The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘What?’ June bellowed. ‘You’ve worked there for years. Why would you quit? Did you get another job?’

  ‘No.’ Saskia looked at her lap. June was a night manager at a Mexican Cantina. Luna worked behind the reception desk at a physiotherapy clinic. Ziggy serviced and re-stocked vending machines. Frederick was a porter at the Westin Hotel. Nobody could afford to be a full-time artist.

  ‘No,’ Saskia said. ‘I just really want to focus on trying to get the jewellery line up and running.’

  ‘We all want to focus on our art—’ June started.

  ‘But how can you afford to do that?’ Luna interrupted.

  There was silence. The others had already figured it out.

  Frederick smiled dimly. It was a mean little smirk. He looked away and took a drag from his joint. ‘Yes, but we don’t all have wealthy husbands.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Luna. The word was heavy with judgment.

  ‘I’m going to pay him back,’ Saskia said, the world’s blurry edges suddenly sharpening. The pleasant, heady intoxication dispersed. ‘It’s an investment.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ Frederick asked, scoffing.

  ‘We decided together that if I was going to make this work I’d have to put everything I could into it.’

  ‘Because it’s a waste of time otherwise?’ June said. She looked hurt, as if Saskia had committed an act of betrayal.

  ‘No . . . just . . .’ Saskia grappled for words.

  ‘I could never do that,’ Luna shivered. ‘Let a man own my work like that.’

  ‘It’s not like that. It’s an investment. He believes in me.’

  ‘It’s not a present for the little woman, keep her occupied until the children come along?’ This was Ziggy now. His voice was condescending and cold.

  ‘Artists are supposed to rattle the chains of oppression. Not climb them to get ahead,’ Luna said.

  ‘Ignore them, Sas,’ said June. ‘Of course you should use what resources you have to make a success of your creations.’ She gave a weak smile. Ziggy had once again let his head loll back. His legs had fallen open and they could all see where the seams of his jeans were starting to fray around the crotch.

  ‘I think I’m going to call an Uber,’ Saskia said, getting to her feet. She felt ill, and it wasn’t just the pot.

  ‘No, don’t go,’ June said half-heartedly.

  ‘She has to,’ said Frederick, drawing again from his joint. ‘The boss will be wondering where she is.’

  *

  The keyhole wouldn’t hold still. Saskia closed one eye and squinted as she aimed, but she couldn’t seem to get her key into the lock. She tried again, leaning against the timber doorframe. She heard movement on the other side. The lock clicked and the door gave way. She stumbled forward, crashing against Andy, who was standing in the hallway, shrouded in darkness.

  ‘What time do you call this?’

  She held her hands out. She felt his face, he stepped back and she stumbled.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked.

  ‘At the party. Just the party.’

  ‘You smell like a cannabis crop.’

  She zombie-marched down the hall and flopped into bed. A deep sadness had settled in her chest.

  ‘Don’t you want to take a shower?’

  ‘I will,’ she said, her face buried in her pillow.

  ‘You’re going to be stoned until next Thursday.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, before falling into a heavy slumber.

  Day 62, Friday, December 12

  Saskia’s head was throbbing. She lay both her palms flat on her work table in the hope that it would stop the room from keeling. The contents of her stomach — three Panadol and a litre of mineral water — were reacting with each other. She had to will the fizzy brew to stay put. She had forced herself to come into the studio. Andy had told her to sleep it off, but her head was full of the accusations from the night before, and her feeble protestations.

  I’m going to make it work and I’ll pay him back.

  She put a hand to her temple. Her skull felt like an eggshell — delicate and full of gooey fluid. Her small sketchbook lay open on the page that held an idea for drop-earrings based on Renaissance angel wings. The paper was spotted with Napolitana sauce from pasta they were eating the day she’d come up with the design. The restaurant’s ceiling was sky-blue and crowded with the faces of saints and cherubs — a gauche copy of Raphael and Michelangelo. The thought of oily sauce and smelly parmesan caused a violent urge to vomit. She fought it off and reached for a silver sheet.

  I’m going to make it work and I’ll pay him back.

  The tips of her fingers were trembling. She didn’t trust herself to use her saw. She’d already snapped one blade this week. They were fine things, the blades of jeweller’s saws, more like the string of a violin bow than the shark’s teeth of a wood saw. They came cheap in bulk, but now she was more conscious than ever of her costs. She sat slumped on her chair, feeling desolate. She had to prove them wrong. She had to be worthy of Andy’s faith in her. But if she tried to cut anything now she’d likely ruin the silver and slice a finger off into the bargain.

  She took out the box of six polished ear cuffs she’d made when she had been trying to perfect the technique, and turned each one over in her fingers. They all had slight differences. One was too heavy and tended to slide down the ear. She’d fixed this by pinching the end, but it wasn’t a satisfactory solution. The leaf detail on this was the best, but the overall design was too chunky. She wanted something delicate.

  She had soldered arms to another. It was a rush job and the solder was blobby and imperfect. This cuff was fine, the leaves growing from a silver wire stem. When worn, the globs of silver weren’t visible.

  She held it up to the light between her thumb and her forefinger with the points of the leaves pressed into the pads of her fingers. It suddenly looked childish. Doubt began to creep into her mind. Who did she think she was? She picked up another cuff, this one also cut from a sheet of silver. It seemed flat. She needed a second opinion. She put them all in a box and headed up Sydney Road towards Coburg.

  Saskia passed a group of young women peering into the window of a bridal store on a corner. She walked up the narrow staircase between the dress store and a grocer-cafe and pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Hello, this is Annie Chan designs, is Miss Chan expecting you?’ said a voice Saskia knew to be Annie pretending to be her own secretary.

  ‘Annie, it’s Saskia. Are you free?’

  ‘Oh, Sas! Yes. Come in.’

  Annie Chan’s bridal boutique was above the best grocer in Coburg. Next door was a large boutique that imported mass-produced wedding dresses from China that they tailored to fit brides. Annie would watch young women from her first floor window as they filed into the wedding dress factory, clutching their girlfriends and an armful of bridal magazines. She’d grind her teeth, brilliant but frustrated, like a Bond villain.

  When Saskia stepped inside her boutique, Annie hugged her then flapped her arms. ‘I just had the most draining customer.’

  ‘Aren’t all brides tricky?’

  ‘You weren’t.’ The two women had met when Saskia ordered the dress she had planned to marry Seth in from Annie’s boutique.

  ‘Except for the whole cancelling the order at the last minute thing.’

  ‘Except for that. But it was worth it.’

  ‘This one isn’t worth it?’

  ‘She said she wanted my Giselle design. But she asked if I could do it sleeveless, and with a bias cut skirt. Then she said could she also get it without the bead work on the shoulder. She basically wanted to design her own dress and have me make it for her. Then she said since I wouldn’t be doing all the bead work, could I give her a discount.’ Annie’s face was red. ‘I’m not a seamstress, I’m a designer.’

  ‘Did you tell her she might find something more her style at the knock-off merchants downstairs?’

  ‘No,’ Annie sighed.
‘I need the money.’

  ‘I hear that.’

  ‘Can I offer you . . . a glass of water? Instant coffee with no milk or sugar?’

  ‘Water would be good, thanks. Hold the freeze-dried caffeine.’

  She followed Annie into the kitchenette behind the showroom. The front of the store was draped in red velvet. Acres of it tumbled from the roof like stage curtains and the walls were lined with mirrors. Out the back, the aesthetic was sweatshop. In the centre of the room was a large cutting table. Rolls of fabric stood around it like curious onlookers. Half-dressed mannequins wore white skirts and calico bodices. In the corner was a small sink, a microwave, and a bar fridge stocked with champagne for clients.

  ‘What’s new with you?’ Annie asked, opening and shutting her cupboards, until she gave up her search, picked two champagne flutes from the dish rack and filled them with water. ‘How was the honeymoon?’

  ‘Rome was incredible. In fact, I was wondering if I could get your professional opinion on something,’ Saskia said, holding out the shoe box with the cuffs inside. ‘It’s a new design.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Annie beckoned.

  ‘Don’t spare my feelings, I need to know what you really think.’

  Annie picked-up one of the pieces. ‘Oh, I love this,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It’s beautiful. Classic, yet modern. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.’

  Saskia exhaled as she smiled. ‘I figured it would suit your taste.’

  ‘It does.’ Annie admired it. She hooked it over her ear, then went to the full-length mirror closest to the cutting table. ‘These are just prototypes?’

  ‘I was playing around, trying to figure out the best way to express the idea.’

  ‘So what will you do with them now?’

  Saskia shrugged. ‘Give them to my friends.’

  Annie returned from the mirror and picked through the box. ‘This is just the sort of different idea my customers are looking for.’ Her designs had a gothic bent. She looked to history for inspiration, then wove old ideas into new dresses.

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I do. And it’s not just brides that come in. They bring their sisters, friends, bridesmaids, mothers and mothers-in-law. I could sell these.’

  ‘Really? They’re not perfect.’

  ‘So what!’ Annie threw up her hands. ‘They’re unique. And they look finished to the untrained eye. How much do you want to charge?’

  ‘Um. Fifty dollars?’

  ‘No,’ said Annie. ‘This is a bridal boutique.’ She waved her arm around. ‘And this,’ she held up a cuff, ‘is your art. We’ll charge a hundred.’

  *

  Andy was at his desk by 7 a.m. Since being promoted he’d been given an office with a window. To celebrate he’d bought a twenty-one-year-old bottle of Glenlivet and a silver bar set. He had imagined himself inviting in colleagues and clients and offering them a nip of something, but he was yet to have an opportunity to do so.

  Midmorning, Nellie placed a glass of orange juice in the middle of his desk. ‘You haven’t had breakfast.’

  Its citrus aroma made Andy wish Saskia had been awake when he’d stolen out of bed at 6 a.m. ‘Thanks, Nellie,’ he said and flipped open his leather portfolio. Work had piled up in his in-tray and his inbox needed attention.

  He was scanning the list of names to sort the urgent from the less urgent when Nellie buzzed him.

  ‘Andy, Mr Harris asked if you could see him in his office.’

  ‘Immediately?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Thank you, Nellie.’

  Franklin Harris was sitting on a couch in his socks polishing his shoes when Andy walked into his office.

  ‘Ah, yes, Andy.’ An old-fashioned polishing kit in a wooden box sat open next to him. The day’s copy of the Financial Review was spread out on the carpet to protect it.

  ‘That’s for you,’ Harris said, nodding at an affidavit sitting on his coffee table. ‘Fairly small matter. They’re happy to settle. But it’s a big client. I think we can win it for them. Take a look, will you? They’ll be in tomorrow at 10 a.m.’

  Andy leafed through the first few pages. ‘Textile design?’

  ‘Fashion copyright. Some yappy little dressmaker is claiming The House of Hiraani ripped off her designs.’ Harris stood and stabbed the page with his finger. ‘There.’ Pictures of two dresses sat side by side.

  ‘They look very similar,’ Andy said.

  Harris brushed this aside. ‘It’s a coincidence. They’re flowers. You can’t copyright a rose. She didn’t invent them.’

  In each case, buds were depicted in a pixelated, techy style. The original designer, Foxy Frocks, had used bright colours with touches of fluorescents. The result was a modern cyber-rose. House of Hiraani had done the same.

  ‘House of Hiraani is willing to settle. But I think we can win. Make it go away without a payout.’

  ‘But if they’re happy to settle—’

  ‘It’s going to be your job to convince them not to. House of Hiraani has just been purchased by Bright Box. If we impress them, it could mean ongoing lucrative work.’

  Bright Box was one of Australia’s largest fashion producers. They operated by buying independent brands, streamlining their manufacturing costs, cross-promoting, cutting their overheads and taking a slice of their profits.

  ‘Copyright and trademarks when it comes to fashion and textiles is very complex,’ said Andy. ‘Krystyn White is the expert on this sort of thing. Perhaps you should give it to her.’

  ‘Bring her in on your team. This case is worth far more to us in future business than the fee it will generate. We want our very best on it.’

  ‘They just bought an independent bag company too,’ Andy murmured, remembering a conversation he’d overheard at Barred. A designer who had been at TAFE with June and Saskia had been acquired by Bright Box and the others were crucifying her with the most withering insult in their lexicon: sell-out.

  ‘See, you’re already immersed in the world,’ Harris pointed his shoe at Andy. ‘I know I can trust you with this.’

  *

  Saskia’s head had cleared. After her meeting with Annie she was buzzing with confidence and wondering what other motifs she could incorporate into an ear cuff. Inspired by the idea she’d had in the gaudy restaurant in Rome, she wanted to attempt a cuff that imitated cherubic wings with feathers that rose to points like an elf’s ear. After that she tried a mod design, using triangles that pointed out of the cuff like the tips of a star.

  By five thirty she had samples of each, two more sketches, and she was brimming with ideas. Next, she drew a curling, delicate floral piece that looked like a grapevine growing around an ear. She designed another cuff inspired by gladiatorial body armour.

  She scribbled faster and faster, only stopping when she snapped the end off of her pencil. She looked at her watch: 10 p.m. She had to get home.

  The streets were clogged with Friday night traffic. When she stepped inside the apartment, the hall was dark and the air was warm. The summer’s heat had seeped inside and Andy hadn’t been home to turn on the air conditioning. She called his name, in case he’d gone to bed early. But when she went to their room it was empty. The bed covers were immaculate.

  She dialled his number. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Hi, Sas. Sorry I didn’t call.’

  ‘You’re not still at the office are you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Are you going to be home soon?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve got a very important meeting in the morning. Christ, look at the time.’

  ‘You left in such a hurry this morning,’ she said.

  ‘Right. I see what you’re getting at.’

  He was loath to leave his work. Things had just started to click and the words were flowing smoothly from him. ‘I suppose I’d better call a cab then, hadn’t I?’ He trie
d to keep his voice light.

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’

  ‘I am, I am. I’m just distracted.’

  ‘I can make you up a little plate of olives and cheese, antipasto, bread. We can have a picnic.’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’ He didn’t tell her he’d eaten at the restaurant on level 8.

  In the cab Andy tried to get his thoughts off work, but his mind was still buried in his pile of reading. It wasn’t just that design copyright was extremely technical, it brought with it the complication he had anticipated the moment they’d offered him the associate director position. He needed Krystyn’s help.

  He clacked a memo into his phone with a few last-minute thoughts. The screen’s wallpaper was a photo of Saskia he’d taken on their honeymoon as she excitedly hurried ahead of him to the Spanish steps. Her dark hair was dancing in the wind, and she’d turned to look at him just as he raised his camera. Her face was radiant with wonder. Beneath her tangle of hair were her bare shoulders, her tapered waist and her smooth legs. When it came time for Andy to pay the cab driver, thoughts of work had vanished.

  Saskia opened the door as he crossed the lawn.

  ‘You are a taskmaster.’ He grinned at her, but could sense her disappointment. ‘I made it,’ he said, and put his arms around her waist. When he kissed her, he could feel her reluctance. ‘I’m sorry, Sas. The time just got away from me.’

  ‘I’m not mad. I just wish you’d take our pact seriously. I know it probably seems silly—’

  ‘I am taking it seriously. I am. I was just thinking how lucky I am that the only thing we fight about is how to have more sex.’

  She laughed. ‘You get so caught up in your corporate boys’ world.’

  ‘None of them are a patch on you.’

  He lifted her off the ground and hooked her legs around his waist, carrying her inside. Beneath her robe she was naked, and he could feel the heat from her body through his shirt.

  ‘I don’t think we have time to make it to the bedroom,’ he said, laying her down on the couch.