The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘I’ll wear the outfit you chose for me when you agree to wear something I choose for you,’ Juliet said, sliding her hand through her ponytail and pulling out a few long strands of hair that she let fall to the rug.

  Millie stared at them. They were conspicuous against the reds, blacks and browns of the Persian pattern.

  There was a knock. Having tortured her mother enough, Juliet knelt and scooped up the hairs and walked out of the room to dispose of them.

  ‘It’s only us,’ Paul called. ‘It’s roasting out there,’ he announced when came into the sitting room with his family in tow. He had a rugby player’s gait and his face was flushed from the heat. ‘Ma, you could have put the turkey on the roof and it would have cooked in no time.’

  ‘Hello darling,’ Millie said, kissing him.

  ‘Hello all,’ said Elaine, before moving around the room to swap greetings.

  Paul was laden down with gifts, which he arranged under the tree. Charlie was balanced on Elaine’s hip with a red plastic car in his chubby hands.

  ‘I’m starved,’ said Paul.

  They crossed into the large room, lavishly decorated in a profusion of silver, gold and white, which reached its crescendo at the table where Millie had erected a centrepiece of white garlands and gold pears.

  ‘Millie, what a triumph,’ said Elaine.

  ‘Yes,’ Juliet said. ‘It really is in the spirit of Christmas to donate hundreds of dollars to the poor and less fortunate who run the home decorator store in Toorak village.’

  Saskia covered her mouth so Millie wouldn’t see her smile.

  ‘Let’s all sit, shall we?’ Millie directed sternly.

  ‘Wine, anyone?’ Juliet asked, filling glasses around the table. She misfired when pouring into Saskia’s glass and little bit splashed onto her silver placemat.

  ‘Juliet, do be careful with that wine. I don’t know what’s gotten into you,’ Millie said.

  The seafood entrée was eaten and much complimented, then Paul rolled up his sleeves and began carving the turkey.

  Juliet put her elbows on the table and leaned towards her sister-in-law. ‘Oh my God, Sas, I love that cuff on your ear. You must tell me where you go it.’

  ‘She made it,’ Andy said.

  ‘You made it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Saskia nodded.

  ‘With her own hands,’ Andy said.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘You can have it, if you like.’ Saskia slipped it from her ear and held it out. ‘I can always make more.’

  Juliet was accustomed to being given things and accepted immediately. ‘Thank you.’ She put it on, then trotted up the hall to the large bronze mirror to admire it. ‘I’ll tell the girls it’s Bulgari,’ she called.

  ‘You’ll tell them it’s a Little Hill handmade original,’ Andy said.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Juliet said, returning to the table. ‘I just meant its beautiful enough to convince them it’s worth thousands. What else do you make?’ She rested her chin on her hand, rapt.

  ‘All sorts of things . . . necklaces, bracelets. Though I am better at the smaller pieces, like earrings and rings.’

  ‘Can you show me? Do you have a website, or an Instagram account?’

  ‘I have a website but I haven’t updated it in a while.’

  Saskia wasn’t going to get her phone out at Millie’s dining table but Juliet had already pulled hers from her pocket. ‘You said your business is called Little Hill?’ she asked, googling it.

  The photos were tiny thumbnails. ‘It’s hard to see,’ Juliet said. ‘Do you have a Facebook page? Or a Pinterest account?’

  ‘I’m not very savvy when it comes to social media.’

  ‘Oh Sas, you have to get on Instagram. It’s the best way for visual artists to promote their work. I have one, see.’ Juliet put her phone under Saskia’s nose.

  Saskia slid her finger over the screen. She did use Instagram to follow other artists and fashion houses, but rarely posted herself. She had put up an image of the wedding rings she made for her and Andy, then quickly took it down after strangers started liking it. It felt invasive, she explained to Juliet.

  ‘People love seeing behind the scenes of creative work,’ Juliet said, flicking to accounts of jewellery-makers she admired in Barcelona, London and Lisbon. ‘It’s only tacky if you use it as an advertising medium and push-push-push your products. You should instead take casual photos that just happen to show off your art and your sense of style.’

  ‘Isn’t Instagram just a lot of photos of girls in underwear and people’s breakfasts?’ Paul asked.

  ‘No,’ Juliet said. ‘Most major brands have Instagram accounts.’

  ‘I don’t know about these packaged filters,’ Saskia said. ‘It all feels like cheating. Especially for an artist. It feels like it’s the opposite of what I want to achieve.’

  ‘So don’t use those filters.’ Juliet held her phone high above her head and used the camera screen to admire her new ear cuff. ‘Trust me, Sas, it would be really good way for you to build a following.’

  ‘Enough business and phone talk for one day, thank you, Juliet,’ Millie said. ‘There’s ginger and champagne trifle in the fridge. Can you please take it out so that it’s at room temperature when we’re ready to eat it.’

  Placated by her new gift, Juliet slid from her seat and went obediently into the kitchen.

  Day 77, Saturday, December 27

  Rttt-rrtt-rrrrt.

  Saskia groaned. ‘Who is that?’

  The pitch black bedroom was intermittently filled with a strobing glow as Andy’s phone rang and rattled and danced around on his bedside table.

  Rttt-rrtt-rrrrt.

  He clamped his hand down on the phone and picked it up. The screen showed he had missed nine calls from an international mobile number he didn’t recognise.

  ‘I hope this isn’t work,’ he said, climbing out of the bed. Following Andy’s promotion, Saskia had swiftly reimposed the no-phones-in-bed rule. Andy listened to his voicemail messages. The earpiece broadcast a loud Italian exclamation.

  ‘It’s Alberto,’ Andy confirmed. ‘It sounds like he’s in town.’

  He had left six messages entreating his friend to join him at The Oak Room, The Kelvin club, Ludlow bar and finally Pussy’s Bow, a very expensive strip club.

  All Saskia could hear was indecipherable bellowing. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘Company.’ Andy came back to bed. ‘I’ll call him back later.’

  The last missed call was just before 5 a.m., which would give Andy at least four hours’ grace while Alberto slept the night off. But not half an hour later the phone began to buzz, demanding attention. Andy ignored it. When it started again fifteen minutes later, he rolled his eyes and said, ‘I’d better get this or he’ll never let up’.

  ‘Andy!’ Alberto shouted, followed by rapid-fire Italian.

  ‘Hello, Alberto . . . No, I didn’t know you were in town.’

  ‘You missed an excellent night out in Melbourne, my friend. Let’s get some breakfast. I’m craving a Bloody Mary and eggs.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alberto, I have plans.’

  ‘What plans? You have to eat and it is early. Who has plans at 8 a.m. on a Saturday?’

  ‘I have work to do.’

  ‘Brunch will fortify you for your work, eh?’

  ‘Really, I can’t.’

  ‘Yes yes yes. I am right near you. I will pick you up.’

  Before Andy could argue the phone went dead.

  ‘I guess I’m going out for breakfast,’ he told Saskia.

  She nodded sympathetically.

  Andy dressed just in time for Alberto to announce his arrival with roar of an engine.

  ‘Andy! I’ve finally caught you,’ he said when Andy came out the front of his apartment. Alberto was seated in a red sports car, wearing dark glasses and a blazing white shirt. If he was worse for wear after his night of decadence, he didn’t show it.

  Andy leaned ov
er the car door and embraced his friend. ‘How long have you been in town?’

  ‘I was in Sydney for three nights then flew to Melbourne yesterday.’

  ‘You didn’t spend Christmas with Carla?’

  ‘She is in Palermo with her sister.’

  ‘That’s odd, you two not spending Christmas together. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes. Yes yes yes, everything is perfect. I’m down to meet some of the Australian managers.’ Alberto spoke more rapidly than usual. Andy guessed whatever amphetamine had kept him running all night was still racing around in his system. Alberto favoured top-shelf speed he bought from a drug dealer who called himself a doctor and made house-calls with a purple leather suitcase packed with his latest products, like some sort of underworld Avon lady.

  Two coffees were sitting in the rented car’s cup holder. Alberto picked one up and drank. He nodded for Andy to take the other one, which he did gratefully.

  ‘Delicious. Is this a Mariano blend?’

  Alberto tossed back his head and laughed. ‘That swill? No. This is from my personal collection.’

  ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘Where I am taking you, they do the best eggs Benedict in all of the southern hemisphere. Nothing on Italia, of course, but very good. And Bloody Marys! We are going to enjoy ourselves.’

  He zoomed off, oblivious to the stop sign at the end of Andy’s street.

  *

  Saskia was sitting by an open suitcase when Andy returned at noon.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re back. It occurred to me that Alberto may lure you into a Concorde to have breakfast in Brussels or something.’

  ‘No, I was able to escape. But I have to go into the office.’

  ‘Really?’

  They were going to spend a few nights in Queensland — Saskia’s second ever plane trip. Folded beside her was a new red and white striped beach towel Paul and Elaine had given her for Christmas. It was soft and fleecy. She touched it protectively.

  ‘I’d planned to finish off a few things this morning, but Alberto completely ambushed me. I won’t be long.’ He walked over and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘What do we have here?’ He bent down over the suitcase where Saskia had tucked away a pocket-sized notebook. Andy flipped through it and saw new designs and some notes for her Roman Gods concept.

  ‘Just some sketches.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m confiscating this.’

  ‘Andy!’

  ‘This is a no-work holiday. If I can’t work, you can’t work.’

  He put the book on the dressing table and kissed her. ‘I’ll be an hour, two tops, I swear.’

  Saskia folded a pair of his shorts and tossed them carelessly into the open case.

  Day 86, Monday, January 5

  It was still dark out when Andy pushed the button for level 15.

  ‘Happy New Year.’ Alexa the AdFit CEO followed him into the lift, bringing with her a cloud of perfume. Her skin bore a summer glow and her hair was shorter and blonder than when they met. She was obviously acclimatising to life as a corporate CEO.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ Andy said companionably.

  ‘So you survived?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The redundancies.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Hold the door!’

  Alexa lunged at the button as Krystyn trotted across the foyer and smiled, pleased to have caught the lift. Her face changed when she saw who she was sharing it with.

  ‘Krystyn.’ Andy nodded hello.

  ‘Andrew.’

  ‘I’m glad you survived,’ Alexa said to Andy, turning to him. She pressed his arm. ‘You know, I don’t have an in-house lawyer.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t?’ Andy said, feeling Krystyn’s eyes on him.

  ‘Obviously I’ve used lawyers for drawing up contracts and various other things, but I haven’t found a firm I’m really happy with. Do you have a card?’ She flicked her eyes up to meet his. The word ‘coquettish’ popped into Andy’s head.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ He fumbled as he pulled out an engraved silver cardholder Saskia had made.

  ‘That’s a very nice cardholder,’ Alexa said, taking his card and handing him hers just as the doors parted at level 13. ‘Call me.’

  *

  Andy picked up his phone as soon as he got to his desk and called Saskia.

  ‘I’m going to take Krystyn out to lunch, see if I can’t achieve a truce. You don’t mind do you?’

  She chewed her lip. ‘No. I knew you’d be working more closely with her. I suppose lunches were inevitable.’ Saskia’s laptop was open and she was clicking through to her email account. ‘Oh no!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh—’ She made a pained noise. ‘It looks like my work email has been hacked.’

  Saskia dealt with her stockists over the phone or in person and so her inbox typically received a scant two or three emails a day. Today there were more than fifty new messages, all unfamiliar names. ‘Oh God, it’s been swamped.’

  ‘You don’t use it much anyway, do you?’

  ‘No, but I want it to be secure.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Shit.’ She scrolled through the names, which were all strangers.

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘I think so. Double shit,’ she groaned. ‘This is the last thing I need.’

  ‘We’ll look at it tonight if you can’t figure it out.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d better go. Good luck with Krystyn.’

  ‘Thanks. Good luck with your spam.’

  Saskia hung up the phone. The names and subjects swam before her eyes, filling her with dread but also confusion. It didn’t look like spam. The subject lines said nothing about penis pumps or naughty discreet escorts; nothing about a long-lost relative who had appointed a Nigerian man the executor of his billion-dollar estate. And all the names appeared to be female.

  She clicked on the first one — from Bess.E.Bee@gmail.com.

  Dear Little Hill Designs

  I am in love with your ear cuff! But I live in Sydney and you don’t have any stockists here or online. I was wondering if I could order it direct. Do you accept PayPal or credit cards?

  Thanks in advance.

  Bess

  Saskia read the letter again. For a moment should thought it was a hoax, or a scam. But the girl wasn’t asking for Saskia’s credit card details, she wanted to provide hers. Saskia read the letter one more time then fired off a quick reply.

  Dear Bess

  I’m happy you like my cuff and would be glad to send one to Sydney. The cost is $50. If you provide your postal address and send the payment through to my PayPal account (details below) I will send you a Roman cuff.

  All the best,

  Saskia Hill

  Saskia felt pleased, and a little amused, that on the day she was hacked someone had written to her genuinely requesting an order. She realised with no small amount of alarm that she could have easily missed it, presuming it to be part of the onslaught of spam, and then the woman would have turned from a fan to a detractor. Saskia shivered at the thought.

  Word of mouth was all she had to rely on, and it was vital that every single person she dealt with be satisfied. She decided she would send Bess one of her other cuffs as well, in the hope that she spread the word about Little Hill designs. She was not in a position to be able to give away free jewellery, but this was the first time anybody had tracked her down out of the blue and she was feeling very affectionate towards Bess E. Bee of Sydney.

  With a smile on her face, Saskia clicked on the next email.

  Dear Ms Hill

  I saw your wreath cuff but can’t find it in any stores in Brisbane. Do you have any Queensland stockists, or do you sell online?

  Best,

  Lydia Jessup

  Saskia looked behind her shoulder, as a feeling she was being watched crept up on her. She self-consciously tousled her hair, certain there was a candid camera crew concealed somewhere, chuckli
ng quietly. Without replying, she clicked on the next email.

  Hello Little Hill Designs

  I love your cuff . . .

  Saskia clicked on.

  Hi Little Hill

  I was wondering if you sold Roman-style cuffs anywhere in Perth?

  She clicked through each and every email. All of them were young women around Australia (and one in London) asking where they could buy the ear cuffs. No fewer than thirty asked her to post one out directly.

  Saskia got up from her chair and walked around the room, agitated and a little breathless. She didn’t understand what was happening; it was inexplicable and unreal. She put her hand on her stomach, which felt like it contained a hamster running around on a wheel. She returned to her computer to be sure she wasn’t imagining things. Another email popped into her inbox. Subject: Where can I buy Roman Wreath Cuff?!!

  *

  ‘Make it a double shot, Hank.’

  ‘You okay? You look a little . . . dazed.’

  Saskia didn’t have time to explain. She had emails to answer and orders to fill. ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled to prove it.

  She gave Hank a five-dollar note and hurried back to her studio. Standing on the edge of Sydney Road, waiting for a break in the traffic, she wondered again if she’d dreamed the emails. She had been working long hours lately, it seemed entirely possible that she had dozed off at her desk and had a vivid dream about sudden and unexplained success. The flood of admirers was the sort of thing that would happen in a dream world where the rules of reality are elastic.

  As she climbed the stairs to her studio she felt a mounting apprehension that the orders really had been a fantasy. She touched her mouse bringing her computer screen to life and the list of new friends appeared. She settled back on her seat, relieved and a little overwhelmed, and began to type.

  She replied to the requests and created a spreadsheet calculating who wanted what and how much silver she was going to need to fill the orders. She had just finished when an email arrived from Bess of Sydney.

  Thank you so much, Little Hill! I’ve deposited $100 — could I please have two cuffs? One gold, one silver. Is it the same price in gold?

  Saskia hadn’t attempted the cuff in gold yet. Gold sheets cost far more than silver but it was easier to work with — softer and faster to mould — so the labour costs were theoretically lower.