The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  Her voice was strained with exhaustion. Around 3 a.m. in her Barton Building studio, alone, she’d badly damaged the forty-seventh cuff and had had to scrap it and start again. As she looked at it in her hand, bent and unsalvageable, an overwhelming sense of futility swept over her. She’d nearly cried. The thing that had spurred her on was remembering the looks of June and Frederick and Luna and Ziggy in the smoky den after they’d discovered Andy was bank-rolling her enterprise.

  She’d gone to the sink for a glass of water. As she stood looking out over the shopfronts of Sydney Road, she pictured Andy atop St Peter’s when he’d first put the proposal to her. She focused on his earnest, reassuring face and how much he believed in her. She’d imagined what Randa would say, and Annie, and even her younger, eager self, if she gave up now. She had picked up a fresh piece of silver and started over.

  Now the skin on her hands was cracked and her wrists ached but the cuffs were finished. All fifty of them.

  ‘Sas, they’re incredible,’ Andy said.

  Despite her sleepless night, her eyes shone with excitement.

  ‘Any chance you’ll get to sleep before you go to Annie’s?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I can. Even if I had time, I’m too nervous and excited.’

  Six cuffs remained to be polished. Saskia finished the one in her hand and held it up to the light, checking it for imperfections.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Andy asked.

  She smiled at him again, but her fingers didn’t stop working as she cleaned the next cuff. ‘You’ve already done so much. None of this would have been possible without you.’

  He walked over and let his hand rest on her back as she furiously rubbed the piece of silver until it shone.

  ‘Now, that’s not true.’

  ‘Ow.’ She stopped for a minute to suck her finger.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  She shook her hand. A painful blister had gradually risen around the nail of her left index finger. The tip was tender to touch.

  ‘I’ll get out of your hair. I’m going to jump in the shower. But let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m fine. You get ready.’

  Instead of showering Andy went into the kitchen and turned on the Mariano coffee maker. It was early, and he had time to sit with his wife on this most important morning in her career. He made two strong coffees and toasted two slices of fruit bread, knowing she wouldn’t have stopped to eat.

  When he came back into the laundry Saskia was contemplating the swollen end of her finger with a needle in her hand.

  ‘Oh God, Sas, you’re not—’

  ‘What?’ She looked up innocently.

  ‘You’re not going to pop your blister with that needle?’ He set her toast and coffee town on the top of the washing machine.

  She smiled. ‘Of course not,’ she said as she threaded cotton through the eye of the needle.

  ‘Doing some sewing?’ he asked, and took a bite from the toast.

  ‘Sort of.’

  Andy watched in horror as she proceeded to pierce her blister with the needle and drag the cotton through the little pouch of skin.

  ‘Sas, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m threading my blister,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s an old hiker’s trick. The thread draws out the moisture so it heals faster.’

  He clapped his hand over his eyes. ‘How can you do that to yourself?’

  ‘I can’t tolerate blisters. I don’t have time,’ she said, dabbing the deflated wound with a tissue, before covering it with a Band-Aid.

  *

  Saskia pressed Annie’s buzzer. The box was slipping from her hands, which were sweaty and sore and so swollen she’d had to remove her engagement and wedding ring.

  ‘You look nice.’ Annie smiled when she opened the door, admiring the sunray pleats on Saskia’s dress. ‘Come in. Are they the cuffs?’ She nodded at the box. ‘I had another customer ask about them this week.’

  ‘All fifty, polished and ready.’

  Annie’s eyebrows rose. ‘You managed to do all fifty in seven days?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Saskia nodded, a broad grin on her face.

  Annie picked up one of the silver curls. ‘Oh, Sas, they’re divine.’

  ‘They’re better than the prototypes I gave you, aren’t they?’

  ‘Much better. They’re perfect. Can I put one on?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Saskia had tried on every single cuff after she’d gently curved, then cooled, the metal. Some of the early ones hadn’t been tight enough to cling to her ear, and she’d had to heat them and try again. She developed a knack for knowing when they were just right. But the relentless work had diluted the ear piece’s effect on her, and they’d seemed at times like meaningless pieces of metal, no more remarkable than a small bracket that might be used to hold together a piece of Ikea furniture. She watched Annie secure a cuff to her ear.

  ‘There,’ she said, tucking her hair behind her ear to better see the cuff. ‘Sas, they’re just beautiful. This is really, really fine silversmithing.’

  The piece sat delicately on Annie’s ear, catching the light. Its points were perfectly even, and the tiny engraving marks gave the impression of leaf veins to complete the look. Saskia was again able to appreciate it as a piece of art. She felt capable, and like she finally had a little control and agency in her life. Confidence filled her chest, and crept up her neck to her cheeks, which blushed with pride.

  She cleared her throat. ‘I hope Alicia likes them. They do look quite good lined up together like that, don’t they?’

  Saskia put the box on Annie’s large work table and began taking the cuffs out. ‘I did a few other samples for her to look at,’ she said, picking through the silver in search of the gold mod cuff and the vine cuff she had put in for good measure. ‘What time are you expecting her?’

  Annie put her kettle on to boil and set out three coffee cups. ‘Now, I guess.’

  While they waited for Alicia, they chatted about Harem and the alumni who had passed through on their way to greater things. Like the fabled Colin Hart, whose chunky metal chains with engraved links had caught the eye of a US ad executive. He bought a bracelet and necklace for his girlfriend, who just happened to be a junior fashion editor at American Vogue.

  ‘One break is all it takes,’ Annie said. ‘Colin lives in Chelsea now.’

  ‘I suppose artists aren’t known for their punctuality, are they?’ Saskia said, when Alicia still hadn’t arrived twenty minutes later.

  ‘I bet she’s just been held up at the store,’ Annie said.

  ‘It probably gets very busy.’ Saskia picked up one of the cuffs and turned it over in her hand. Her stomach was twisting into a knot. She began gnawing her thumbnail. She nearly fell off her stool when Annie’s phone rattled with the arrival of a message.

  Annie picked it up. Her shoulders fell as she read the message. ‘I’m sorry, Sas.’ She shook her head. ‘Alicia’s not coming.’

  ‘Oh.’ It felt as if someone had cut the ties that held Saskia’s heart in place and it had fallen heavily into the pit of her stomach. ‘Does she say why?’

  ‘It just says she can’t make it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Never mind, we’ll reschedule,’ Annie said with forced cheer. ‘I’m sure she still wants to meet you. It’s just a tiny setback.’

  ‘Sure,’ Saskia said, suddenly exhausted.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Annie, ‘why don’t we go out for brunch? My morning is clear and we can talk about other ways you can get Little Hill on people’s radars.’

  ‘Okay.’ Saskia smiled bravely. But inside she was crushed.

  Day 75, Thursday, December 25

  A seven-foot pine tree stood imposingly in the centre of the lounge room, its limbs bowing under the weight of gilded baubles. A shaft of light from one of the skylights shone directly onto it, heating the needles and spre
ading its oily, foresty scent into every room of the apartment.

  Saskia was sitting in her laundry studio, laying out squares of silver stars that needed earring hooks. These were for her core collection, which she had neglected in her hurry to produce cuffs for Annie and Harem. After brunch on Monday she’d gone to the studio to catch up on the overdue order. As she sat, slumped forward, too tired to hold her back straight, she’d reflected on the fact that the shops whose delivery dates she had missed hadn’t seemed to care — or even notice. For a few minutes she had stared into space, wondering if she should give up on the whole thing. She forced herself to pick up her pliars and soon she was back in the rhythm of it.

  She was limited in what she could do at home, but she had promised herself she would finish the earrings before Millie’s Christmas lunch.

  She pinched a star between her fingers and slid some wire through the hole she had drilled earlier in the week. The simple act of working restored her determination. Next Christmas, she thought, people could be giving and receiving her jewellery. She fantasised about her cuffs being mounted on Perspex stands behind squeaky-clean glass. She pictured them being worn to posh restaurants or film premieres, and being photographed for magazines.

  She completed the task quickly then opened a window to let fresh air into the room. It was already warm out and she had a lot to do. The chocolate cake she’d baked late the night before was waiting in the cold oven. She took a bowl of chocolate buttercream from the fridge and put it on the bench so it would soften.

  She was nervous about contributing something to Millie’s table, so she had called Annie and asked her advice. She suggested Julia Child’s Reine de Saba.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Queen of Sheba cake.’

  ‘Ha! That will suit Millie perfectly.’

  Saskia spread the chocolate mixture over the cake then placed the slivered almonds on its sides. The recipe advised pressing handfuls of almonds on, and letting them sit as they stuck. But Saskia liked to place each one on to create a pattern. When she finished, the cake looked like it was wearing a nut-coloured armour and Saskia wished she could cover herself with protective scales before going to Christmas lunch at her mother-in-law’s.

  The pattern of sliced almonds looked so striking, so satisfyingly uniform, that it occurred to her something similar might suit a bracelet, or a ring. She hurried out to the laundry where her notebook was sitting open and wrote down the idea. She drew a few sketches, testing how the pattern could be brought to life.

  Armour? Feathers? Winged cuff? Icarus? Roman and Greek Gods? she wrote.

  She had been meditating on the idea of creating a whole line inspired by Roman Gods — Athena rings, and siren necklaces that would rest seductively on the slope of a clavicle. A goddess of beauty ring? she scribbled, electricity in her fingers. In a fit of creativity, she made a series of drawings of rings made from the body of snakes, Medusa? scrawled next to them. She wanted to do more, but it was after 9 a.m. and she still hadn’t wrapped any gifts.

  She tiptoed past the bedroom door, not wanting to wake Andy. He’d been at the office until one this morning, despite her many messages saying, ‘Andy, it’s Christmas Eve.’

  Her instinct was to slip into their room and slide an ice-block down his spine to wake him up and as punishment for leaving her alone the night before. But Andy would be the only thing between her and Millie in full hostess-mode this afternoon. So she let him sleep, finished wrapping the presents and loaded the car.

  When she walked into the bedroom twenty minutes later Andy was propped up against the headboard with his laptop open.

  ‘You’re still working?’ She couldn’t hide her surprise.

  ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘Sort of. A little bit.’ She walked to the wardrobe and rifled through it. It was too hot for the grey lace dress she had worn to dinner at the Mariano’s that she’d planned to wear. She selected instead a sleeveless dress in robin’s egg blue with a black satin belt, that she’d bargained down to $17 at the Camberwell markets. She showered and scraped her hair up into a bun to keep it off her neck.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Andy said, admiring the shrinking triangle of flesh that disappeared as she zipped up the back of her dress.

  ‘I’m so worried about turning up to your mother’s a sweaty mess, I’m half tempted to go naked,’ Saskia said, as she smoothed down some errant hairs. ‘I can’t decide which she’d find more offensive — a sweaty daughter-in-law or a naked daughter-in-law.’

  ‘I know which one I’d prefer,’ Andy said, pulling her onto the bed and lowering the zip again.

  *

  Millie’s house was a short drive from theirs, past double-storey, double-fronted houses and high fences. The carousel of Edwardian and Victorian mansions was broken occasionally by a newcomer, which, as a result of wanting to be daring, looked like it belonged on the set of a 1980s space movie.

  Saskia fretted over her cake, trying to stop the almonds sliding south as the buttercream melted.

  Each of the lamps in Millie’s street was decorated with plastic holly, gold bells and ribbon. The white Victorian house was set way back on a deep block. A path wove between pine trees and magnolias before it reached the porch. Here, the iron-lace trim had been festooned with more holly, and the usual ‘Colbrook Family’ welcome mat had been replaced with one that wished visitors a Merry Christmas in large maroon letters as they wiped their soles on it.

  The chocolate cake held before her, Saskia pushed her shoulders back as Andy rapped the heavy brass knocker.

  Millie opened the door. ‘You’re here! I’ve missed you, Andy.’ She kissed her son. ‘Saskia, hello.’ She pecked the air near Saskia’s face.

  She was dressed in a white silk blouse and a long red skirt that skimmed the top of bone-coloured stilettos. The heel was the width of a builder’s nail and Saskia reflected that Millie endured a lot for the sake of appearances.

  Saskia’s clogs echoed on the polished wood floor as she stepped into the parlour. A porcelain nativity stood on the hallstand. Nothing had escaped being styled with mistletoe and ornaments brought back from Harrods in London. Somewhere deep in the house, Bing Crosby was singing ‘The First Noel’.

  On the far wall was a photo of the Colbrook boys in their school uniforms that always caught Saskia’s attention. A margin of about an inch around the picture was far paler than the rest of the wall. Saskia guessed Millie and Mr Colbrook’s wedding photo had hung there once.

  The family never spoke about John Colbrook unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then they referred to him in past tense, as if he was dead. When he was, in fact, very much alive in a beachfront mansion on the Mornington Peninsula with his new wife and their two-month-old heiress.

  ‘How’s your mother, Saskia?’ Millie inquired politely. An invitation had been extended to Lorna Hill to join the family lunch — declined, of course. Millie’s sense of Christian duty hadn’t quite extended as far as Saskia’s ex-con father.

  ‘Oh, she’s fine. I mean, her arthritis has been giving her trouble, but she’s in good spirits.’

  ‘We’re going over there later,’ Andy said. ‘Where’s Jules?’

  ‘Juliet,’ Millie called over her shoulder. ‘Juliet, they’re here.’ She balled her hands. ‘Juliet!’

  There was movement upstairs.

  In knee-high tube socks and a long overstretched T-shirt bearing the crest of Notre Dame University, Juliet descended the stairs slowly. She took each step one at a time, letting her full weight fall onto a step before moving to the next one. Plomp. Plomp. Plomp. Her ghostly blond hair hung over her shoulders, shimmering with each heavy footfall. Even in this dowdy get-up, she had the unmistakable air of a model. Her neck and legs were long, lean and tanned and her posture made her seem always on the verge of performing an arabesque.

  When she saw her brother she smiled. ‘Hey, Andy.’ She slipped her arms around his neck and hugged him. As she rose up on her toes her T-sh
irt lifted, revealing the smallest, tightest pair of shorts.

  ‘How are you, Jules?’

  ‘Okay.’ She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. ‘A bit jetlagged. Camilla’s trying to nag it out of me.’

  Millie pointed her foot and put her hands on her hips. ‘All I said was, it’s traditional for pants to comprise more material than socks. You look like a tramp.’

  Juliet rolled her eyes and greeted her sister-in-law with a hug then took the wine from Andy. ‘Sangiovese. Perfect. We drink this by the gallon in Milan.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re consuming something, even if it is wine,’ Andy said. ‘You look like you haven’t had a decent meal since last Christmas.’

  Juliet took Saskia by the arm and whispered in her ear. ‘Before a big catwalk show some of the girls do a saltwater cleanse. They can’t leave the house because they lose control of their bowels.’

  ‘Juliet!’ Millie nostrils flared.

  She winked and took the bottle into the sitting room where crystal glasses, an ice bucket and platters were arranged on an occasional table. Saskia had not had time to eat breakfast, so went straight for the plate of tangelos and cherries.

  Millie hurried in, prancing on her heels. ‘Juliet, I do wish you’d get dressed. We have company.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, Camilla. It’s just Andy and Sas.’

  ‘It’s Christmas lunch.’

  Juliet slowly pulled off her T-shirt, revealing a cream lace smock underneath. She pushed each of her socks down with her feet, one after the other, pulled them off by the toes and tossed them behind the couch. She gripped the hem of her tunic, shimmied it down until it was just above her knees and slid out of her short-shorts. Then she flicked her hair back and secured it with a band from her wrist, conjured a thin compact of lip gloss from a hidden pocket and slicked it over her mouth.

  ‘Better?’ she asked Millie, who folded her arms.

  ‘You should wear the pleated crepe de Chine dress I put out for you.’