‘I don’t know,’ Apple said. ‘I suppose that’s up to you.’
At that moment, she thought she saw Heidi among an approaching group of women and she pressed herself against the bush, trying to hide, but it wasn’t her.
Charlie frowned. ‘Heidi’s not here.’
‘It’s her mother’s charity?’
‘It’s over between Heidi and me,’ Charlie said, straight-faced. ‘After what I told you, I’m sure you understand that it’s been over for a long time.’
Apple kept her gaze on the ground.
‘We’re not the people we were then. We’d held on too long; it was obvious to both of us.’
‘Heidi cared about you, a lot.’
‘And I still care about her,’ Charlie said. ‘Just not in the same way I once did.’
Apple wanted desperately to ask, but couldn’t.
‘I didn’t mention you to her,’ he said quietly. ‘That moment between you and me was, well, it was irrelevant. I’d planned to end it with Heidi, but I hadn’t planned on kissing you.’
Apple watched his mouth say the words. ‘I didn’t plan it either.’
‘It’s not like the thought hadn’t . . .’ He gave a self-conscious laugh and pushed a hand through his hair.
Apple needed to sit down. She backed over to a nearby bench.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ She wasn’t. The night was nothing like what she’d thought it would be – there was no Heidi, there was the auction.
‘Was it the auction? I’m sorry if it was abrupt, your designs flying away like that. Jill loves a surprise, but I can buy everything back.’
Apple stared at him from the bench, and laughed faintly. ‘The auction . . . Charlie, that was the most thoughtful, generous thing anyone has ever done for me.’
‘Well, it was the buyers’ generosity really, though they weren’t as generous as they were covetous. Your designs sent people into a frenzy. The foundation will send you a cheque, your portion of the proceeds, and I hope it means you can leave your job – are you still at the store? I heard it had become quite repellent. The proceeds could take you anywhere you want to go, invested well.’
‘Charlie. You and Jill . . . It’s too much.’
‘Too much? For who? Jill lives for moments like this. She wants everyone to be her best friend, and she thinks you’ve got the last word on style.
A breeze picked up and Apple shivered. ‘What about your family,’ she said. ‘Can they accept that it’s over between you and Heidi?’
Charlie seemed to think about it. ‘There was certainly an attachment there, but they have eyes. My mother was relieved, despite her relationship with Heidi’s mother. I’m not part of the foundation anymore, but my mum will keep hosting events on their behalf. She and Mary Huntington were good friends.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re shivering. Is your dress wet?’
‘Oh not really, my drink spilled.’
Charlie’s laugh was kind. ‘I’ll get you a jumper, a jacket. My place is right there.’
He started jogging away and Apple reached out, not wanting him to leave, but he was already halfway down the garden, calling something she couldn’t hear as he ducked through the front door of a cottage that was a way down the lawn, opposite the big house.
‘There you are.’
She glanced around. Henri was coming across the grass.
‘Very impressive,’ he was nodding. ‘Was that to surprise me?’
Apple didn’t want to see him, or hear him.
‘The clothes, in the auction. I see now why you are always doing so excellently with your dressing.’
He took her by the waist and Apple’s heart sank as she realised – knowing his confidence and the ease with which he helped himself to whatever he liked – what was about to happen.
He tasted like brandy. Apple pulled back.
‘Henri, I’m sorry . . .’
She saw Charlie. He’d seen her too, and had already glanced away, making off in the other direction.
She felt panic. ‘Fuck.’
‘Is something wrong?’ Henri reached for her and she stepped back.
‘Sorry, Henri, I shouldn’t have . . . You’re lovely, I’m sorry.’
She glanced around for Charlie as Henri called after her, shielding her eyes from the lights of the big house as she hurried towards it. She scanned the guests along the back terrace, but couldn’t see Charlie. She hurried into the house and right into someone.
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh,’ the woman said, her voice dull and disgusted, ‘it’s you.’
Apple would have recognised that voice anywhere.
Juanita Gray stood before her, face tight, gaze narrow, eyeing Apple as though she’d been waiting to see her. Her hair was tied in the high ponytail she’d worn at Lac Compt, the same high ponytail she’d always worn.
‘Nice auction. Excuse me.’ Juanita pushed by.
Apple felt disoriented. She saw Juanita disappear into another room. Apprehension rose as she kept on; she had to find Charlie.
The nearest door opened to a passage and she barrelled down it, glancing into adjacent rooms. She wanted to call out but knew she couldn’t – couldn’t reveal her desperation.
She found herself in the lobby where the auction had taken place and there was Jill, strolling down off the circular staircase.
‘Oh, Apple!’ She grinned. ‘Where’d you go? I wanted to introduce you to my friends.’
Apple tried not to pant. ‘Have you seen Charlie?’
‘Yes, just upstairs, near my room.’
‘Thank you, I’ll . . . We’ll speak later.’ Apple reached back affectionately, but her eyes were already on the stairs. She took them two at a time.
People were scattered along the hall on the first floor and rooms led off on either side, but there was no sign of Charlie or anyone she knew. She continued down the carpeted passage until she heard people talking behind an open door.
‘I know, Charlie.’ Apple froze, recognising Juanita’s voice. ‘When I realised that Alison had put her in the auction I was freaked. Then I saw Jill talking to her and I was like, “What the fuck? Apple March has wheedled her way in here as well?”’
Apple could hear her own heart thudding, could barely believe they couldn’t hear it too. She was less than a metre from the door and could just see Charlie and Juanita through the gap on the hinge side.
‘Show me that again,’ Charlie said.
Juanita fussed with her phone. Apple felt instantly faint.
‘She had an affair with Paul Jones?’ Charlie’s question made Apple want to die. ‘Bernadette Jones’s husband?’
‘Yes, Charlie! Remember how Georgia’s was collaborating with Harper’s for their birthday fundraiser and it completely fell apart? That’s because Bernadette found out Paul was having an affair with Apple. He was taking her on trips and everything. Then Apple stole my designs from school! Mum expelled her.’
‘Apple went to Emmaline’s school?’
‘Only for two years before she started sleeping with the staff and plagiarising. Can you believe it? I couldn’t when I saw Alison had put her in the auction. Honestly, Charlie, stay away, all of you. Apple’s bad news.’
As Apple ran for the stairs, the deep pile carpet felt like marshmallow, threatening to swallow her up as though she were in a bad dream. She made it to the staircase, ran to the lobby, out into the night, down the entry stairs and across the gravel. She paused to let the electronic gate swing open, then she sprinted into the street and waved her hands at an approaching cab.
‘Where to?’
‘Just drive.’
26
‘How long ago was that? The auction?’ Poppy looked concerned, her nose freckled from her backpacking honeymoon through Japan and South East Asia – their trip a wedding gift from Lachie’s parents.
She’d been back a week now but Apple hadn’t wanted to see her, to bring her down after all the excitement and joy.
‘Two w
eeks,’ she said.
They were sitting in her living room, bowls of pumpkin soup in their laps. ‘So Henri kissed you, then Juanita told Charlie about Emmaline Gray, and Paul, the Harper’s husband?’
The scene replayed as Apple stared into her bowl and Poppy suddenly shouted at the ceiling.
‘What the fuck! Juanita Gray is like a, like a game of fucking Whac-A-Mole. I want to clock her toxic, vile head every time it pops up. How the fuck does she even know Charlie? She’s so beneath him.’
Apple shook her head. ‘I found a few photos of their mothers at events together. They must be family friends.’
‘Foul! Did you call Charlie afterwards? To explain?’
‘What would I have said?’ Apple could barely speak and couldn’t eat. She bumped her bowl onto the table. ‘I really like you, Charlie, and that guy you saw me kissing was a misunderstanding, and that marriage I ruined was a misunderstanding, me stealing your friend Juanita’s work was another misunderstanding, and–’
‘Say that! Say all of it! It’s the truth!’
It was too late.
She heard it in Charlie’s voice, with Juanita, in the moment he’d realised he’d never really known Apple. They may have shared some intimacy, but Charlie would now feel like nothing about their relationship had ever been intimate, that she wasn’t even close to who he thought she was and, worst of all, that she was far from someone whose work belonged in an auction at Clement Hall, that she was someone whose conduct in fact made a mockery of it.
She’d already known that she and Charlie were from different worlds, but listening to him and Juanita she’d truly felt it: her alienation, her difference, her lack of any kind of merit that mattered.
‘What’s that?’
Poppy was reaching for the small package the courier had delivered and Apple didn’t reply, let her withdraw the narrow piece of paper that sat inside a narrow envelope, in a narrow box.
‘Holy shit.’ Poppy stared. ‘Is this the cheque from the auction?’
Apple had opened it and had felt nothing but sick, and sad, but Poppy’s eyes lit up.
‘What are you going to do with it all?’ she said buoyantly. ‘Where are you going to start?’
‘I’m going to donate it.’
There was a long pause, then Poppy’s face bunched. ‘What?’
‘I want to donate it.’
‘Apple . . . It’s sixty thousand dollars.’
‘I’m donating it to FMFAS.’
‘Who? No you’re not.’
‘I’m donating it to FMFAS. It’s a charity that creates jobs in developing nations for women in the textile and clothing industries.’
‘Apple, just wait. You’re keeping it. This money is your money. It’s for you, it’s your reward for all of it – the blood, sweat, tears.’
‘I don’t need it.’ Apple knew for sure only when voiced it. ‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘I felt shame when I opened that envelope and saw the sum. I knew that the Beauchamps probably regretted the entire event, had sent it reluctantly at best, but after the shame . . . I felt something more.’
Poppy waited. ‘What?’
‘That I didn’t need the money.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s not, I don’t think. Don’t you think that “need” is a relative term? Like, if I actually look around, look: I have everything I need.’
‘You have enough to live off.’ Poppy folded her arms. ‘You don’t have enough to take yourself beyond that, though.’
‘But I think I’ll find it . . .’ Apple said slowly, the idea as new to her as it was to Poppy, the revelation only coming with her words. ‘This cheque just doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. FMFAS, this charity, they build safe environments for weavers and seamstresses, they mentor them, they support sustainable farming, cotton production, and they’re actually the ones having the most impact on reducing the prevalence of sweatshops.’
‘That’s nice, but—’
‘And guess where I first read about them.’
‘Do I care?’
‘In an editor’s letter in Harper’s Bazaar. A letter by Bernadette Jones.’
‘Bernadette?’
‘She wrote about FMFAS after the collapse of that sweatshop in Bangladesh.’
There was a pause before Poppy sighed. ‘Look, this is all well and good, all very self-sacrificing. But Apple, come on, it’s a silly idea.’
‘Why?’ Apple took the cheque. ‘I’ve never had the money to donate to anything before.’
‘I know. You’ve never had money. Now you do. Just keep it.’
‘I don’t think I want to.’
Poppy shifted on the couch, taking the cheque back, staring at it, discarding it on the table and throwing back her head. ‘Have you honestly thought about it? Have you actually thought this through?’
‘There’s a lot to think about. It just feels right. I think it’s the only option. I’m ready to move on from all this, and I want to move on. I’m going to donate it on behalf of Bernadette, and I want to send her a card.’
‘What? No. A card? Why?’
‘To apologise.’
‘You never did anything wrong! It was her creepy husband.’
‘Bernadette doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know anything except that I’ve caused her pain.’
‘Who cares what she thinks?’
‘I care. I respect her.’ The knowledge came as Apple said it, and she felt grateful, grateful to feel fear fade and respect mount: respect for herself and others. ‘I hate this fog of fear and awkwardness that I’ve felt for so long. I was naive and scared then. I’m not now. I’m not going to keep making decisions from a place I’m no longer in.’
Poppy’s expression remained tight before she sagged, sighing, and took Apple’s hand. ‘I suppose I’m glad for you. I’m glad you’re in a better place, but do you really think a note’s a good idea? It may not go the way you hope.’
‘I know. But I’ll send it. And I’ll make the donation. I’m still acting from a place of fear if I don’t.’
Poppy eyed her before she said, resolutely, ‘I’ll support you. After all, I guess it’s people like you giving a damn that make the world go round.’
Apple sat waiting at a bar overlooking the river, the water moving below, the waiters moving behind. She felt unusually aware of the mouth-puckering smell of the pickles in her burger, the Cajun spice covering her fries . . . She put one in her mouth, savouring it.
When the fear receded, a kind of awe took its place. The revelation hadn’t come at once, nor perhaps had it fully arrived, but in the month that had passed since the auction, Apple had slowly begun to see that for so long, she’d used fear to keep herself safe.
She’d been burned, first by Paul then by Emmaline Gray. It was then that fear had appeared, like armour, and it had kept her from opening herself up to anything uncertain ever again.
But then, at the auction, the worst had happened. She’d been exposed in the way she’d feared most, and there was nothing left to do now but to let go and move on – fear gone.
She checked her crowdfunding app. Backing for her project had gone up a thousand dollars overnight. She put another chip in her mouth, smiling to herself.
‘Well, well. My famous friend,’ Jackson said.
Apple wiped away the red lip mark she knew Jackson had left on her cheek.
‘I saw three articles about you in the Mary Huntington auction – three, all asking who is Apple March? “Huntingtons don’t put nobodies in their auctions.” Woot!’
‘Looks like they do now,’ Apple said wryly, sipping her drink.
Jackson helped herself to fries and Apple pushed the plate towards her.
‘Did any of the papers call you for a quote?’ Jackson took a half of the burger.
‘One did,’ Apple said. ‘But I had nothing to say.’
‘Why didn’t you talk yourself up? And why did you ditch all the proceeds like a martyr? I almost flipped when you
told me. You’re not Mother Teresa, you’re an impoverished creative. Start acting like one.’ She wiped mustard from her lip.
Apple considered Jackson’s hands, delicate despite her machismo, and wondered if she’d ever had a friend she’d felt this comfortable with – certainly not one she could spend so much time around, even going for hours on end not speaking, like they had at Loom.
‘Are you still unemployed?’
Jackson rubbed her eyes. ‘You mean, am I still a kept woman? Yes, pathetically. But I don’t know what on earth I’m doing, what the hell I want to do next.’
‘Want a job?’ Apple ate a chip.
‘Doing what?’ Jackson looked doubtful.
Apple dusted her hands, pulled a napkin from the dispenser and flattened it on the bar before she wrote on it.
‘“March”?’ Jackson read it aloud.
‘I’ll be the creative director, you can be head sales manager, or CFO, or whatever title you like.’
‘March?’ Jackson began to smile. ‘You’re not . . .? Are you seriously . . .? You’re not hinting at a label, are you?’
‘I’m not hinting, no. I’m telling you – I’m starting my own label.’
Jackson eyed her, disbelieving. ‘But you just threw all your coin away.’
Apple’s gaze drifted to the river. ‘I registered for crowdfunding, like I mentioned. It’s up to twenty thousand.’
‘Dollars?’
‘It’s not a lot, I know, but it’s a start.’
‘A serious start. What did you promise investors?’
‘A twenty-dollar investment buys entry into a draw to win a dress that would retail for five thousand.’
Jackson thought about it before she said, ‘That’s fucking genius. Are people still investing?’
‘Every day.’
‘And the dress wouldn’t actually cost you five K.’
‘Right.’
There was a wait before Jackson suddenly laughed loudly then covered her face with her hands. ‘You have no fucking idea how happy this makes me. Finally, finally, you’re not being a fucking idiot.’
Apple smiled.
‘Can I invest?’ Jackson said.
‘Invest?’ Apple frowned. ‘What . . . in March?’
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 25
