Women of a Dangerous Age. Fanny Blake

picked herself up and got on with her life, however painful. That was part of the deal. And she would survive this too, despite the intense hurt that she felt right now. She slammed the box of decorations into the cupboard with a bang.

      When the flat was back to normal, she went upstairs and ran herself a deep bath where she lay for ages, thinking, every now and again topping it up with hot water.

      Still pink from its heat, she wrapped herself in her kimono, her hair in a towel, and came downstairs to pour herself a glass of the champagne she’d bought specially for them to toast their new life. She picked up the Nehru shirt that he’d left behind, draped over the arm of the sofa. Taking the kitchen scissors, she cut and ripped it into the smallest possible pieces. Then, and only then, did she allow herself to cry.

      6

      Arriving at the studio the following morning, Ali immediately saw that Rick wasn’t far away. The kettle was hot, and the beginnings of a bridesmaid’s tiara lay across his soldering brick, beside a half-drunk cup of coffee. Beneath the large window, their long, shared workbench was the usual organised jumble of pliers, hammers, files, cutters, tweezers and soldering equipment crowded round the two semicircular cut-outs, each underhung with a leather skin to catch precious cut-offs and filings. Every time she walked into this room, Ali felt this was the place she belonged, the place where she could lose herself in creating beautiful pieces of jewellery, where the world could be kept at bay.

      However much she wanted to bury herself under the duvet for the rest of the week, she had dragged herself out of bed. Whatever it had done to her, she wasn’t going to allow Ian’s bombshell to blow away her business. Cleo Fellowes was due at eleven thirty to see the sketches for the pendant necklace that Ali had designed using the diamonds from a brooch belonging to Cleo’s grandmother. After that, if the design was approved, Ali would spend the rest of the day untangling a chain that had got mixed up in the tumble polisher before polishing a couple of rings. She switched on her laptop for the first chore of the day: dreary admin. Her heart sank as she went to her mailbox and saw the number of incoming emails. She ran her eye down them, deleting any junk or spam that had found its way through the firewall. What was left was mostly bills.

      She pulled up her accounts on the laptop again and grimaced. She remembered Mrs Orlov coming to her a couple of years ago, ordering an elaborate floral brooch using pink tourmalines and tiny round diamonds. For pieces that valuable, she rarely took on a customer without a personal recommendation and Mrs Orlov had been introduced by a previous client. That sort of word-of-mouth business had been crucial to her livelihood so far. However, in her excitement over Ian’s proposal followed by her rush to get away to India, Mrs Orlov’s failure to collect the new pieces had slipped her mind. As a result, over three thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery was languishing in her safe, contributing to the hole in her finances. A customer’s failure to collect an order was unusual but it did happen. Ali was uneasy, furious with herself for allowing her eye off the ball for the first time that she could remember. Bloody, bloody Ian.

      She tried ringing the Orlovs. An automated voice picked up the call, informing her that the number she was calling was no longer recognised. She swiftly fired off an email. Within minutes, it pinged back into her in-box marked Delivery Status Notification (Failure). The gentle pealing of alarm bells went crazy. Was Mrs Orlov going to be one of those rare customers who didn’t collect? It never failed to amaze Ali that anyone could pay a hefty deposit for a piece of beautiful bespoke jewellery and then go away for weeks on end without a word or even never turn up again. She looked up at the sound of the door slamming.

      ‘Happy New Year.’ Rick walked over to his end of the bench, touching Ali’s shoulder as he passed her, simultaneously slipping on his overall over his checked shirt and jeans. ‘Good time away?’ He sat down and slugged his lukewarm coffee before picking up the tiara.

      ‘Happy New Year. Yes, wonderful, thanks.’ On her way to the studio, she had resolved not to discuss her personal life with Rick. Saying aloud what had happened would only drive home what she already knew: how stupid she had been to believe in Ian. Not talking about herself meant she could focus on something else. However crushed she was feeling, she was not going to risk her business any more than she had to. Life had to go on. So, sharpened by grief, she addressed her most pressing problem. ‘One of my customers hasn’t collected, so I’m going to have to ask you for that money you owe me. I’m sorry. Things are a bit tight.’

      He ground some borax into a bowl and, with a drop of water, mixed it into a paste. As he brushed it onto the tiara, he said, ‘They’re probably on holiday – skiing or something. And I’m really sorry but I can’t pay you back at the moment. I don’t have the spare cash. Simple as that.’

      His laissez-faire attitude to life usually amused her, but not today. She watched him cut the solder into tiny squares that he placed on the joints with precision, then she back-pedalled. ‘You don’t have to pay me the full whack immediately. What about two grand? That should tide me over. If I had another big client on the horizon, it wouldn’t matter so much.’

      ‘Haven’t you got any exhibitions coming up?’ He swivelled his stool to face her, picking at a stray bit of borax on his jeans.

      ‘Not until the spring and anyway, that’s not the point,’ she insisted, irritated by his attitude. ‘We agreed when I lent you the money that it was a loan, not a gift.’

      ‘Al, be reasonable.’ He switched on his blowtorch, focusing as the solder flooded the joints of the tiara. ‘It’s hardly my fault if your business is going through a bad patch. You can’t expect me to repay you without giving me any notice.’ His look challenged her to an argument but Ali was stunned into silence. She had always considered Rick a friend. They spent hours in the studio together, working, gossiping or discussing their respective designs. They had shared so much heartache and heartbreak – his mostly as he flitted from one woman to another in the wake of his divorce. His indifference was shocking.

      His face relaxed as he switched off the torch. ‘I’m sorry. Really. But I don’t have the money. I paid off my credit cards and I’m just about on course with my overdraft, but Anna’s still bleeding me dry. Christmas was expensive. I’m only just keeping on top of things. Can’t you give me a little bit longer?’

      How many times had she heard that? She was sympathetic to the drains on his pocket, especially from his ex-wife and young daughter, but, given the circumstances, she couldn’t let this go. ‘OK, let’s say in two months you start paying me back. Fair? And if you can’t, I’m going to have to get someone else in to share this place. I can’t go on supporting both of us.’

      ‘That’s fair. That gives me time to find the money. Thanks.’ Although his voice was cheery, his eyes betrayed his anxiety. But, Ali reminded herself, she couldn’t let that concern her. For the rest of the day, they worked in silence apart from when Cleo Fellowes turned up to go over Ali’s sketches for the pendant design. Otherwise the studio was filled with music from Radio 3. Ali relaxed, concentrated on polishing the first of her rings and put her finances and Ian to the back of her mind.

      On her way home, she decided to call at the Belgravia address Mrs Orlov had given her. In her bag was the uncollected jewellery. From across the street, the imposing six-storey Georgian terraced house looked uninhabited. The upper windows were uncurtained, the ground floor and basement were shuttered up. Two plant pots chained to the railings on either side of the porch were empty. Thinking she saw a faint light in the basement, Ali crossed the road and rang the bell. While she waited in vain, a diminutive Filipino maid in a navy uniform came out of the neighbouring house. She blinked quizzically over the fence at Ali.

      ‘I’m looking for Mrs Orlov,’ Ali explained.

      The maid looked uncertain. ‘Mrs Orlov?’ She shook her head. ‘Mrs Orlov not here. They gone.’

      ‘What do you mean “gone”? Gone where?’ Ali thought of the gems in her handbag. ‘They can’t have.’

      ‘I’m not sure. They don’t live here no more. Maybe home – Russia. Sorry.’ With no more to say, she ran down the steps, leaving Ali staring after her.

      Perhaps