She foraged in a cupboard, found a brush and pan, swept up crumbs, repositioned the mannequin’s socks, re-rolled a snakeskin belt that had unfurled itself on a shelf, then ironed a silk camisole with the palm of her hand.
All in order, she locked the door again and left.
Apple eyed the chipped white-painted iron numerals screwed to her front door as she let herself in. The brick of the old Art Deco building was pale, creamy, and ran from top to bottom of the three-storey building. She waved to the man on the corner who was locking the door of his small cafe that neighboured the apartments.
A barely alive azalea reached unpruned across the threshold. Apple pushed past and inside. Frankfurt slithered off the lounge and galloped towards her.
‘Hello, sausage.’ She crouched, arms open, skirt straining as she dropped to lie on the floor. The dachshund’s squat legs skittered over her, tongue tasting her face.
She laughed, restraining his tubular little body. ‘No licking.’
She kissed him and his legs cycled in the air as she tucked him under her arm.
Upstairs, the light from her bedroom shone into the hall. Frankfurt bucked, she put him down, and he galloped ahead through her open door. Apple’s sister was crouched on the floor inside.
‘Oh.’ Poppy quickly stood.
At twenty-five, Apple’s sister and housemate was two years younger, and whereas Apple was tall and her hair flaxen and long, Poppy was small, her dark hair bobbed. Something about her sister seemed to be what Apple so often needed, and she smiled, feeling warm – full.
‘I didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you having dinner with Lachie? I’m so glad I got to see you. I was meant to have dinner with Mum but she wasn’t feeling well and—’
‘I’ve missed you. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you all week,’ Poppy said quickly, smile fleeting. ‘I’d love to chat, but I’m late and . . .’ She hesitated, eyes strangely wide, goosebumps on her little white body clad in nothing but grey-marle Calvins that Apple hadn’t seen before.
‘They’re nice, are they new?’ She made for a hug but Poppy hesitated, eyes flickering down to the floor.
Apple glanced down, seeing for the first time the pair of open suitcases.
‘I was just . . .’ Poppy began as Apple took in the view of clothes folded inside.
‘What? Poppy, put them away.’ Apple’s heart quickened as her gaze traversed the familiar layers of fabric.
Poppy dropped to her knees and foraged hastily, but Apple closed the lid of the other case and pushed it back under the bed where it had been for years, untouched.
‘Wait!’ Poppy said, but Apple was closing the second case, almost catching her sister’s fingers as Poppy tugged a dress free, clutching it to her chest with a grin.
‘Put it back.’ Apple wasn’t smiling.
Poppy stood, letting the dress fall long, and Apple saw the tulip-cut, raw-edge skirt, the darts she’d sewn carefully into the back, remembered the way her needle had punctured the soft pale leather with tiny holes to bring it together. She’d made half of it at the academy, half on her machine at home, and her own incompetent machine had eaten it twice, the skirt more than once having become a mangled knot of leather and thread.
‘Please?’ Poppy sounded desperate.
Apple got to her feet, too tired to fight and aware that a fight would do nothing but dig up stories – stories she wanted to stay buried under the bed.
‘Whatever. Do what you want, but know that it will probably fall apart,’ she said. ‘You’ll sit down to dinner with Lachie and it will probably split, right up the front – my old machine made a mess of it.’
‘Doesn’t look like a mess . . .’ Poppy was admiring it.
‘It is.’
Apple walked away to shut herself in the bathroom, where she turned the shower on. When she returned to her room wrapped in a towel, Poppy was gone.
She opened her wardrobe and gazed at the neutral tones hanging side by side.
Her wardrobe had once been relatively rainbow. In her teens and early twenties she’d experimented, worn it all, consumed everything – but though her appreciation for clothes had increased over time, she consumed less, and much of it was the same, all versions of one another. She seemed to seek the tranquillity that subdued, repetitive cuts and colours delivered.
She tugged on a Loom dress. She didn’t love this black shift, but like everything Loom sold it was elegance made easy. She had a lot of Loom. It was safe.
She poked her feet into calf-skin loafers, tied up her hair, put on lipstick then changed her mind and took it off again, only reapplying it because the stain of red remained.
Leaving soon. See you there, came a message from Veronica.
Can’t wait, Apple replied and felt surprised to mean it. Usually, she preferred home, the predictability and intimacy of dinner with Poppy, her mother, occasionally a friend, but right then she craved action, wanted to forget the clothes under the bed, the memories they conjured.
Poppy was standing in the kitchen in the dress when Apple came downstairs. She was tapping her phone, sucking a spoon of peanut butter, and Apple came to a standstill.
‘What?’ Poppy took the spoon from her mouth.
Apple stayed motionless before rebooting. She moved quickly, staring at the dress, eyeing the way the fabric moved across Poppy’s body, the way it was not . . . quite . . . fitting. She stopped an arm’s length away, eyes darting top to bottom, unable to accept the way the tulip skirt fell inward in a way it never should.
‘Take it off.’
Poppy frowned. ‘What? Can’t I please—’ Her voice rose as words tumbled out in an angry panic. ‘I can’t afford nice things and your designs are the nicest things and they’re right there, upstairs! I don’t even get why they’re stuffed away. It’s ridiculous that I can’t wear them, that you can’t. Why are you so weird? You made this dress for me! It was meant to be mine – remember?’
Tears sprang up but Apple blinked them away, yanking down on the dress’s zipper. ‘I’m not saying – I mean, you can wear it. It’s just . . . Just take it off.’
She tugged the dress down, Poppy tripped out of it, and Apple had carried it halfway up the stairs when she glanced back to see her sister, stunned in her knickers.
‘Poppy, are you coming?’
Years of undisturbed dust danced in the air as Apple tore the cover off her old sewing machine and switched on her desk lamp as she sensed Poppy hurry into her room behind her. She turned the leather dress inside out, deftly picked the lining apart, then pinched the leather between her fingers, quietly narrating to herself as she measured the selection of fabric by eye, glancing at her sister’s waist. She clamped the fabric under the foot of the machine, then drew it through to the hum of the needle, reversing, trimming, snipping, repeating.
She tugged open her desk drawer, bobbins and pins clattering as she rifled through, then slid thread through a needle before manually stitching each side of the lining back together. She knotted, snipped, patted it smooth, turned the dress right side out and handed it back to her sister.
‘It just, it wasn’t fitting right,’ she said, as relief settled. ‘I think you’ve lost weight.’
Poppy stared, bewildered, before she took the dress and, holding her sister’s gaze, shimmied her way back into it. Apple moved to raise the zip, then slid her hands down the contour of Poppy’s torso, patting the impeccably snug waist.
‘Yes,’ she said, and felt suddenly overcome by the sense of a long-standing itch having been scratched.
‘I have to go.’ Poppy stepped into her sandals. ‘Thank you, that was so . . . fast.’
Apple watched her leave. When she heard the front door close, she dropped to the floor, clasped the handle of one of the suitcases, dragged it from under the bed and popped it open.
Then, without thinking, she took a dress out and changed into it.
2
Sunlounges were arranged on fake grass
like a scene from a summer’s day, and lounging on one was Veronica. Beyond the synthetic turf, shiny new cars were arranged in a curated fashion and stylishly dressed people were moving gracefully among them – their beauty making everything around them look desirable, as Apple presumed was the intention.
Veronica was wearing oversized, neon pink round glasses with a hot pink organza minidress that she tugged into place as she stood.
‘Hello,’ she said stiffly.
Apple smiled, instantly appalled by the garishness of Veronica’s ensemble but feeling affection for the same reason. She eyed the floral appliqué. ‘Is this the one you told me about?’
‘The Reem Acra.’ Veronica brushed her shoulder then paused, squinting – tilting forward slightly to peer at Apple’s own clothes. ‘What are you wearing?’
Apple shuffled back, self-consciously fingering the fabric of the dress she’d raised from its grave under the bed.
‘Hey.’ Jackson suddenly spun Apple around then kissed both her and Veronica on the mouth.
‘Don’t smear my lipstick,’ Veronica said, but didn’t look displeased.
‘So, what – it’s a car launch?’
‘Apparently.’ Veronica flapped the brochure in her hand. ‘Cars all look the same to me but they tend to attract men, don’t they? Oh, there’s horrible Linda. Excuse me.’
‘Where’s Arabella?’ Apple asked.
‘Swinging by someone’s birthday. She’ll be here soon. I need a drink.’
Apple followed her to the bar. Jackson looked around.
‘These things are pretty rank, hey?’ Jackson said. ‘As if you’d bother if it weren’t for the free booze. I feel like room-filler, free décor.’
All Apple could think about was the dress she’d put on. She felt foolish and regretful, knew Veronica wouldn’t be the first to notice it as unmistakably one of a kind, and knew she couldn’t let it start conversations that would lead to the stories she didn’t want to tell.
‘How have you found your first few weeks at Loom?’
‘Fun.’ Jackson grinned ironically, handing Apple a cocktail. ‘But you’re probably the coolest manager I’ve ever had – cheers for that.’
‘You know . . .’ Apple sipped. ‘We went through three girls before you. So many applications but so few that work out. The young ones are starry-eyed about Loom, but they don’t have the experience, the panache, I suppose.’
‘I have panache?’
‘You have . . . confidence. Most applicants are students, nineteen, twenty. They’re nervous. Veronica hates nervousness; so do the customers. If any of those women sense weakness, it’s over. Once I saw Veronica slay a new sales assistant who dithered when choosing an outfit for a customer – it was death by mockery.’ Apple remembered how unwell it had made her feel.
‘What happened to her? The assistant.’
‘She quit the next day. I sent her flowers I felt so bad for her. So I’m grateful for you – anyone who can manage the patrons and Veronica is a godsend.’
‘I’d never put up with being bullied. That’s horseshit,’ said Jackson. ‘And I know these types that come into Loom. They’re not condescending because they’re confident. If they were, they wouldn’t need to drop ten grand on one outfit, on one piece. You have to walk this fine line between being polite, firm, confident, admiring. It’s pathetic. Boring. Don’t you get bored?’
Apple was often so bored she felt hollow. ‘It’s okay.’
‘You’re tough. I won’t last long. How long have you lasted?’
‘Seven years.’
There was silence.
Finally Jackson muttered, ‘Jesus. Props. Have another.’ She pushed a shot towards Apple, watching as she knocked it back, then sighed. ‘I get it, though. Loom’s not your average place. In fact, I’m sure I’m being disrespectful as fuck. What’s the story? I doubt I know half as much as I should.’
It wasn’t only Jackson’s retail experience that had compelled Apple to hire her, it was her indifference, too. She wasn’t in awe of Loom’s mythology, and Apple had guessed that would give her the blasé confidence she’d need.
‘It used to be “Harriet’s Loom” when it opened in the mid-thirties.’ Apple sipped her cocktail. ‘Harriet Bloomsbury began importing European couture and was the only one really doing it. It was the place – the only place – to go.’
‘“Highly sought luxury experience, fitted and styled”,’ Jackson parroted. ‘I read that somewhere. V was her kid, right?’
‘Yes. They worked together till Harriet died.’
‘Why did she cull “Harriet”? And stop importing? Surely that’s where all the prestige was at.’
‘Finances, I think. There’s more money to be made from ready-to-wear, selling an in-house brand. And there was that thing with her ex.’
‘That nutter who creamed her in the divorce? Read about that, too. Said the Loom premises were worth, like, fifteen mill? Don’t developers want it?’
‘She’ll never sell. Even though I think she’s in debt.’
Jackson put an olive in her mouth. ‘I’m surprised that the off-the-rack stuff works out better than couture – for the bottom line.’
‘It would, surely. Especially now it’s all made in Asia.’
‘Really? I thought Loom was Italian-made.’
‘Used to be Italian-made.’
‘That’s why I’ve logged ten faulty items this week!’
‘What faulty items?’ Veronica was behind them.
Jackson swallowed, mumbling. ‘I mean—’
‘We had a bad batch, that’s all.’
There was silence, then finally Veronica reached out to pluck the sheer fabric hugging Apple’s torso.
‘So what is this, then? It looks like this season’s Balmain with that khaki mesh over bra thing with a gathered skirt like I saw on the runway. Who’s shopping for you? If you can afford Balmain I’m paying you too much.’
Apple glanced away. ‘It’s not Balmain, it’s nothing. Do you want a drink?’
‘Nothing?’ Veronica was undeterred. ‘There’s no such thing as “nothing”, unless you bought it from Topshop—’
‘What’s wrong with Topshop?’ Jackson said.
Veronica rolled her eyes before taking the hem of Apple’s dress.
‘It’s mine, okay?’ Apple tugged away, and Veronica laughed loudly, confused.
‘Obviously! Did you think I was trying to take it from you? I was just . . .’ She leaned in to paw the dress again and Apple sensed her insatiable need to know exactly where the dress came from.
‘It’s mine,’ Apple said, again, wiping her mouth. ‘I mean, I made it.’
Veronica hesitated, then peered closer, mesmerised, before she snapped out of it. ‘Oh, yes, you did that little design course once, didn’t you? I recall on your résumé. Well, it’s pretty enough.’ She waved for the bartender but Apple saw her glance back, eyes taking in the dress one last time. ‘Three shots – snakebites.’
There was a wait before Jackson asked, ‘What design course?’
The shots arrived and Apple knocked one back, the whisky dulling the complexity of her feelings. ‘It’s nothing.’
Veronica arched back to survey the room. ‘I’ve spotted one I like,’ she said. ‘That one. Any man confident enough to wear a plum velvet smoking jacket deserves my phone number.’
‘He looks thirty. At most,’ Jackson said.
‘Are you a feminist?’ Veronica stared her down. ‘Good. Act like it.’ She took a drink from a passing tray and pushed through the crowd.
‘Who’s she talking about?’ Apple said.
‘I think him.’ Jackson pointed. ‘He’s way too fucking fancy. Good luck to her.’
Apple began to frown. ‘I think . . . I know him.’
‘The blond? With the impossible tan?’
‘I’ve . . . we’ve been together. Henri, I think.’
Veronica had nearly reached him.
‘As in, you’ve fucked?’ Jackson s
aid. ‘Holy shit. This is awesome. I mean, sorry – do you like him? Is he special?’
Apple eyed him. She hadn’t had anyone special in seven years, and, even then, that man had turned out to be significantly un-special.
‘Henri was nice. Not special.’
‘Shit, V’s landed.’
They watched Veronica offer him a drink.
‘You’ve got to admit, she’s rocking that frock. How’d you meet him? He looks Scando.’
‘Swiss, I think. I babysat his baby brother and sister once. His dad is some rich guy who has kids with his second wife out here.’
‘And babysitting turned to rutting?’
Apple cleared her throat. ‘He turned up after the kids had gone to bed.’
‘Here I am thinking you’re some straitlaced debutante with your blonde braid and cute mouth. You’re actually every parent’s worst nightmare: the nanny who fucks the kids.’
‘Henri was not “the kids”.’
‘The kids’ brother – same. So the kids tottered off to bed and you took off your knickers and tottered off to bed too – big bro’ in tow?’
‘He was wearing a nice lemonade-coloured sweater.’ Apple remembered.
‘That’s all it takes to wet your puss? A lemonade sweater?’
Apple gazed at Henri, not knowing what it took. She’d decided to be with him that night because he was a handsome man in a handsome house and surely that’s what any normal girl would do. She wanted to be that: a normal girl.
‘Was it fun mating with a Ken Doll? I’d have a go for the novelty alone.’
‘It was fun,’ Apple said, though she wasn’t sure it had been. It hadn’t been bad, certainly.
‘Shit, here they come.’
Henri frowned as Veronica reached for his hand, leading him through the crowd.
‘Girls, this is Henri.’ She tugged his arm like the rope of a dinghy and he sailed to a stop in front of them. ‘His jacket is Boglioli and his shoes are Berluti. I’m in love.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Henri shook Jackson’s hand, then took Apple’s, and paused when he met her gaze – his memory presumably cycling back to find her pressed against his father’s kitchen counter.
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 2