Sydney was overcast when Apple landed, and she realised she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She blinked at the sky but the cloud seemed pale and high, and it remained dry as the train delivered her into the city, then a cab to Lac Compt.
Steel-framed windows looked into a sparse, empty foyer-like space at the bottom of a white-painted brick warehouse, and the words ‘Lac Compt’ were mounted in small steel lettering above the intercom.
Apple fussed with stray wisps of hair, checking her teeth in the glass before pressing the button.
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice was tight.
‘I’m here for the interviews.’
‘They’re at nine.’
‘Can I . . . Is it okay if I wait?’ Apple held her breath. A drop of rain landed on her arm and her heart raced.
‘Fine.’ The woman sighed. ‘You can wait.’
The glass door clicked. Apple quickly pushed inside then stood still to settle herself. There was a door to a bathroom under the stairs, and she hurried in to fix her hair in the mirror and fuss anxiously with her face.
She took the folio from her satchel and flicked through one last time to check that the Polaroids were in place. Satisfied that they were, she strode back into the foyer and started up the stairs.
Her phone rang, loudly, echoing in the stairwell. She faltered and the folio fell, splaying. ‘Shit.’ She saw her mother’s name on the screen before stuffing the phone away, gathering up the book and flattening the bent pages. ‘Shit.’
At the top of the stairs, Apple pushed into a reception area where a bouquet of branches covered a coffee table, and linen daybeds were decorated with reindeer hides. Chatter drifted in from adjoining rooms but the reception desk was empty, and Apple stood uncertainly before lowering herself onto a seat.
Her phone pinged. Sorry to disturb, sweetheart, I just wanted to wish you luck – not that you’ll need it – you’ve got what it takes. Lac Compt would be lucky to have you, this is your time!
Apple sent her mother a heart emoji, then closed her eyes and scrunched her hands into little fists.
The phone at the desk rang and Apple heard heels coming at a jog.
‘Lac Compt?’ the receptionist said as she lifted the handset. Apple followed the voice to a woman, who was angling herself into the chair. Apple’s lips parted and her heart halted before it raced again.
‘No, sorry, she’s not here yet,’ the woman said stiffly into the phone. Apple couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognised the voice earlier. She was in every way the same as Apple remembered her.
Juanita’s head lifted, and suddenly Apple was locked in her dull, languid gaze, which grew less languid as she seemed to recognise Apple too. Then, in unison, they both began to stand.
Without thinking or breaking the gaze, Apple fished around for her folio and her bag and stumbled towards the door, trying not to run until she was on the stairs, taking them two at a time.
‘Goodness, you’re in a hurry.’ Genevieve Compt was standing on the landing at the bottom of the stairs. Apple tried to speak, then noticed that Genevieve was holding two of her Polaroids.
‘Sorry, I must have dropped them.’ Apple grabbed them like she was ashamed.
‘Are you here for the interviews?’
‘No.’ Apple made it to the door then heard Genevieve call after her as she pushed outside.
‘Where are your pants from?’
Apple didn’t reply.
The airport was cold and Apple’s nose was stinging. She was on the verge of tears but wouldn’t cry.
She stared out the vast windows to the tarmac. She barely heard her phone when it rang the first time, but when it rang again, she slowly lifted her bag to find it.
‘Mum.’
‘Darling! Is it done? How did it go?’
‘It, it didn’t.’
‘You’re still waiting?’
‘I didn’t go in.’
‘What? Was it cancelled?’
‘I left.’
There was a pause. ‘You left? Are you okay?’
Apple let out a long sigh, shoulders slackening. ‘Juanita Gray was there.’
‘Juanita . . .?’ There was a pause before her mother realised. ‘Oh, oh no.’
‘This is why, Mum. This is why I’m never doing anything like this again.’
‘Are you sure it was Juanita?’
Apple laughed tiredly.
‘That little troll!’ Ginny said. ‘You should have kicked her, Apple, or given her a slap!’
‘That would have helped. She’s the receptionist at Lac Compt.’
‘Really? Ha ha ha! I knew she’d never amount to anything. Even stealing your beautiful work and having a smarty-pants mother, she’s just the receptionist. You cannot fake talent, Apple, you cannot.’
‘Now neither of us are where we want to be. Yippee.’
Ginny moaned. ‘Oh, shitty fuck face! So, you just left?’
Apple nodded.
‘Apple?’
‘Yes, I just left.’
‘Couldn’t you have just gone ahead anyway? What would she have done? Run into the room pointing and screaming “plagiariser”?’
‘Maybe. And if not when I was there, then after I left. She would have told them everything, and there’d be two, three, four, five more influential people I could never face again.’
‘I said she was crazy, right from the start. Remember when I met her that time at those first-year awards? Even then I could tell there was a screw loose, she was so hyper and erratic.’
‘I think you mean spoiled and entitled.’
‘It was way more than that. Apple, I think you should go back and explain. You’ve put in all this work now—’
‘Mum, please don’t.’
‘Yes, Apple, go at lunch! When Juanita’s on her break? Wait outside until you see her leave then run back in and do the interview!’
‘My flight’s boarding. I have to go, I’m sorry, but thanks.’
‘Apple—’
She hung up and hugged her handbag to her chest. It was three hours until her flight – she hadn’t had the money to change to an earlier one.
Apple stood in the doorway of her apartment that afternoon, feeling depressed by the mundanity of the familiar furnishings. After a while, she trudged up to the mezzanine, then shuffled along the hall to her room. The clothes she’d made were laid out on the bed, and the sight of them made her stomach turn.
She discarded the garment bag and folio then slid into her desk chair, resting her head on her arms. She’d taken the whole day off from Loom. She’d called in sick – knowing she couldn’t have managed the lies she’d need to respond to Veronica’s probing questioning had she asked for the day off in advance. And now the whole afternoon yawned ahead.
Fabric she’d bought for Poppy’s dress had arrived and was folded in a neat pile on her desk.
Apple didn’t have the energy to do anything but stare at it. Eventually she managed to lift her head and reach listlessly for her sketchbook, tiredly refamiliarising herself with the dress’s detailing.
A message from Poppy appeared. How’d interview go?! Actually don’t tell me I want to hear via your mouth. If you’re home later and door rings, might be important wedding delivery, can you sign pls?
Apple didn’t reply but instead turned on the radio. The music raised her mood somewhat, and she placed her hands on the folds of the new dress fabric and opened it up. She switched on her steam wand, softened the cloth before cutting a portion, matched it with the lining, then slid them both under the foot of her sewing machine. The needle hummed along before it began to slow, then halted completely.
Angry insistence kept Apple’s foot on the pedal. The fabric began to bunch into the shaft. Apple tried to yank it free and a hundred knotted threads cascaded from the bobbin shuttle before she snatched up scissors and hacked them loose. She threw the piece on the ground.
She popped the bobbin, re-threaded it, re-threaded the upper line, adjusted the tension, be
gan again.
The same thing happened.
‘You are a piece of crap.’ Apple wrenched the fabric out, re-oiled the machine, changed threads then tweaked the tension.
She tried again, and when the sewing machine seized up once more, she slammed her foot on the pedal until she smelled burning.
‘Fuck!’ She stood up and tore the fabric out, snapping the needle, before she hurled the cloth away. Then, seeing the beginnings of Poppy’s dress tangled in a knot of thread, she felt overcome. She hurried to gather it up, her eyes reddening as she hugged it. ‘Oh God.’
Frankie galloped in, disturbed by the noise, and bunted her shin with his nose. Apple gathered him up too, watching her tear roll down his smooth, wiry hair then soak into the dress fabric.
The doorbell trilled. Apple didn’t move.
It trilled again and, remembering Poppy’s request, she lowered Frankie to the floor and hurried downstairs before she yanked the door open.
Charlie stood on the doormat.
He was smiling, takeaway coffee cups in his hands. ‘Hello.’
Apple brushed a hand across her face, her hair. ‘Charlie . . .’
‘I was driving past and thought I’d see if you were home. I saw your rusty ride out front, felt encouraged. Chai?’
Apple hesitated before accepting the cup. ‘Do you, um . . . Come in.’
‘You’re not otherwise engaged?’
‘Not particularly engaged, no.’
Charlie smiled and strolled into the apartment. ‘No work today?’
‘No, I . . .’ Apple was adjusting to the strangeness of Charlie Beauchamp being in her living room. ‘I wasn’t feeling well.’
He glanced back.
‘I’m fine. I’m feeling better.’
Charlie ambled on through the space, pausing by the glass door that led to the small, rear courtyard. ‘Green thumb?’
Plants overflowed from chipped terracotta pots on the paving. ‘Just some herbs. It’s south-facing: nothing does very well.’
‘I feel like growing things is such a luxury. I have a fantasy that one day I’ll have enough time to just plant a thing and watch it grow.’
‘I like that you think that’s a luxury.’
Charlie perched on the back of the couch.
‘You’re allowed to sit.’ Apple sat down and patted the space beside her.
‘Am I? That is a luxury.’ He made himself comfortable beside her, stretching his arm along the back of the couch.
‘How are you?’ She realised she was smiling, his presence alone seemingly enough to diminish the horror of the day.
Charlie glanced down at the rug, ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you since the Easter weekend, actually. I’ve been feeling awful about it.’
‘Easter?’ The weekend in Daylesford had been a fortnight ago.
‘Yes. I didn’t like the way, well, the way Heidi spoke to you in the car that night. And I was embarrassed when you called me from a cab on your way home the morning after the spa opening. I would have driven you. I couldn’t believe Joel tried it on with Poppy. I’m so sorry, and I . . . I wanted to say so.’
‘You already said so, on the phone.’ Apple touched his knee. He looked down at her hand and she took it away. ‘And you didn’t have to. It was a gorgeous couple of days: you spoiled us. You can’t help your friends, and that night, Heidi, well she’d just been drinking.’
‘Yes,’ Charlie said. ‘Heidi had been drinking, and she’s not an elegant drunk. She does mean well generally, though, and she’s actually a good person – clever, very smart, a lot going for her.’ He said the last quickly as though they were words he’d recited before.
Frankfurt appeared, frowning up at them before Apple scooped him onto her lap.
‘He’s cute,’ Charlie said.
‘Frankie.’
Charlie smoothed his hand along the dog’s back. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry if Heidi seemed tense. She likes you, I like you too – obviously – and so does she, which I already said, so I hope it didn’t put you off coming out with us all again, or not, if you don’t want to. I mean it was fun and we should do it again, but whatever you want – why am I rambling?’
Apple laughed when he did.
‘I still owe you for rescuing my ride and me from that urban wasteland in summer. You still have a few brownie points.’
Charlie watched her, his mind seeming to tick. ‘I think that might be why I like you.’
‘Why? The urban wasteland? My car?’
‘Both.’ He paused. ‘It’s the . . . eccentricity.’
‘That’s worrying.’
‘Not really. Eccentricity’s hard to come by.’
‘I—’
‘Actually,’ Charlie interjected. ‘It’s not just that, I also like that you’re real.’
Apple hesitated. ‘Well, I hope so. I hope I’m not imagining myself.’
Charlie smiled. ‘Genuine, I mean. You’re unusually true seeming.’
Apple glanced away, thinking of Juanita, Paul, the failed interview she wasn’t telling him about.
‘You’re more real than most people I know, anyway.’ Charlie rested the back of his head in his hands. ‘I mean, who’d actually own up to drinking almond milk chai lattes?’
Apple laughed but couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘You’re kind.’
‘See? That laugh? Every time I see you I feel like I’ve had a mini-escape. You don’t have that . . . bluster that I’m used to.’
Apple felt grateful but doubted she offered this privileged man anything. ‘An escape for the price of a chai? I should charge more.’
The doorbell buzzed. Frankie started.
‘Shall I get it?’
‘Thanks.’
Charlie strode to the door. Apple heard, ‘Delivery for Poppy March?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Charlie returned, weighing a box in his hands. ‘Expecting something?’
‘I think it’s a wedding delivery.’ Apple twisted to see. ‘For Poppy.’
‘Not the dress? Shall we take a peek?’
‘Not the dress.’ Apple swallowed. ‘Would you believe I’m making that?’
‘You’re making the dress?’ Charlie sounded impressed.
Apple thought of the knotted lump on the floor upstairs and smiled to ward off the angst.
‘I learned you liked to make clothes up on Myrtle, but a wedding dress? Wow, I can’t even imagine where you’d start.’
Apple sank back and stared at the ceiling. ‘At this point, neither can I. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew – my old sewing machine is literally chewing everything, and right before you arrived I was in a fit of rage. After this morning . . .’ She hesitated, feeling like the lie that she was. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t a good morning, and then I started Poppy’s dress and my machine ate all the fabric and to spite it I slammed my foot on the pedal. I think I burned it out.’ She closed her eyes, reliving the smell of the hot, scorched motor. ‘Sorry, I’m ruining your escape.’
‘You’re literally making the whole dress? Why don’t you just design it, and get a dressmaker?’
‘I have to make it – that’s the special bit, the gratifying, the fun bit.’
‘Fun?’
‘It’s supposed to be.’
‘What about the Lac Compt interviews? Weren’t they soon? You’d be up for the challenge of that if you can make a wedding dress.’
Her cheeks warmed as she recalled the effort Charlie had made to introduce her to the shareholder. ‘I couldn’t make it . . .’ She didn’t know how to finish. Lying to him seemed impossible, especially after everything he’d said. ‘Maybe next time. I’m not up to it at the moment – obviously, if I can’t handle one dress.’ She drained her drink and set the cup down. ‘Are you on your way somewhere? I feel like I’m keeping you.’
Charlie slowly brought his watch into view. ‘Yes.’ He sighed, stood up and fastened the waist of his slim, chambray blazer – soft and blue like his eyes. ‘My esca
pe has come to an end.’
‘Then my escape’s over too.’
He leaned down to peck her cheek, and when she made to get up, he said, ‘Stay there, with the sausage, it looks cosy.’
Apple watched him walk away, heard the front door open, and when it closed her smile fell, the light in the room seeming to have dulled a little.
Her phone buzzed. She ignored it, staring down at Frankfurt. ‘What are we going to do about the dress?’ she said. He just yawned and stretched.
Her phone buzzed again, then again. She fished around.
Jackson: Did you kill it at Lac Compt? TELL ME!
Poppy: Home soon, desp to hear about interview, popcorn?
Noah: My spa plan failed, I need another, stay tuned.
Apple stared soberly at the last message, feeling the coolness of the apartment. She thought of Noah’s warmth, his grip as he hoisted her onto the bonnet of Charlie’s car, the sweat rolling from his body in the spa, and her humiliation, thinking of Paul, her inability to be something other than this mess she’d become.
Her eyes closed and she wished she could escape the day, the night, the world, wished Noah was there, his energy bigger than the room, than her.
She set about packing away all the work upstairs: the props, photos and her folio went in the cupboard, and the clothes back in the suitcases.
Poppy soon burst in and leaped to sit up on the bed. ‘I want to hear everything!’
Apple sank down beside her, her mind racing before she said simply, ‘I didn’t get it.’
‘Sorry?’
Apple reached for Poppy’s hand, her disappointment quelled by her desire to make it seem okay to Poppy. ‘I didn’t get it.’
Poppy didn’t take her hand. ‘What do you mean? How do you know already? Are you sure?’
Apple stared at the floor, wondering if she should have stayed, at least tried to have the interview. She recalled Genevieve’s kind smile; regret bloomed, then anger. She slammed a fist into the mattress, her breath heavy.
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 12
