The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  Saskia giggled, her heart lightened by his apparent desire. ‘Yes we do.’

  ‘No.’ Andy unbuttoned his shirt with one hand and opened her robe with the other. ‘We definitely don’t have time to delay.’

  Day 65, Monday, December 15

  There was a knock at Saskia’s studio door.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you,’ Annie said. ‘I had to buy more champagne.’ She was carrying two bags from the discount wine warehouse that was three blocks from Saskia’s studio. ‘I can only afford to give it to my customers if I buy it in bulk.’

  ‘You’re not interrupting at all.’

  Annie’s schedule was demanding and Sas couldn’t help but worry her visit had something to do with her jewellery. Had one of her cuffs fallen off a bride’s ear at a key romantic moment, plopping into a glass in the middle of a speech? Or become lost in the cake and later choked a beloved aunt?

  ‘What’s up?’ Saskia asked, a little too earnestly.

  Annie took her time placing her bags on the floor and pulling her skirt down over her knees as she positioned herself on a stool before she answered. ‘I wanted to tell you in person that I’ve sold all of your ear cuffs.’

  ‘What, that whole irregular batch in four days?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, two bridesmaids came in this morning saying they regretted not buying them. They wanted to know if I had any more.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Annie took an unsealed envelope from her pocket and passed it to Saskia. Five green bills were nestled inside. ‘So, do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Have any more?’

  ‘I can make more. How many would you like?’

  ‘Say, fifty.’

  ‘Fifty?’

  ‘I thought I’d put some on my website and in the display counter. I know they’re a bit unconventional as bridal wear, but my customers are unconventional people.’

  ‘Okay, I could probably get you fifty by next Monday.’

  Annie smiled. ‘Do you have anything else, anything similar?’

  ‘I’ve been playing with a few ideas. I can bring you some samples.’

  ‘Let me know what time you’re going to deliver the order. I saw Alicia Lomez in Harem the other day and told her she should look at your stuff. She likes to get to know people before she decides whether to stock their work. Maybe you could bring some new pieces to show her.’

  ‘Harem?’ Saskia licked her lips. Harem was an exclusive emporium that sold handpicked, locally made jewellery. Each display case held a little card with the jeweller’s name and a short description. ‘Do you really think Alicia will like them enough to stock them? ’Of course she’ll like them,’ said Annie. ‘I like them.’

  *

  ‘What’s going on over there?’ Andy felt for his wife in the dark.

  Saskia was hugging her knees to her chest the way she used to when she was a child in bed, restless with anticipation.

  ‘The owner of Harem wants to see my work. She might stock my jewellery.’

  ‘That’s excellent. So, is it the new thing to buy jewellery at a sultan’s sex tent?’ Andy kissed her ear.

  ‘No. Harem is a very fancy jewellery store. People travel from all over to shop there. A lot of other boutiques pay attention to what Harem sells.’

  ‘Sounds like your work will finally be getting the exposure it deserves.’

  ‘Annie said I should show Alicia as many pieces as I can to increase the chances of her seeing something she likes.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘I can’t sleep. I just want to get started.’ She bit her thumbnail. Combined with her excitement was the distinct fear that Alicia Lomez would take one look at Saskia’s work and laugh. ‘I’m so nervous. It’s a real jewellery store. With proper jewellers.’

  Andy rubbed the back of her neck. ‘Your stuff goes into real stores. You’re a real jeweller.’

  ‘No, no. Those places also sell clothes and candles and paperweights. Even Annie just has my cuffs as an add-on. Harem exclusively sells jewellery, and the woman who runs it personally chooses everything. I have to make some better samples.’ She sat up and felt for the bedside light.

  ‘Sas.’ Andy shielded his face from the glare. ‘I’ve got an early start.’

  ‘And I’ve left things far too late. Why didn’t I have the courage to be bolder years ago?’

  ‘Can you be bold in the other room?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ She kissed him and leapt out of bed.

  She went into Andy’s study and sat at the desk but the ideas wouldn’t come. A framed photo of her own face stared back at her.

  She doodled on a legal pad, looking up every now and again to frown and stare out the window into the darkness, as if it held the answers she was looking for. Their apartment had a small L-shaped piece of grass out the back that Andy’s realtor had alleged was a backyard. It contained a washing line and a hose. In the far corner was a shed — its main purpose was as high-density housing for redback spiders.

  Saskia looked down at the few drawings before her. Without being able to play around with three-dimensional shapes it was impossible to tell if they would work. She had some wire and pliers in the boot of her car. But Andy’s desk had a leather inlay — using it as a work bench was out of the question.

  She stared at the shed and vaguely recalled seeing a few items of furniture out there. She slipped her feet into a pair of Andy’s shoes that were sitting under his desk, and fetched the torch.

  She stole across the grass to the shed, where she came across a large piece of timber standing flat against the wall. Using only the very tip of her finger she pulled it out to inspect it for spiders. On the other side, she discovered a set of black metal folding legs. It was a trestle table.

  She carried it into the house and set it up in the laundry against the back wall where they usually erected the ironing-board. She stepped back, hands on her hips, to admire her new home studio. It was very satisfactory.

  She could bring in a lamp and some sketchpads, and once she was fully set up, she’d be able to do some planning and design work at night.

  Day 70, Saturday, December 20

  ‘An-deeeee.’ Saskia pounded up the hall brandishing an envelope. ‘What’s this?’

  The thick red envelope was addressed in Millie’s handwriting to Mr and Mrs Andrew Colbrook.

  ‘Mrs Andrew Colbrook? Am I some sort of subsidiary of you now?’

  Andy took the envelope from her and read it. ‘Perhaps she made a mistake.’

  Saskia snatched it back, as if it was evidence she didn’t want contaminated. ‘Camilla Colbrook does not make mistakes when it comes to social graces. You haven’t told her I’m not changing my name, have you?’

  ‘Of course I’ve told her. Consider this her rebuttal.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Saskia stared at the offending envelope, contemplating her next move.

  ‘Don’t rise to it,’ Andy said, hiking his ankle up onto his knee to tighten the laces on his new white shoes. He was wearing chequered pants — also new — and a salmon Lacoste polo shirt.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Harris invited me to join him for eighteen holes at the Royal Melbourne Golf Course.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ Saskia said dully, as she stretched her hands that ached from the long hours of cutting and manipulating silver. The pads of her fingers were sore from the constant pressure on them and her joints ached. ‘It’s funny how sports have unofficial uniforms. Cricket wear white. Footballers wear teeny-tiny shorts. Golfers dress like turn-of-the-century paperboys who dream of going to clown college.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Not you of course, darling.’

  ‘What are you doing today?’ Andy took her left hand and massaged it. She had a bandage wrapped around her index finger from some unnamed disaster. She closed her eyes as he rubbed the knuckles. ‘I really need to work but I think I’d better visit Dad.’ />
  ‘Sounds like a good idea. You need a break.’

  ‘What I need, is to suddenly grow two extra pairs of hands. I have to deliver fifty cuffs to Annie by Monday and they have to be good enough to impress Alicia Lomez.’

  ‘Your hands need a rest,’ he said, kissing one then the other. ‘Visit your father. It’ll do both of you good.’

  *

  Ray Hill lived in a block of sand-coloured public housing flats near the Flemington racecourse. Saskia used her spare key to let herself in. Her father was sitting at his kitchen table, twisting a screwdriver into a piece of a disembowelled radio.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ His whiskers scratched Saskia’s skin as she kissed his cheek.

  ‘Sas.’

  ‘What happened here?’

  ‘Radio doesn’t work.’

  ‘So you murdered it to teach it a lesson?’

  ‘I’m fixing it.’

  ‘Like the Mafia fixes a squealer?’

  He grunted. ‘How are you love? How’s that husband of yours?’

  ‘Working. Well, net-working.’

  Her father put down his screwdriver. ‘What did he think of those changes to the privacy laws.’

  ‘He said it was a political stunt,’ Saskia replied and Ray grunted agreement. ‘You should come around for dinner and ask him yourself.’

  ‘I might just do that.’

  Since serving his last stretch in prison in the same unit as an underworld lawyer Ray Hill had developed a keen interest in the machinations of the legal system.

  ‘I always thought it was about being fair,’ he often said to Saskia these days. ‘Turns out, it’s about knowing the rules. Knowing what you can and can’t get away with.’

  He’d become so interested in the law he now acted as a sort of legal adviser for other residents in his block of flats. The gangland lawyer had taught him how to look up laws online and Ray would quote obscure pieces of legislation at hapless council employees and infringement officers. He’d recently acquired a second-hand computer and a top-of-the-line digital printer of shady origins so that he didn’t have to go to the library to print his correspondence.

  ‘I’m glad you found Andy,’ Ray mused now.

  ‘Me too.’ Saskia heaved her grocery bag up onto the table. ‘I brought that ham you like and some rolls. Mustard,’ she began unpacking, ‘cheese. How’s your week been?’

  Her father’s face broke into a grin. ‘Your old man had a little win.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Come have a look.’

  She followed him down the narrow hall, past his bedroom and compact bathroom, to the cupboard at the end. He opened the door and pulled on a grotty cord, which illuminated a lightbulb with a ‘bink’ noise. Inside the cupboard were dozens of shoe boxes spilling over with letters. The boxes were labelled in Ray’s shaky handwriting: Parking tickets. Mrs McGilvery’s water bill dispute. Telco ombudsman. Cops. Council.

  ‘Look at that,’ he handed her a letter from an electricity company.

  Saskia read it aloud:

  Dear Mr Hill,

  After reviewing your account and your contract, we have determined that you are correct in pointing out you have been overcharged. We have credited your account $1043 and apologise for the error. Thank you for choosing AGL as your electricity supplier.

  Regards.

  Ray was beaming. ‘Took seven months of letter writing to get them to admit they’d stuffed up,’ he said.

  ‘Well done Dad,’ Saskia said admiringly.

  ‘I could have been a lawyer you know,’ he said wistfully, following her back to the kitchen. She tore open two rolls and started filling them with slices of ham, lettuce, and little sundried tomatoes that always made her think of shrivelled kidneys.

  Ray Hill had defended himself twice when he couldn’t scrape together the cash for his usual lawyer, an Irishman who Saskia used to hear her parents talk about with hushed reverence.

  ‘You would have been a brilliant,’ Saskia said.

  He smiled at the letter and shook his head. ‘Talk about starting out life on the wrong side of the law.’

  Saskia finished preparing the food in silence, feeling melancholy for her father’s lost opportunity. He’d been absent a lot during her childhood, it was true, but he had a good heart. Looking at him now, sitting at his small kitchen table, she realised he was getting old. It was prison that did it. The place was like a time machine. Whenever he finished a stint he came out looking as if twice the amount of time had passed as what he’d served.

  ‘Come have dinner with us on next week. You can tell Andy all about your legal victory. He’d love to hear it.’

  *

  Andy arrived at the Royal golf course and looked at his watch. It would be 5 p.m. at least before he was back home again. His whole Sunday would be gone and he’d barely get to see Saskia. He decided to pick up some crostoli from one of the late-night High Street bakeries on the way home. Or some cannoli with custard filling and pistachios.

  But for now, he had to concentrate on his swing. He hated golf, but at least he understood it. He’d caddied for his father from age eleven. On Sundays, when Andy wasn’t rowing, John Colbrook would haul him out of bed at 8 a.m. and they’d be on the course by nine.

  ‘One day you’ll thank me for this,’ John had repeatedly told him in the years before he rendered himself persona non grata with the family by leaving them all for another woman.

  ‘Being a competent golfer is just as important a business skill as being a good negotiator or a good salesman.’ John — himself a partner in a law firm — would say as he lined up his shot. ‘Company policies and mission statements will tell you otherwise, but camaraderie is key. Trust is built outside the boardroom.’

  Hugh took the same attitude towards golf as John, and had worked hard to foster an enjoyment of the sport, encouraging Andy to do the same. The two of them had spent many Sundays at the driving range improving their swings as diligently as they’d studied any aspect of the law.

  Andy’s handicap was a respectable twelve. The clubs he used were a set of oxblood Kenneth Smith’s that had been left behind by his father, traded in for a shinier model along with everything else in 2004.

  ‘Now that’s a fine set,’ Harris said as Andy strode into the clubhouse.

  At tee-off, Andy hit his ball clean and straight down the fairway. Around the third hole talk turned to business.

  ‘This House of Hiraani account is make or break, Colbrook,’ Harris said, trekking through the damp grass. ‘That’s not a threat, it’s a fact. I’m not only talking about you personally. I’m talking about the firm. We need to land another big fish.’ He’d clipped the ball and it shot into some scrub. ‘Goddamn.’ Harris tore his cap off as the ball sunk into the foliage.

  ‘I feel good about the meetings we’ve had, Mr Harris. I think they trust us.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Andy located his ball. Bright Box were open to fighting the matter in court and a date had been set for an initial hearing at the end of January. Before then, though, he’d have to be sure they could win. And for that, he needed Krystyn.

  ‘We’re teetering, Andrew,’ Harris said. ‘This latest round of job losses was nothing compared to what will come if we don’t secure some more regular clients. Between you and me, we grew too fast. We got greedy. We took on too many expenses and when the momentum let up we were saddled with all these damn overheads. I trust you’ve got your ear to the ground, listening for new opportunities.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘You’re a fine lawyer, Andrew,’ Harris said, as they trudged towards the boundary of the green to search for his ball. He found it and chipped it back onto the fairway.

  ‘I just want to be sure you understand the gravity of the situation. For someone like you, the ability to win new business will be vital,’ Harris continued. ‘You could be the best lawyer in the world, but it’s not worth a damn if nobody’s going to pay you for your legal servic
es.’

  Andy contemplated his ball. With one good whack he would make it to the green.

  ‘Make or break,’ Harris repeated as Andy swung. He misjudged his shot. His ball flew high but at the last moment was carried left by a gust of wind and lodged deep in the sand trap.

  *

  Saskia lingered in her car after she pulled up outside the flat. She had been quietly disappointed Andy hadn’t been free to accompany her to her father’s house, and now he still wasn’t home. Sweat trickled down her back. The windows were dark.

  When Andy came home an hour later, the backs of his arms and the tip of his nose were pinker than his shirt, and he looked weary and worried. Saskia’s face creased with concern.

  ‘You look terrible. Is everything okay?’ she said.

  He put a box of cannoli tied with string on the countertop and kissed her. ‘I don’t like spending weekend days away from you.’

  She detected a faint trace of whisky on his breath as he hugged her from behind. ‘It’s more than that.’

  ‘Just work stuff. Chatting with Harris was unsettling. He’s leaning on me to bring in more business. I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.’

  ‘More long nights then?’

  ‘I think so. For now. It won’t always be like this.’

  ‘Mm,’ she murmured. ‘I fear if anything it’s going to get worse.’ Andy sighed.

  Come on,’ she said, smiling and slapping his bottom playfully. ‘An associate director’s work is never done. You still have your commitment to our pact to fulfil.’

  The worry cleared from Andy’s face and he smiled. ‘You’re such a tyrant.’

  ‘No complaining,’ she said, pulling him into the bedroom. ‘Or I’ll make you do it twice.’

  Day 72, Monday, December 22

  ‘Have you slept at all?’ Andy stood at the laundry door in pyjama bottoms.

  Saskia was seated at her makeshift desk, bent over a small piece of jewellery. She looked up at him, wrecked, but happy.

  ‘Technically I haven’t slept, but the possibility of getting my work into Harem is a dream. And look.’ She tilted a cardboard box towards him. Inside glittered rows and rows of silver wreath cuffs. She had fashioned every single one with her own hands in one week. ‘They’re finished. I did it. I got them done.’