‘Because Charlie knows how it feels to need money?’ Poppy gurgled angrily. ‘Lachie was so depressed when I got that Georgia’s ring! He felt emasculated, incapable of getting me things I like.’
‘You wanted that ring!’ Apple fell against a hedge. It prickled and she pulled away, needing a soft place, seeing none.
‘And I regret it! I hate riding coat-tails. We should have our own money, our own power, our own things.’
‘When on earth did Lachie start to think he had to provide for you? He should be grateful his fiancée has a beautiful ring she adores. Charlie was being kind, which has nothing to do with “riding coat-tails”. Lachie needs to grow up. You’re not thinking, Poppy.’
Poppy shrieked then started to weep, and Apple crouched, anxiously plucking grass.
‘Poppy, go ahead if you want Dad’s money. I just can’t.’
‘I don’t want to do it alone!’
‘I just can’t, physically. The thought of it makes me want to be sick.’
‘God, you’re selfish!’
‘Poppy—’ Apple began. But the call had ended. She stared at her phone, brushing away tears. ‘Shit.’
A drop of rain fell and she swore again, glancing at the sky. The sound of the garden party was just audible in the distance and she didn’t want to return. She wondered where Jackson was, Veronica, anyone who could give her a ride home who wasn’t a drunk Noah, or a Heidi-burdened Charlie.
She swung her jacket over her head and started down the path in the direction of the parking bays, rain tapping on cotton. She thought it must be close, but the immaculate hedging became maze-like, trapping her between clipped green and house.
At last the hedge veered left and a court of cars appeared: the white-pebbled bay where she’d first arrived.
Rain had begun in earnest and Apple teetered out of her wet high heels, snatching them up before she hopped towards the canopy of a tree, branches catching her as she ducked underneath. She panted, wiping water from her phone, and dialled Noah.
‘You’ve called Noah Langridge, please leave a message.’
‘Um, where are . . . Are you staying here tonight? I’m in the car park, I’m ready to go. I thought, I just wondered what you were doing.’
Apple ended the call and waited before dialling again.
‘Heya.’ Jackson answered at once.
‘Are you still here?’
‘Yep. Fending off disturbed corporates who think they’re owed a vulgar conversation with a pair of lesbians. I hate this crowd.’
Apple’s smile was sad, fleeting. ‘So you’d be happy to leave soon? I’m keen to get back – are you going back to the city? Or staying?’
‘Heading back. Come with us.’
‘I’ll wait in the car park. No rush.’
Apple tucked her phone in her bag as she heard voices. Twenty paces away, two figures strode through an arbour into the car park. One she recognised as Charlie; the other was a stranger: gesturing wildly as he paced towards a car and yanked open the drivers’ door.
Apple stood on tiptoes. Through the rain she could only make out a few angry words, and saw Charlie depressing the air with his hands as if trying to calm the man. He seemed to let Charlie speak, but then slapped the car’s roof, and shouted something as he threw up his hands. Charlie touched his shoulder, but the man threw him off. Apple started. She took a step forward, uncertain, afraid.
The stranger pushed by Charlie to climb into the car, and the engine revved in the rain before the vehicle reversed at speed and skidded on the gravel as it raced away. Charlie stared after the taillights, which flickered red between the conifers. He shoved a hand through his hair, grabbed a handful of gravel and hurled it down the drive. Then he crouched, staring at the ground.
‘Charlie?’ Apple stepped from beneath the tree, jacket over her shoulders.
The sun had set, daylight was low, but spotlights shone up through the rain from circles in the gravel. The shadows were strange on Charlie’s face as he looked around for her.
‘Charlie?’ she said again, and he slowly stood.
‘Apple.’ His expression was uncertain, pained, surprised. ‘I . . .’
‘Are you okay?’
He shook his head, seemed unable to speak. ‘It’s nothing,’ he finally said. ‘It’s . . . let’s go back to the party.’
‘It didn’t look like nothing.’
He gazed down the drive then snatched up a stick, breaking it in two. ‘Dammit!’
‘What, Charlie?’
He threw back his head. ‘I just had to ask a friend to leave.’
Apple waited, then said, ‘Michael?’
Charlie glanced at her, surprise faint.
‘I, I was there, before, with Heidi, when she told you, when she sounded upset, about a Michael being here . . .’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have told him to go, I shouldn’t have given in to all this, this hate.’
‘It’s okay.’ Apple touched his arm. ‘I’m sure he . . . I’m sure Michael understands the position you’re in.’
‘He didn’t understand. Why should he? I’ve known him since I was twelve years old. He hasn’t even done anything wrong. All he’s ever been is a loyal friend. God, I can’t stand this. I hate it, I hate all of it.’ He covered his face.
Apple stared, heart swollen, and tried to hug his shoulder. Neither spoke. Misty rain floated down but she barely noticed, gaze intent on Charlie.
He finally sighed, arms falling by his sides as he studied the ground. ‘She didn’t used to be like this.’
Apple waited. ‘Heidi?’
‘Heidi. She didn’t used to be this angry, bitter, afraid, controlling . . . abusive. When we first met, she was none of these things.’
Apple let his words hang before she asked, ‘What was she like?’
‘Funny.’ Charlie sighed. ‘She was funny, carefree, relaxed. Now . . . to be perfectly honest, I don’t think . . . I don’t think I know her.’
Apple shifted her hand a little on his shoulder, fingers damp.
‘Her mother died . . . when we were nineteen, twenty? She had cancer.’
‘Oh. That’s awful.’
‘That’s when things changed. I mean, there was the grief, but for Heidi it was mixed up with so much . . . anger. At first I thought it would just take time, but it’s been years, almost a decade and, if anything, time has made it worse, so much worse. When her mum died, Heidi barely stopped working. I suggested she dial it back, but she didn’t. She took on all her mother’s roles, and more. Any advice I gave made her furious, still makes her furious. Everything I say seems to infuriate her.’
Water was gathering in Apple’s eyelashes and she did nothing but blink, afraid that if she moved Charlie would remember himself and close, like a book.
‘We used to have so much fun but now . . . now I can’t even say that she makes me happy, and I can almost certainly say that I don’t make her happy. I’ve tried, I’ve wanted it to work, and after what she went through I feel like I owe her. I was all she had then, and sometimes I feel like I’m still all she has now. I’m one of the few who knew her mum – my parents knew her. There were so many good times . . .’ He trailed off, his gaze meeting Apple’s as he quickly said, ‘I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with you. Here you are, standing in the rain, listening to me. Forget all that. This is not your burden. Were you about to leave? Can I get you something, someone . . . How did you get here?’
He was so lost that he’d forgotten she’d come with Jill, at his request.
‘Do you still love her?’ The question came whether Apple wanted it to or not.
‘Fuck,’ Charlie muttered. ‘I did. And I still care for her, always will, but to say that I’m in love with her . . . I remember how that feels, and this doesn’t feel like that.’ He looked up and Apple’s stomach turned: his blue eyes were riddled with uncertainty.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘All . . . all I can think to say i
s that you and Heidi deserve love, to give it and have it in return.’
Her face had grown too wet to ignore and she withdrew her hand from his shoulder, pushing back a sodden strand of hair, but Charlie stopped her. His hand touched hers. His fingers took the moistened strand and peeled it from her cheek and lips then carefully slid it behind her ear.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘To burden you with my troubles.’
‘I’m not burdened. I just feel for you. I really feel for you.’
Charlie watched her, searching her face as though perhaps it held the answer. He reached up as if to move another strand of hair, but instead his hand slid into the slick lengths of her hair and he drew her close before their lips touched.
Shock rippled through her.
He had kissed her, was kissing her.
It took her a moment to realise what was happening before she kissed him back, hands frantic at his chest, grasping, as for the first time in her life she felt all-consuming, desperate desire.
‘You are fucking kidding me.’ Noah’s voice was unmistakable.
Apple drew back at the same time Charlie stepped forward.
Noah didn’t even look at her before planting his fist into Charlie’s face.
Apple shouted as Charlie stumbled back. ‘Fuck, fuck—’
‘You spoiled prick,’ Noah said. ‘I could kill you.’
Charlie was crouched, hand over his nose, blood dribbling down his chin in the rain. Suddenly Jackson was striding across the parking lot, Arabella in tow.
‘Jesus.’ She broke into a jog then grabbed Apple’s arm.
‘Wait!’ Apple stumbled as Jackson led her away. ‘Wait!’
Jackson was opening a car door, trying to shunt her in, but she resisted, trying to look back. ‘Charlie, is he okay?’
‘He’s fine.’ Jackson bundled her into the car and got in behind the wheel. ‘Sorry, babe, you’ll thank me later. Geez, these people.’
Apple twisted in her seat but couldn’t see anything in the dark and rain as Jackson accelerated. When they were well down the drive, Arabella peered back from the front.
‘Are you okay?’
Apple was coursing with adrenaline. ‘Yes, but Charlie . . .’
‘He’ll be fine.’ Jackson met her gaze in the mirror.
20
Apple stared at the time on the clock in the departure lounge. It was morning but the world beyond the windows remained dark, the tarmac lit only by lights – some moving, some still.
She glanced back down the hall. Passengers were filing through the departure gate, but still no Tilly.
Jackson had delivered Apple home the night before, but she’d barely slept, and when her alarm had sounded at 4 am she’d started, half-dreaming, half-awake. In her mind, Charlie was still crouched in the Huntingtons’ car park. She saw again Noah’s rage-filled eyes, his balled fist and the punch delivered with such an absence of hesitation, it was as if he’d been wanting to do it for a while. She remembered Charlie looking at her, eyes full of pain, confusion, longing. She remembered his hand on hers, how his mouth tasted, her own shocking desire.
‘Goodness.’ Tilly was breathless, clutching her bag to her chest. ‘Realised I forgot my passport halfway here, can you believe it? Just in time. Are you all good?’
‘Yes,’ Apple said. ‘Let’s go.’
Their flight landed in Ho Chi Minh City around noon.
Apple had taken homeopathic sleeping pills that Ginny had once given her and, despite doubting the efficacy of her mother’s natural remedies, she’d slept the whole way on the plane.
‘You must have been tired,’ Tilly said as they stood in the queue, waiting to disembark. ‘Good you were able to rest. We start the moment we get out of the airport.’
The taxi took them downtown, through the cacophony of dense urban living. Apple hung her arm out the window, but pulled it back inside when a scooter sliced past, almost grazing her. Her thoughts were still on the winter rain at the Huntingtons’, despite her body being here – reeling from the unfamiliar acrid smells and eighty per cent humidity.
‘It’s called JK Textile Mill.’ Tilly was sharing the itinerary. ‘You’ll like Danh, he’s lovely. Oh and there . . .’ She pointed down a small alley where printed silks and cotton flapped from a shop awning. ‘We’ll go there before we leave, get whatever we want made. She’s the loveliest little handywoman – made me the best replica tote last year. Tacky, wrong, irresistible.’
The taxi delivered them to an industrial precinct, rows of tin sheds like hangars surrounded by gravel. They passed through a shed of scooters – presumably workers’ transport – and a short, middle-aged man let them into a large shed.
‘I’m Danh,’ he said. ‘Miss Tilly, you have a friend?’
‘This is Apple,’ Tilly said. ‘She’s heading our new shoe line.’
The industrial space had the noxious smell of new fabric and dye; the myriads of workers all wore masks. Rows of sewing machines stretched across the warehouse. Apple stumbled as she followed Tilly and Danh, knowing what they’d come to see, but not knowing how she’d feel about it – overwhelmed, immediately uncomfortable, disoriented.
‘They do all the cutting there,’ Tilly said, pointing. ‘Then it’s all sewn together in a few batches across there, then washed and dried in that shed over there.’
‘That is fun job!’ Danh grinned. ‘Washers and dryers get to stand and talk about love life while machine do all work for them.’
Apple gave a weak smile.
‘This factory is actually quite good,’ Tilly said as they moved on. ‘They pay about five dollars an hour and that’s a reasonable wage comparably, cost of living considered. The ones that produce for huge chains pay a fifth of that.’
Not one worker seemed able to afford even a moment to glance their way. Their heads remained bowed, their eyes fixed on the rhythm of their work.
Tilly glanced back and Apple followed on. Eventually they reached Danh’s office.
They began discussing Loom’s production concerns. Apple realised they must have been there for an hour or two when an alarm sounded, triggering the sound of hundreds of people shuffling on foot.
‘One hour.’ Dan smiled nodding at Tilly and Apple. ‘All staff at JK have a long hour to relax and have lunch. It is good, for the talking to each other and being person to person. Would you like to join in?’
‘Thank you,’ Tilly said, and she and Apple followed Danh into another shed, where, instead of sewing machines, there were rows of tables and chairs, and people collecting canteen-style food that Apple thought looked meagre.
After lunch, Danh drove them a few blocks south to tour another warehouse, where staff and machinery turned reels of leather and fabric into what appeared to be parts of shoes.
‘We create body of shoe here and through there.’ Danh waved towards a door. ‘There we do sole of shoe and finish. We have lot of different sole ideas – new resin, Chinese bamboo that good for environment. I will show you more, in showroom.’
Lasts and moulds, heels, fabrics, spare parts, items Apple didn’t recognise – the showroom made Apple feel strangely unwell. She was perturbed by all the shoe parts, as if it were a shoe morgue. She was hung-over, and still in shock, and she knew if she could only get back to the hotel and get one good night’s sleep, these feelings of repulsion might fade.
Eventually, evening came.
Apple and Tilly took a cab back to their hotel in District 1. The heart of Ho Chi Minh was bustling, restaurant patrons spilling out to eat on stools amid bikes and scooters on the pavement. They left their luggage with the concierge and made a beeline for the pool, where they floated silently in the water.
‘How did you like the tour today?’ Tilly asked.
Apple didn’t reply.
‘I nearly quit fashion after the first time I came here.’ Tilly sighed. ‘Kind of ruins the romance, doesn’t it?’
Apple closed her eyes and let the water take the weight of her body. ‘It
felt like visiting an abattoir . . . for clothes.’
Tilly laughed. ‘They’re not killing anything. They’re creating, at least.’
‘It feels . . . it feels like something’s dying though, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes, everything fashion sells us – elegance, nobility, beauty – it all kind of fades to dust in there.’
She thought of an editor’s letter she’d once read by Bernadette Jones in Harper’s Bazaar. It had come after the Rana Plaza disaster in Bangladesh, after thousands of garment workers had died in the collapse of an illegally renovated factory. She remembered how powerless she’d felt, how angry at everyone’s ignorance, and how grateful for the old overalls she was wearing that day: pre-owned, reworked by her own hand into something beautiful.
Bernadette’s piece had been revelatory and uplifting, an unabashed endorsement of local, ethical brands, as well as a reference point for organisations working to reverse the expansion of sweatshops. She remembered the connection she’d felt to Bernadette then, how she’d felt shame and disgust at herself for hurting her, whether she’d meant to or not.
‘I once read that if everyone visited an abattoir, they’d be a vegetarian,’ said Apple. ‘I reckon it’d be the same with clothes.’
‘And put Danh out of job?’ Tilly said.
‘JK Textile wasn’t too bad . . . I guess. It looked safe, but did you see the workers? Have you seen the price tags on our clothes?’
‘I know. Disproportionate profit, and all that.’ Tilly threw her head back to stare up at the sky. ‘Well, steel yourself. We’ll be working with Danh to refine and produce the samples, and we’ll have to adjust fabrics and finishes to reach the cost-per-unit target. You’ll be acclimatised by the end.’
They ventured out to eat at the market that night. Apple wondered if Noah would try to call, or if she should call first. It was over, there was no going back, but she had to apologise, explain. Then again, the memory of Charlie’s blood in the rain made her feel muddled, unsure who she was more sorry for.
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 20
