ‘Let's do it. It's crazy. But why not. If the sleep clinics in Harley Street and Loughborough Hospital could find no reason, then there's no harm in trying an alternative angle. But I think you're mad, Arlo – mad as a fish.’

They spent the evening downstairs sipping red wine out of plastic cups, dipping pitta bread into a variety of dips and spooning Ben and Jerry's ice cream into each other's mouths. They didn't talk about the house in terms of her childhood but Arlo sensed that Petra was putting off going to bed. However, though he'd got her this far, he certainly was not going to force her upstairs to bed. Eventually, she could not stifle a yawn though she blamed the red wine. Arlo yawned too.

‘Did you know, yawning is the most contagious thing on earth?’ Petra told him. ‘It's the same yawn – just going round and round the world. I'll bet you someone next door is now yawning and so it will continue, down this street, off into Cricklewood and on and on. The good folk of Yorkshire will catch it in a few hours. I did an experiment once – I yawned at my friend's dog and lo, it yawned too!’

Arlo gave her a tender gaze that said, I know you're waffling, Petra, because you don't want to go to bed and let the night unfold. He went upstairs to use the toilet and suddenly Petra didn't want to be downstairs, by herself. He came out of the bathroom to find her there. She looked as though she'd lost a few inches in height.

‘You OK?’ he asked, lifting her chin to kiss her.

She nodded. ‘I suppose I'm tired now.’

They squeezed into the single bed in Petra's old bedroom and lay there, pretending to be perfectly comfortable. After an hour or so, Arlo made his apologies and moved onto the floor. It wasn't particularly comfortable there either but tonight was not about getting a good night's sleep.

But Petra does sleep. And then, at three in the morning, she rises. Arlo has only dozed. Now he lies stock-still, sensing her sitting bolt upright.

‘What's that noise?’

‘Petra?’

No answer. She is not awake. Quickly, he moves out of her way as she steps down from the bed. She's scratching her head and muttering about what that blinking noise is. There is no noise. The house is utterly silent. She pads across the room and Arlo follows. Out into the corridor.

‘Hullo?’ she says but there's no one to answer her. She's hovering outside the spare-room door, stepping lightly from foot to foot as if she's a child needing the toilet. She opens the door a little and peers in.

‘Uncle Jeff?’ She stops. Looks in a little further. ‘Uncle Jeff?’ She backs out, and continues along towards the master bedroom. She stays by the closed door. Then opens it a fraction.

‘Dad?’

She appears to be rooted to the spot. ‘Dad?’

Suddenly, she spins and runs on her tiptoes, fast back to her bedroom. Shuts the door in Arlo's face. When he goes in, he finds her in bed, way down deep under the covers, shaking.

He sits on the edge of the bed and lays his arm gently over the mound of her.

‘Where did you go, my beautiful girl, what did you see?’

What's that noise? I heard something. I definitely heard a noise. I think it's the middle of the night. I must go and see. I'm a bit scared, I am. But I'm sure I heard a strange noise. I'll just tiptoe out onto the landing and see what I can hear.

‘Hullo?’

There it is again. It's a funny sound – like a bear or something. It's coming from the spare room.

Listen.

I'd better look inside.

Oh. It's Uncle Jeff.

‘Uncle Jeff?’

Why are you sideways on the bed, Uncle Jeff? Why don't you have any of your clothes on? Why are you crawling all over my mum, making those strange noises? It sounds like she can't breathe. Why are you wearing ladies' shoes, Uncle Jeff? You look silly. And you have a big fat hairy bum.

‘Uncle Jeff?’

Why's no one answering me?

I'd better go and find my dad.

‘Dad?’

There's funny noises coming from that room too.

Something's not right. What are the grown-ups
doing
? I didn't even know Uncle Jeff was staying the night. I thought he'd just come for supper. Him and Auntie Mags. And Auntie Anne too.

The door isn't quite closed so I will look through the gap. Auntie Anne is kneeling on my mum and dad's bed. I see her red hair, pouring down her back. She has a baggy bottom and really yuk red pants. What is Auntie Mags doing and what is she wearing
that
for? That's not a bra, her bosoms are poking out.

Is
that
my Dad?

Why is Auntie Mags tying him up?

They're all laughing and talking in funny voices. I can't hear what they're saying. If I open the door a bit more, maybe I will.

‘Dad?’

Why aren't they wearing many clothes? This is not right. It's a silly game and I wish they would all stop playing it.

Auntie Mags is turning around.

I don't want her to see me. I don't want anyone to see me. I must go back to my room. Quick quick quick quick quick.

* * *

Petra was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when Arlo woke up.

‘Good morning up there,’ he said, chilled and stiff on the floor.

‘Do you remember those luminous stickers made for bedroom ceilings?’ Petra asked him. ‘I never had any of those. I always wanted them.’

‘I tried them once, a couple of years ago, when I was fed up counting sheep.’

‘Did they help you sleep?’

‘Far from it – I'd start faffing around in the God-forsaken small hours, trying to replicate the specifics of the northern hemisphere night sky.’

‘Oh.’

Arlo rose from the floor. Petra turned to look at him. ‘Looks like you have cellulite,’ she said and Arlo inspected the puckering of his skin from a night on the carpet. He sidled into bed next to her. She nustled into his chest and he stroked her hair thoughtfully.

‘Who's Uncle Jeff?’ he asked quietly.

‘He was a friend of my parents,’ Petra said and her tone of voice tells Arlo that where she went last night, what she saw, was still vivid. ‘He was married to Maggie – Auntie Mags. God knows what happened to them.’ She turned to Arlo. ‘There was also Auntie Anne. I don't think she had a partner. They weren't real aunts and uncle – they were friends of my parents. They often came over. All of them.’

‘Last night—’ Arlo started.

‘I know,’ said Petra. A fat tear squeezed out from her eye and oozed down her cheek.

‘What did you see last night?’ Arlo whispered. ‘Was it what you saw when you were little?’

‘I saw them all at it,’ said Petra, covering her face. ‘Oh.’

‘I think my parents must have been – you know, swingers. How fucked up is that?’

‘Christ, Petra. How old were you? Can you remember?’

‘I must have been about eight, I suppose.’

‘Was that when you started sleepwalking?’

‘Yes.’

After a breakfast of croissants and apple juice drunk straight from the carton, Arlo looked at Petra intently.

‘You need to make your peace here, you know, with all of that, before we leave here. God, the whole swinging thing, it must have been bewildering, disturbing, for a child to come across – but as an adult looking back, try to see it as bemusing or even amusing or just downright ridiculous. We're going to leave all of that rubbish here in the house. Closure without opening the door to your childhood memories any wider. Closure when we close this old front door of yours.’

Petra shrugged.

Arlo held her shoulders steady and looked at her sternly. ‘It's about putting the past to bed, Petra. In my case and in yours. You've shown me that. Look what you've done for me.’

‘They probably have no idea that I saw,’ she told him. ‘I wonder what they'd say if I told them.’

‘And I wonder what Helen's parents would have said if I
had
told them. Look what you've taught me about there being a time for silence.’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘You can't cancel the past but if you lay it down gently enough, you can put the past to bed. Let it rest. Find your peace. Sleep well.’

Petra looked at him and her expression said, Help me, then, help me if you can.

‘Do you know that Philip Larkin poem? Do you remember the Noble Savages singing it? Actually, we weren't allowed to sing it at your school. That poem – about your parents fucking you up?’ Petra nodded. ‘Well, Mr Larkin would have done well to have met someone like you, Petra – though anthologies of modern poetry might have ended up the poorer. I know you regret not having a close relationship with your parents. And Christ, what you saw when you were eight years old, what you experienced when they split up when you were a teenager, the kind of indifference you've faced from them ever since – it's a wonder you're
not
cynical, fucked up and bitter. But look at you, Petra. Look at what I see. I see this beautiful, beautiful woman who's so talented and so caring and so brave and so strong. And who, most important of all, knows how to love. You truly know how to love. It's a natural instinct for you.’

Petra's head dropped. Arlo put his arm around her. ‘It doesn't matter what you saw,’ he told her quietly but emphatically, ‘because what you found makes no difference to the life that you're leading so well. You don't need to go looking any more, Petra. You don't need to go looking ever again.’

Chapter Fifty-four

It was early August when Petra announced that they really ought to go and visit her mother.

‘Has she phoned?’ Arlo asked.

‘No,’ Petra hesitated. ‘But there again, she never does,’ she said with a new equanimity.

Melinda said she'd be delighted to see her daughter though she hoped this new beau didn't have a gas-guzzling car like that other bloke. When Petra told her mother that Arlo didn't even have a mobile phone, let alone a car, she heard her mother applauding down the phone.

‘She probably won't be in,’ Petra warned Arlo as the minicab from the station dropped them in sight of her mother's cottage. ‘Oh, and ask for your tea black.’

But Melinda was in, as were half her hens, and they all seemed to squawk at Petra and Arlo when they entered. Arlo asked Melinda so many questions that she didn't have the inclination to talk much more about herself once she'd answered him. They'd talked about eggs and feng shui and carbon footprints and vegetarian shoes. So they sat and sipped their herbal tea and looked at each other. And Melinda thought she'd ask her daughter how her summer had been.

‘Interesting,’ Petra told her. ‘Interesting.’ She paused. She could feel Arlo glance urgently at her. ‘An old friend of Arlo's is an estate agent. Guess which house is on his books?’ Her mother shook her head. ‘Randoline Avenue.’

‘Good gracious me.’

‘I went and had a poke around.’

‘Whatever did you do that for?’ Melinda baulked. ‘It was a ghastly house.’ She shuddered.

‘It has a fancy conservatory now.’

‘It was ghastly because of what happened there.’

‘Happened?’ Petra again felt Arlo's concerned glance bore into her.

‘Me and your father divorcing,’ Melinda frowned.

Suddenly, Petra no longer needed to make her mother think back. ‘I know, Mum. I just was curious to see what I remembered.’

‘Did you remember much?’

‘Not really,’ Petra said and she could sense Arlo's stare soften. ‘I remembered the water tank with the red padding.’

‘You used to call the water tank Bertie,’ Melinda said softly.

‘I don't remember that,’ said Petra.

‘I do.’

Melinda busied herself replenishing the rock cakes, which had to be slid carefully onto the plates so as not to break the crockery.

‘Your daughter is about to make her fortune – did you know that?’ Arlo said.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Do you remember Mrs McNeil?’ Petra glinted. ‘From when I was at school?’

Melinda looked a little uncomfortable and she glanced at Arlo rather than at Petra. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘The stone? The tanzanite? Well, I've sold it – I'm making it into a platinum bracelet.’

‘Clever you. Clever you,’ Melinda said, staring at her rock cake. Then she paused and looked directly at Petra. ‘Odd, though, that you wouldn't want simply to keep it.’

* * *

It followed that, if they'd been to see Petra's mother, then a trip to her father was in order too.

He wasn't in when they arrived but the children made Petra and Arlo the centre of attention and dragged them through to the garden which enabled Mary to disappear inside the house for a while. When John Flint returned, Arlo strode over with his hand extended.

‘How do you do, Mr Flint, I'm Arlo Savidge.’

John glanced at Petra whilst continuing to shake Arlo's hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘Did you come all this way to see us? Can you stay for lunch or are you just passing?’

‘That was the idea, Dad,’ Petra said, ‘if it's not too much trouble.’

‘Right, right. Well, I'll go and change then.’

And he took a very long time to reappear.

As they sat in the garden waiting for something to happen – lunch or Mary or John – Arlo put his arm around Petra. ‘There's no golden rule that you have to be close to your parents, you know,’ he said. ‘You don't even have to like the people that they are.’

‘I know,’ Petra said, ‘I do know.’

‘It would be far worse if you all fell out,’ he said, ‘and weren't speaking at all. In your case, a full-on soul-baring confrontation may not be worth the effort in the long run. You have two parents and they fucked up but they must have done something right because your outlook on love and marriage is so utterly positive.’

While Petra considered Arlo's words, she swung her legs absent-mindedly, catching her foot each time on a plastic pirate ship run aground on the grass.

‘What hampers you from accepting your relationship with your folks for what it is, is that
you
know too much,’ Arlo said, ‘but
they
don't know that. And they mightn't be the most warm or loving of parents – but I bet you anything they'd be horrified if they knew that you knew. Remember – that wasn't their intention. It's an age-old thing, isn't it – cringing at the thought of one's parents making love. But actually seeing one's parents having group sex – well, that's off the bloody radar. What they got up to – it wasn't depraved, but there again it wasn't particularly wholesome. It was, however, private and consensual.’ He gave Petra time to consider this, waited for her to nod. ‘But in the long run, it wreaked havoc with their lives. And the cause – and the effect – have been with you practically your whole life, Petra.’

‘It may have been what split them up, you know,’ Petra said. ‘I've read articles about similar situations – wife-swapping and threesomes usually come to grief.’

Arlo looked at her. ‘Damn,’ he said, ‘and Nige and I were talking just the other day about whether you and Jenn would be up for it.’ Petra glared at him for a split second before a mischievous grin sliced the gorgeous dimples into his cheeks. She thumped him. And he hugged her.

‘What's going on out here?’ John asked, coming into the garden with hastily made sandwiches.

‘Did you know that your daughter is the buzz-word in contemporary jewellery design, from Hatton Garden to Hollywood, Mr Flint?’

‘No,’ said John, who hadn't yet said to Arlo, Call me John.

‘She's in demand by the great and godly of stage, screen and beyond.’

‘Really?’

Petra didn't think she'd mention Mrs McNeil to her father because she couldn't remember whether or not he knew about her at the time. She thought he probably did not. Instead, she rifled through her bag and brought out one of the final sketches for the tanzanite bangle. She'd slipped it in this morning. Just in case the opportunity arose.

John looked at it. ‘This is marvellous,’ he said and he looked at Petra and she saw that actually, he looked rather proud.

* * *

Although Petra couldn't quite commit to leaving London completely by the start of term a month later, she did give up her flat. It wasn't much of a sacrifice; she never felt particularly emotionally attached to it. And anyway, Eric had gone to great lengths to assure her that she was more than welcome to lodge with him. Similarly, in Yarm, Jenn had given Petra a set of keys to her flat with a pink satin ribbon attached. Come and go as you please, they both told her.

So it was back to school in September. Petra missed Arlo inordinately that first week; their reunion at the weekend was sweet and intense. And though she was tempted to stay the following week with Jenn, she had so much work on that she was compelled to return to London. Charlton would be taking a reasonable cut for himself for the first two bracelets he had secured for her – yet it had been his suggestion that she set up her own website and Gina's husband was helping her do so.

‘We'll make this your virtual gallery,’ he told her and the concept did get her mind ticking. Orders for her earrings, the hair slides and crocheted necklaces soon started to trickle through. And one day, after a lengthy period spent on spreadsheets, Petra typed in ‘jewellers studios workshops Yorkshire’ into an Internet search engine and was quite surprised by what came up. She was suddenly aware that Eric was looking over her shoulder. She fumbled around trying to minimize the page but Eric stilled his hand over hers, over the mouse.

‘It's OK, Petra,’ he said and he smiled. ‘All of it is OK.’

And she knew Eric was right. She thought to herself how lucky she was. From London to Hong Kong via Yorkshire, the world wasn't such a big place really, not when it was one so full of friends.

The bracelet was finished. It was all Petra had hoped it would be. She felt euphoric. She had it professionally photographed from every angle. Kitty and Eric heaped their praises on her and Gina brought in champagne.

Charlton informed her that the actress would be coming in a fortnight.

‘Now it's full steam ahead with the emerald one,’ Petra laughed.

Once Petra knew that the money was in transit, something inside her changed. It was subtle at first. She went from looking at the work a few times a day to having a glance only every now and then, to not taking it out of the box at all. Everyone sensed there was something troubling her but she didn't let anyone probe because she wasn't entirely sure herself what it was that irked her so.

Up in Yorkshire for the weekend, she rose from her sleep. She walked away from Arlo's bedroom and through the lounge into the kitchenette. She didn't switch the lights on; fumbling with the lid of the kettle in the dark, filling it with water which splashed everywhere. She set it to boil. Took a mug, a tea bag, poured milk without spilling a drop.

She sat, in the dark, on Arlo's sofa.

‘I don't think this is what you'd want,’ she said quietly. And she said it over and over again.

Petra wasn't sleepwalking. She was wide awake.

She wasn't sure how long she'd sat there for but when she returned to the bedroom with cold feet and the start of a headache, she clocked the time was nearing half four. She put on a pair of Arlo's socks and slid into bed, cuddled up against his back.

‘Are you awake?’

He wasn't.

‘Are you awake?’ she said a little louder, nudging his body. ‘Are you awake?’

‘I am now,’ he said groggily.

‘I can't do it,’ she said and her voice shook.

He turned towards her. Her eyes accustomed to the dark, she could see his focusing intently on her. ‘Can't what, Miss Flint. What can't you do?’

‘I can't do it, Arlo,’ she said. ‘I can't let Mrs McNeil's tanzanite go. Not in that bracelet. Not to the United States.’

She dreaded telling Charlton. The actress was flying in on Friday. When Petra's feet finally dragged her from the studio to the Charlton Squire Gallery late on the Monday afternoon, she felt ill.

‘You look peaky, darling,’ Charlton said. ‘Everything OK?’

‘No,’ Petra whispered, ‘it isn't.’ Charlton seemed huge today, top to toe in black, a diamond-encrusted skull and crossbones dangling from a choker around his neck.

She clambered over her words, leaving sentences hanging vertiginously. Charlton listened intently and then, after a nauseating silence during which her head started spinning, he began to laugh.

‘I was wondering when you were going to say that,’ he said. ‘I'm amazed it took until now.’

‘Sorry?’ Petra's head stopped spinning but she couldn't keep her eyes still; they were scouring Charlton's face in confusion.

‘Darling, as soon as I saw your design on paper – let alone in metal with that fucking sweet – I started rearguard action.’

‘What?’

‘Plan B, Pet, Plan B.’ He paused. ‘It's Monday. I need to make a call. Excuse me for a moment.’

He disappeared into his office leaving Petra to man the shop and by the time Charlton came back, she'd sold a pair of her own earrings and one of Charlton's belt buckles.

‘You need to meet me at Oxford Circus tube station, ten o'clock tomorrow morning,’ he told her. ‘And bring the bracelet.’

Neither Arlo nor any of the Studio Three could help Petra work out what was at Oxford Circus tube station.

Charlton led Petra a little way down Regent Street before turning down a side-street. He rang the top bell of a small office. He and Petra were buzzed through and climbed steeply to the top floor. The office space was cramped because most of the room was taken up by a large cage, in which were a number of safes. Two young women sat sharing a desk.

‘Hi, Charlton,’ they said.

‘This is Petra Flint,’ he introduced. He turned to Petra. ‘This lady represents one of the few companies left mining for tanzanite. And this lady is from the foundation which ensures ethical mining and fair-trade initiatives.’

‘We hear you have something to show us,’ she said, eyeing Petra's bag.

‘Charlton told us it'll blow our brains,’ said the other.

Not quite knowing what any of this was about, Petra took the box from her bag and let the women inspect her bracelet. ‘It's a beauty!’