‘She went to the Lac Compt bridal show.’
Veronica sucked in air. ‘I’ve balloted for tickets three years running. How on earth did you get in?’
‘My sister had to visit. For work.’
‘Was it magnificent?’ Veronica pushed in to see the screen. ‘Certainly looks like it.’
‘It was quite . . . emotive.’
Veronica commandeered the mouse, peeling through the photos online. ‘Interstellar? Tribal interstellar? Look at that headdress, veil, thing! How pretentious and so genius.’
‘Twitter laid into them for cultural appropriation.’ Jackson was scanning her phone.
‘Cry me a river,’ Veronica said. ‘Twitter is new-fangled nonsense. Cultural appropriation is new-fangled nonsense. Is this offending tribes or the culture that invented space travel? What isn’t cultural appropriation? Why don’t the dead kings of Egypt sue the world for Art Deco? Humans travel, they appropriate. That’s what inspiration is. That’s what art is. That’s what music is. God, I’m in love with this tribal interstellar inanity.’ She barked a laugh, peering close. ‘A space blanket dress? I’d get married again just to wear that down the aisle. Hell, I’d wear it to coffee.’
Apple rested the steam wand back in its holster and slid around the counter. Veronica’s description made her need to see it again. It was like listening to someone describe the gooey innards of a chocolate cake: it whetted Apple’s appetite and triggered thoughts – thoughts that had begun surfacing since she’d run from the pavilion, having re-exposed herself to the intoxicating creativity of others. A video played and she watched the show repeat itself in slow motion, bodies pacing, metallics shimmering, grass motifs bouncing to the beat.
Suddenly, dove grey appeared.
Not on the screen but in her mind, layers of it, rolling out from nowhere. Shapes tapered to nothing and she saw a fleeting image of her sister’s décolletage, felt softness in her hands as she sailed a needle into fabric, pulled it free again.
‘Well, did you enjoy it?’ Veronica barked.
Apple started. ‘Yes.’ She hurried back to the steam wand, voice flat. ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘“I enjoyed it.”’ Veronica mocked her, gave a tired laugh. ‘Honestly, you young people have no idea.’
Apple glanced at her boss but said nothing, silently clouding mist over a blouse.
There was a queue for sandwiches and Apple stood waiting. She usually packed leftovers to save money, so buying lunch felt like a treat, something only real grown-ups did. She eyed the cabinet, searching for something she’d never make at home.
‘Can I have the corned beef with horseradish mustard on rye?’
‘Ten dollars.’
Apple reached into her wallet and a piece of scrunched paper slid out with the money. She handed over the ten dollars and received her sandwich, but her gaze remained on the piece of paper as she walked outside.
She perched on a milk crate to read it. Lac Compt HQ. Internship interviews April 25+26. First in.
John Summers’ handwriting was small and unpractised. Apple flipped the note over and gazed at the blankness there before turning it back and taking another bite of food. Her phone jingled and she set her sandwich down, eyes still on the note.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hello, bloss. How was the trip?’
Apple dredged up a sigh, trying to sound relaxed. ‘Gorgeous. Perfect mini-break. I felt very lucky to be there, such a beautiful place.’
Ginny cooed. ‘Those words make me so happy.’
‘Me too.’
‘Poppy told me about the internship.’
Apple crushed the paper in her fist. ‘Pardon?’
‘The internship! At Lac Compt! Wow, Apple, yes.’
Apple threw the paper in her bag, feeling resolute when she said, ‘I’m not applying, if that’s what Poppy said.’
‘Of course you are! Lac Compt is the best we have! Even I know that!’
‘Poppy told you to say that.’
‘Heaven forbid we might be conspiring to help you. But you’ll be proud to know Poppy didn’t tell me. I know Lac Compt, I’m not a total droob.’
‘No one called you a droob.’
‘This is your chance, Apple. The best craftspeople come out of apprenticeships like this. One-on-one is the only way. Forget institutionalised learning. True creativity is about doing, getting your hands dirty, practising your craft under the guidance of a master.’
‘I’m not applying. I have no desire to return to that city, to the people there.’
‘Emmaline Gray and one magazine editor do not the world make. This is your time.’
‘Please stop.’ Apple was so anxious she forgot to take her food with her as she hurried back down the lane towards work.
‘I just don’t want you to feel like you can never return to who you are, Apple. What you’re doing now, it’s not you.’
Apple spat a laugh. ‘Of course it’s me. I’m right here, right now, doing it, being me.’
‘You’re being scared.’
Apple screamed Fuck in her head. ‘I have to go. Speak later? Love you.’
‘Sweetie, I—’
Apple let the phone fall into her bag and pushed open the door of Loom.
‘Is that Apple?’ A customer poked her head out from a change room. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’
The woman beckoned anxiously and Apple scampered over, sliding inside the change room to find the customer standing in her bra.
‘Sorry, sorry, I really didn’t want to offend the other girl, but you’re honestly the only person in this town who knows how to dress me.’ She looked tired but hopeful.
Ginny’s words were circling, dredging emotion that Apple couldn’t afford. ‘Jacqueline—’
‘Do you hate me?’ She sighed and Apple’s shoulders softened.
‘No, no, it’s so nice to see you. It’s been months. How have you been?’
‘Fat and angry and red – obviously!’ Jacqueline gave a hollow, embarrassed laugh. ‘I don’t even know what I came in here for. I wanted a top, but then I realised I don’t have a dress to wear to a wedding this weekend, and then I realised I don’t have anything to wear, ever. Nothing looks good, my face is too round, everything’s too round. Look, Apple – even my hands look round!’
‘They do not.’
Jacqueline’s face was crumpling and Apple’s heart swelled, Ginny’s words falling away. Apple was needed. She needed to help and she could – she would.
‘Oh, oh.’ She hunted for a tissue.
‘Oh my God, how embarrassing.’ Jacqueline dabbed at her cheeks.
Apple reached to remove the hair elastic that choked Jacqueline’s locks into a mangle, and let the thick brunette hair fall over her shoulders. ‘You have the best hair.’
Jacqueline reached tentatively to touch it. ‘I think I feel too old to wear my hair long. I keep meaning to go to the hairdresser to have it cut off.’
Apple’s laugh was kind. ‘I didn’t realise long hair had an expiry date.’
Jacqueline wiped her eyes, her smile rueful. ‘One has to stop trying to be sexy at some point.’
Apple gazed at her in the mirror, understood the feelings of imperfection, the utter confusion about how to look, think, feel, be.
‘Once you have children, you’re not sure what you’re supposed to look like – mum, wife . . . blob-like servant.’ Jacqueline let herself laugh, and Apple joined in.
‘I have just the thing for a blob-like servant.’
‘I’m sure you don’t.’
‘No, I don’t, but I have plenty for you.’
‘And that’s the magic, you always seem to.’
Apple cupped her chin. ‘A high-waist peg-leg pant to start? Then maybe two separates for the wedding so you can wear them again. We have these lush semi-sheer coral blouses – I’ll bring a nude cami, and I think it would look amazing with the tan lambskin pencil skirt that arrived this morning – no one else has one yet.’
Jacqueline slumped, hand plastering her forehead. ‘Thank God for you.’
Apple was standing at the counter of Loom a week later, licking the end of a thread as she prepared to slide it into a needle.
A thought came and she tried to quash it – expel it like she had all the others that week. She threaded the needle, waiting for the thought to pass, and when it didn’t, she suddenly gave in, dropping the needle and snatching up a scrap of paper.
She grabbed a pen and drew a line.
‘What are you doing?’ Veronica emerged from her apartment, banging the door.
Apple shoved the scrap of paper away and scanned around for the thread as Veronica walked down the stairs.
‘Is that another faulty one?’ Veronica set her teacup on the bench.
‘It is, unfortunately.’ Apple hastily positioned the button on the shawl collar of the sweater. ‘Only a dangly button, easy fix.’
Veronica rapped her fingers on the counter, taking a sip of tea before she walked into the back room. Apple grabbed the envelope from her back pocket again, drew another line, and the arc of a bodice appeared.
‘What are you doing?’ Veronica was back and Apple shoved the envelope away. ‘Are you writing love notes?’
‘No.’ Apple laughed. ‘No.’
Veronica sighed, then yawned. ‘I’m feeling wretched, Apple. I’m waiting for a boy to call.’
Apple picked up the needle again. ‘Call him?’
‘I don’t want to. I want to feel wanted.’
Apple kept fiddling with the button. She thought Veronica had gone into the back room, but she suddenly felt a hand in her pocket.
‘Well, let’s see what it is then.’ Veronica had the paper scrap.
Apple tried to take it back, but Veronica dodged, her eyes darting over the drawing.
‘What is that?’ She sounded disappointed. ‘I actually thought I might find a love note. I have no idea what that is.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Apple snatched it back. ‘It’s nothing.’
It wasn’t nothing.
It had begun after returning from Lac Compt, begun with that feeling of dove grey, soft fabric between her fingers, and was becoming shapes, patterns and . . . form. Thoughts of it appeared unbidden, daily.
The phone was ringing. ‘Do you think he’d call me on the work phone?’ Veronica said.
Her eyes were wide as she lifted the receiver, gazing at Apple, who was trying to look hopeful.
‘Loom, Veronica speaking . . . Yes . . . Who? Apple? Why? Oh. Of course, Cedric. She’s right here.’ She covered the mouthpiece as she handed Apple the phone. ‘Some husband of a customer wanting a gift.’
‘Apple speaking.’
‘It’s Cedric.’ There was a smile in the man’s voice. ‘But I have no wife.’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s Noah.’
Apple hesitated, then made a beeline to a far rack, handset under her ear.
‘Charlie’s friend?’ he said. ‘That mysterious one from Myrtle Island you can’t stop thinking about.’
Apple hadn’t forgotten his persistence; in fact, it had interested her. She fingered trousers on the rack. ‘Well, how does your wife feel about stirrup pants?’
There was a pause. ‘She likes riding me.’
‘Stirrups are found on everyday pants, sir, there’ll be no riding in these.’
‘Your pro voice is hot.’
‘We also have some beautiful cashmere jumpsuits in for autumn.’
‘Jumpsuits?’ Noah laughed. ‘Like, for babies?’
‘Jumpsuits for adult women, sir.’
‘I love adult women.’
Apple slid a hand over her mouth.
‘What are you doing over Easter?’
Apple couldn’t think of an excuse, couldn’t decide if she wanted one. ‘Chocolate?’
‘Chocolate can be done. In Daylesford. We can do mineral springs and chocolate.’
Apple tried to see if Veronica was listening, but couldn’t spot her; she wondered if Veronica was crouched behind the counter.
She wanted to say yes to Noah, but wasn’t prepared to venture into something new.
‘A weekend away seems intimate.’
‘I like intimate. I want to get to know you. And Beauchamp and a bunch of other unimpressive friends will be there to keep you from making a pass at me. We’re going to the opening of a spa retreat, G-rated.’
Apple thumbed through T-shirts, smiling to herself. ‘Is G-rated a sell?’
There was a beat before Noah said, ‘Well, fuck, if you want it R-rated—’
Apple didn’t hear the rest because she was busy reading the note Veronica had held up to her face.
IS THIS CREEP TRYING TO PICK YOU UP?
‘Thank you, sir, Cedric, bye.’
‘What on earth?’ Veronica marched back to the counter.
Apple considered lying, then wondered why she’d bother. ‘It was a boy pretending to be a customer.’
‘As in a boy? A child?’
‘I mean a man.’
‘A man-boy. I know those.’ Veronica frowned. ‘Why do you look white in the face? I hardly care if you have a man-boy sniffing around. In fact, any interest is a relief. I haven’t seen you with a single man or boy the whole time you’ve worked here. Who is he?’
‘He . . .’ Apple was jangled. ‘No one.’ She put the phone on its cradle and went out back to unpack the new stock.
Veronica called out from the store some hours later. ‘I presume this is for you?’
Apple crushed a box then returned to the front to find Veronica at the computer, looking at an email on the screen. Thank you for the service supplied by your assistant Apple. If appropriate, would Apple be able to provide her phone number so she and I can share picture messages regarding items of interest? Appreciated, Cedric M.
‘Apple, this is fairly pathetic. Your conman-boy seems to have forgotten that his email address clearly shows as Noah Langridge. Let me reply.’
‘I’ll reply,’ Apple said, but her boss stuck her elbows out as she began to type.
‘Dear Cedric,’ she read aloud. ‘If you want to have your way with one of my shop girls, no need for formalities and fancy names, just say so. Apple’s number is—’ She paused. ‘Do you want to give him your number?’
Apple fiddled with a pen, unsure if she felt humiliated or amused.
Finally, she dictated the number and Veronica typed it out, adding, ‘And next time, come into the shop and be a man about it.’
‘Don’t—’ Apple said but Veronica had already hit send.
‘What?’
‘Don’t invite him here.’
‘Why? We could do with some testosterone around here.’ She picked up her handbag and swung it over her shoulder. ‘I’m heading out.’
Apple’s hands and mind were busy for the remainder of the day. But when she climbed the steps of the tram and sat alone, staring ahead, the thoughts from earlier returned, drifting at first like stray threads into her mind then weaving themselves together, thick and fast.
The tram driver announced her stop and Apple opened her eyes. She stepped mechanically down onto the road, her body leading her through the back streets to the door of her apartment. She stopped there, dropped her bag, reached into her pocket and flattened the old envelope against the door. She took a breath, then slowly moved the pen across the page, down, up, one line, two, three—
‘Shit.’ The door opened and she fell into Poppy.
‘What are you doing?’ Poppy steadied her, and Apple shoved the envelope away.
‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘I heard this weird scratching on the door.’
‘I just, I had to note something.’ Apple picked up her bag. ‘Why aren’t you at Lachie’s?’
‘He’s away again – work.’ Poppy walked ahead into the apartment, Frankfurt cantering behind.
Apple smelled onion and found Poppy in the kitchen, pushing beans around a sizzling frying pan. She went to the frid
ge, poured herself a glass of milk then took a piece of shortbread and sat on a barstool across from her sister, sipping and sucking on the biscuit.
Poppy came to the bench to shred lettuce, and Apple ran her eyes over her sister’s shape, the contour of her bust, the arc of her waist . . . Poppy moved to the stove and Apple raised the glass until it was in front of one eye and Poppy’s body seemed to disappear into the white liquid, her little shoulders moving above it as she stirred food in a pan.
‘What are you doing?’
Apple lowered the glass.
‘It looked like you were taking aim, like you were about to toss milk on me.’ She grinned.
Apple smiled despite barely taking in what Poppy had said.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Are you sure? You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m fine,’ Apple said.
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
After dinner, Poppy announced she had a presentation to prepare for the next day and left the cleaning up to Apple. When at last she was in bed, Apple lay in the dark, her mind filled with her sister. She saw Poppy’s long neck, her clean-cut black bob above her shoulders, her fair skin, her arms extended, the fabric shifting in space, layers of dove grey unfolding in the darkness, pale feathers . . . or maybe fur?
She slid from the covers and stared at the dark sheet covering her sewing machine. She slowly stepped forward and peeled it off.
It was happening.
Whether she wanted it or not, it was going to happen – it had begun and there was no turning back. She flicked on her desk lamp, opened her sewing kit, found a screwdriver and spun four screws loose to reveal the internal mechanism. She took some oil, gently turned the wheel, drizzled it through the moving parts, screwed the cover back on, then checked the tension, bobbin, winder . . . She grabbed a piece of fabric and ran a line of stitching back and forth. Then she sat, staring at her work.
The hall was dark when Apple emerged from her bedroom.
Her feet made no sound on the carpet and she didn’t knock before pushing Poppy’s door open. She walked through the darkness, switched on her sister’s bedside lamp and sat on the bed.
Frankfurt snuffled as Poppy rolled over. ‘Apple?’
‘It worked. Whether you meant it to or not, it worked.’
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 8
