4
Apple stared into the darkness. The energy had left her and she was empty, drained of thought and feeling.
Her bedroom door squeaked and she felt Frankfurt leap onto the bed just before she heard Poppy’s voice, tentative in the gloom. ‘Apple?’
She said nothing, then decided to sigh, loud enough for her sister to hear.
A hand found her leg, then the mattress sagged. Poppy’s body pressed near, her knee catching Apple’s thigh as she clambered awkwardly to lie down.
‘I have your tomatoes,’ Poppy whispered. ‘They’re not all burst.’
‘Thank you,’ Apple croaked.
‘Apple, why didn’t you tell me about the academy sooner? Is it true? Everything Mum told me?’
Apple closed her eyes, her mind shutting down the way it did whenever she thought about it. ‘What did Mum say?’
‘That you had an affair – with the husband of the editor at Harper’s Bazaar.’
Apple swallowed.
‘And that Emmaline Gray’s daughter accused you of plagiarising her work.’
Apple thought about the ice cream on Ginny’s floor, wished she had the comforting sweetness of it in her mouth.
‘It’s really scandalous,’ Poppy said. ‘It’s so dramatic I couldn’t believe it.’
Apple found her water bottle, and fumbled with it before taking a drink.
‘The thing is, I remember you showing me those designs earlier that year,’ Poppy said. ‘Those delicate, tactile angora pieces. How could they have believed they belonged to Juanita Gray? It feels like such a fail for such a prestigious institution to let down a star pupil like that.’
‘It was the affair,’ Apple said, staring into the dark. ‘It made me seem untrustworthy.’
She blinked and the memories came: Paul’s charisma, how much he’d seemed to feel for her, how much his intelligence and intensity had made her feel for him.
She choked on a sob, gulping. ‘But I loved him.’
Poppy’s sigh was soul-deep as her small fingers caressed Apple’s hair. ‘Why . . .?’ she said. ‘I’m just, I just don’t get it. Where were your friends? Why didn’t they vouch for you?’
‘I didn’t have friends,’ Apple snuffled. ‘Cliques formed so quickly and I guess . . . I guess I was too distracted with coursework.’
There was shuffling as Frankfurt crawled onto the pillow between their heads. Apple found his tail and circled it with her finger, willing the pain to recede.
‘Remember that first coat you made there?’ Poppy had warmth in her voice. ‘That dove grey wool cocoon coat that you said Emmaline called architecture? And then that big-name designer showed a similar one and Emmaline called you “the one to watch”.’
Apple’s smile was fleeting.
‘I didn’t even know that Emmaline’s daughter was in the same year as you. You never mentioned her, the problems she caused.’
‘Juanita wasn’t worth mentioning.’ Apple said. ‘She was obnoxious and catty, but without any flair to make her work work. I know that sounds mean, but—’
‘Apple, she had you expelled – you can be mean!’ Poppy twitched with rage, and Apple gratefully gripped her hand. ‘She must have been so jealous.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Apple said. ‘I think she was just wired. Emmaline was hard on all of us; she said humiliating things in front of the class, but it was worse for Juanita, I guess – it must be kind of mortifying when it’s your mum shredding you in front of your peers.’
Poppy said nothing for a while.
‘If Emmaline knew her daughter had no flair, how could the school have believed that you plagiarised her work and not the other way around?’
The year flickered through Apple’s mind like a film she didn’t want to see again.
‘It’s because it all happened at once,’ she said. ‘There was this weekend intensive, a retreat thing, and Juanita and I were two of the few selected to go. I think she saw my designs, then started appropriating them. We were all working towards our final range. I’m guessing she presented “her” ideas to her mother and they developed them together. That’s why to Emmaline they seemed like Juanita’s ideas, like mine were copies.’
‘God!’ Poppy’s hand clamped Apple’s.
‘But then the affair,’ Apple said, hollowly. ‘I think . . . I guess it must have made me seem tricky, like, I don’t know, like if I’d steal a husband I’d probably steal work. The disgracefulness of it probably made Juanita feel justified in stealing from me, like I’d given up any higher ground . . .’
‘I hate Juanita,’ Poppy declared. ‘Mum said there were photos, of you and him. I never saw them.’
A tear rolled down Apple’s cheek and she covered her face with her arm, the betrayal washing over her like it was yesterday.
‘I googled it on the way over here,’ Poppy went on, ‘but the photos weren’t online, thank God. Mum said they were in a magazine.’
Apple let the pain move through her before she said, ‘Until that moment, I had no idea that he was married. I honestly thought we were going to be together forever. It feels so embarrassing to even voice that now. I was such a child.’
Poppy gripped Apple’s hand again. ‘I did see pictures of him, though – Paul,’ she ventured. ‘He was handsome . . . for an older guy.’
Paul had been attractive, incredibly attractive, to Apple – hair thick and dark, skin olive – but the most attractive thing had been his sureness, his possession of a confidence that Apple knew she could only have found in a man who’d been around twice as long as her.
‘He didn’t look good enough for you, though,’ Poppy said. ‘You could have done way better – remember all the guys hanging around at high school?’
Apple knew she appealed to some, but before Paul her looks had never brought her the kind of admiration she cared for. Paul had been the first to admire her in a way that flattered yet was restrained – it had felt mature, addictive.
‘He was a sociopath.’ Apple closed her eyes and her mind to the fond memories, brushing away another tear. ‘When I think now about how he spoke and acted, all the while with a family at home, I think that’s what he was – a sociopath.’
‘Did they get divorced?’
Apple nodded, the knowledge of it too much to bear – the truth of it something her mind had skirted around so many times over the years.
‘Mum said he was a lecturer there?’
‘Just a guest lecturer. He was this Italian ex-pat, a CFO at some fashion conglomerate. Emmaline introduced us, said he could be a good mentor if I ever wanted to go out on my own. The attraction was . . . It was instant. I can’t explain it. I felt like I’d never had a rock and suddenly I had one.’
Poppy’s laugh was small – sympathetic. ‘Daddy issues?’
‘Well, older men revolt me now.’
‘No one at the academy knew about you? Until the photos?’
Apple shook her head.
‘How shocking. For everyone.’
‘I actually . . .’ Apple squinted into the gloom. ‘When I think about it, I actually can’t believe I envisaged bringing him home to meet you, you and Mum. I honestly thought he’d come home over Christmas. I’m still so ashamed.’
Poppy curled her arm over Apple’s chest and pressed her nose into her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry for calling you a retail bum. Now that I know, I’m honestly just surprised that you’re as sane as you are. Living out this story would have given me conniptions – having all your dreams just snatched away like that. You must have felt so voiceless and stigmatised and alone. Why didn’t you tell me?’
There’d been times Apple had wanted to, desperately, but Poppy had been in her own private world of pain during her final year of high school. Her boyfriend of four years had broken it off to start up with someone else, and she’d thrown herself into studying for exams. Ginny had worried that the sordidness of Apple’s story might have been too much for Poppy to understand, and though Apple knew it wouldn’t
, she’d felt no desire to confide in her sister. She’d wanted Poppy’s love and support, but hadn’t thought herself deserving of it. Not only that, she’d wanted the story and the memory of it to die – not carry on living in the minds of those she loved. Even now, Poppy knowing made her feel exposed.
She rolled over so that she was nose to nose with her sister. ‘I wanted to. But I think I also wanted it to go away. And you’re my baby sister, I didn’t want to burden you.’
‘We share our burdens.’
Apple touched her sister’s cheek.
‘It all explains so much about who you are now.’ Poppy took her hand. ‘Growing up, you were my idol. You were kind and dreamy and so clever. Of course you still are, but . . .’ She paused, sighing heavily. ‘I used to kind of loathe Loom, you know. I always felt like it was beneath you, but now I feel kind of grateful for it. It’s probably served as a respite for you – somewhere you could lick your wounds but still exist on the edges of the world you love.’
Apple wasn’t sure if Loom was a respite, nor if it soothed, but it certainly had been a place to hide when she had first returned, and it had remained one.
‘I’m grateful for it too.’
There was a wait before Poppy said, ‘Work is sending me on a trip and I think you should come.’
Apple shuffled to face her. ‘Where?’
‘I think . . .’ Poppy eyed the ceiling. ‘I think I’m going to surprise you.’
‘You need four days’ leave?’ Veronica was frowning. ‘You never take time off.’
Apple pressed a cool water bottle against her head as she said, ‘So surely taking a few days now is okay?’
‘What’s the leave for?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘You want to take days off for no reason?’
‘I’m going away – with my sister. I’m not sure where.’
‘I hate this cooler weather! My lips are always so dry.’ Veronica foraged in the drawer for a tube of balm then carefully dabbed some on her lips. ‘This isn’t the sparkly one, is it? I don’t have my glasses on.’
‘It’s not sparkly.’
She massaged her lips together, eyes on the ceiling. ‘Let me check the diary and see.’
Veronica trotted up the stairs and Jackson appeared from the back room, wiping crumbs from her mouth.
‘You’re going away?’
‘Just for a few days.’
‘Thank God. I thought it might be weeks – imagine me having to put up with her for weeks, by myself.’ She laid a sweater on the counter and plucked bobbles from the armpits. ‘Loom’s cashmere is shit, by the way.’
Apple didn’t reply. They worked side by side in silence until Jackson spoke again.
‘Hey, have you ever worn Loro Piana?’
‘On my salary?’
‘You think I can afford a two-thousand-dollar cardi?’ Jackson laughed. ‘Have you ever touched their cashmere, though? I bought vintage Loro from the markets once, five dollars, no joke. The style was dated but, I’m not kidding – the cashmere was like new, weave tight as hell, soft, supple, no pilling, shape perfect.’
‘Really?’
‘I visited their store on Fifth Avenue once. The guy there said they have customers coming in all the time who’ve owned their knits for, like, thirty years. Their pieces are still immaculate, still.’
Apple lifted the Loom sweater from the counter. The daylight shone through the weave as she stretched it.
‘Is cashmere from goats?’
‘Hircus goats,’ Apple said. ‘They comb the fibres off their underbelly.’ She laid the sweater back down and took over plucking the pilling. ‘Loro Piana would only buy the best.’
‘We should too, with our price tag. It makes a joke of our clients. I can’t believe you knew that about the circus goats.’
Apple smiled. ‘Hircus.’
‘You’re such a geek.’
‘Apple.’ Veronica was clipping down the stairs. ‘I’ve checked my diary, and yes – you can take those days off. But Jackson, you’re going to have to come in for all of them, even if you’ve made other plans.’
‘That’s cool,’ Jackson said.
‘Because this is very short notice, Apple.’
Apple wondered what Poppy’s surprise was, whether it was worth the look on Veronica’s face. ‘Sorry.’
‘Keep that in mind next time.’ Veronica marched into the back room.
‘Don’t look up at the screen!’ Poppy tugged the brim of Apple’s cap to cover her eyes.
‘Now I literally cannot see.’
Poppy pushed the hat back up an inch. ‘I’ll let you see enough to walk, but don’t look up at the screen.’
Apple let herself be led. ‘How long can you keep this up?’
‘Let’s see.’
Poppy bustled onwards, trotting over tiles and high-traffic carpet. Apple had known about their flight to Sydney, but this connecting and presumably final leg was the one Poppy seemed to be trying to hide.
They stopped behind a queue of legs and Apple’s hat was disturbed again as Poppy clapped headphones over her ears and music filled her head. Poppy crouched to meet Apple’s gaze, mouth moving.
‘Pardon?’ Apple pushed the headphones aside.
‘I said, “Can you hear me?” Good, you can’t. You won’t hear flight announcements.’ She grinned, rearranging the headphones.
Apple sent her a message. This is ridiculous.
But fun, came Poppy’s reply.
An hour into the flight, Poppy was asleep. Apple slid off her hat and headphones, rubbing her ears as she peered about, but the interior of the plane gave nothing about its destination away, except that the plane was small – regional?
She glanced at her sister, whose mouth was slightly ajar, neat dark bob pushed up where her head rested against the window, its shutter half closed. The wedding would come around quickly and Apple’s heart hurt as she wondered if this might be their last trip, just the two of them.
Magazines were in the seat pocket and Apple sifted through them, pausing at a tourism glossy with a white and blue crescent bay on the cover: The Magic of Myrtle.
A secluded paradise of year-round beauty, Myrtle Island is home to 100 residents. With visitors restricted to 300 at any one time, guests are assured that their stay at this premiere holiday destination will be like no other. Complimentary buggies await to shuttle sightseers from golf to lagoon, reef to fine dining, so relaxation is easy. Return to rest in one of our luxury cabanas, villas or hotels, and wake up to views of World Heritage subtropical rainforest and volcanic peaks . . .
Apple flagged a flight attendant. ‘Is this where we’re going?’ she said, quietly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Is this where we’re landing? Myrtle Island? I’m on a mystery trip.’
‘Lucky you! Yes, it’s Myrtle, and you’ve picked the perfect time if you’re into celeb spotting.’ She grinned, then lowered her voice. ‘There are some on board. I mean, hardcore VIPs take private charters but most just fly commercial.’ She winked before hurrying away.
Poppy stirred. Apple tried to close the magazine but it was too late – Poppy was grabbing at it, sleepily.
‘What are you doing? What is that? You thwarted me!’
‘Myrtle Island? That’s where we’re going?’ Apple was laughing. ‘What kind of “work” could you have there? How can an island need a brand consultant?’
Poppy rubbed an eye. ‘They’re a brand, the island’s a brand. They’re an exclusive escape for the moneyed, and honeymooners who are overextending themselves. It’s a very lucrative and important brand, in fact.’ She smoothed her hair before flicking open the magazine.
‘Poppy, I can’t believe it’s where we’re going.’ Apple took her sister’s arm as she eyed the photos.
‘It’s their busiest time of year.’ Poppy yawned. ‘I need to see how they function at their peak, but I know already that they’re going to have to rethink their whole feel
. The island itself is gorgeous, but the brand and infrastructure are on the cusp, feeling passé. It’s dangerous.’ Poppy flattened a page. ‘Even in these pictures it feels so nineties, when luxury was for people who wore too much gold jewellery, you know. Younger generations don’t care about fine dining, they want beauty and novelty, things with meaning. The seclusion and untouched nature of the place are the real selling points. Myrtle needs to magnify that and dial down the gold-sandal-silver-service vibe.’
‘Clever girl.’ Apple leaned back in her seat. ‘Does your work know I’m coming?’
‘Nope. But why waste a Myrtle room on little old me? And your plane ticket was peanuts, an early birthday present.’
Apple drew Poppy over the armrest and held her. Her sister was overworked, underpaid, and now spending money and time she didn’t have on trying to cheer her up. ‘You didn’t have to do this.’
‘I did,’ Poppy said. ‘I feel so yuck about what you went through with all that stuff I didn’t know about, and I want you to have fun. I want us to have fun.’
‘Will you have to work most of the time?’
‘Some of it – some meetings with an architect, designers, business owners, but my boss has done most of the talking. I’m doing the leg work, part of which will be soaking up the ambience.’ She smiled suddenly, then pointed out the window. ‘There it is.’
A speck in the distance grew. Soon the aircraft angled towards a narrow strip of white set in a green isle, borders scalloped by water, green darkening where foliage grew dense. They passed over a yacht-filled marina and reached the runway.
Two women caught Apple’s eye as they disembarked into the warm, moist air. Their attire was unusual and something about them was familiar.
‘Do we know them?’
‘Who?’
‘Those two women in the white and khaki, with that jewellery. Oh . . .’ She began to smile, then frowned, disbelieving. ‘It’s Genevieve Compt – and Mimi Lachaut.’
‘Who?’
Apple darted her head, trying to hold an unbroken view of the women she’d only ever seen in photos, bowing at the end of a catwalk.
‘They’re the two halves of Lac Compt.’
Realisation triggered on Poppy’s face. ‘Lac Compt? That’s them?’
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 5
