The Rules of Backyard Croquet

by Sunni Overend

‘I . . .’ he began, but Apple’s phone rang.

  She slipped away, fumbling to press the device to her ear, and when she reached the door she didn’t stop but went through it, all the way outside.

  ‘Poppy? Are you there?’

  ‘I’m engaged!’

  The door swung closed behind her and Apple sensed pedestrians cruising by on the pavement.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said.

  ‘I’m engaged!’ Poppy choked out a teary laugh, and Apple heard her sister’s boyfriend in the background. ‘Lachie! He proposed.’

  ‘Oh – oh my God.’

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Poppy kept laugh-crying. ‘Honestly, I had no idea. I’m literally shaking. We were just sitting there having dinner and I was whining about work, and suddenly the waiter came over with this weird smile on his face and my favourite cheesecake and I looked over at Lachie and he was getting down on one knee and I saw that one of the waiters had a camera on us and my heart started pounding and I suddenly couldn’t think and then Lachie said . . .’ Apple heard her ask, ‘Can I say?’ and Lachie replied with a laugh, ‘It’s on video. Of course you can.’

  Poppy continued, ‘So Lachie said, “You are the smartest, funniest, most driven, talented, loyal, cool woman I know. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”’ She laughed again and Apple felt disbelief and joy and . . . faint trepidation.

  ‘Poppy, oh, oh wow.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m honestly . . . I think I’m in shock. I don’t know why because you’ve been together for, for forever—’

  ‘But I’m only twenty-five? A career woman?’

  ‘That, and—’

  ‘I always thought you’d get married first and it feels so weird, and I’m engaged and that means I’m going to be getting married.’

  Apple wiped away tears. ‘This is amazing. I love Lachie. Oh, I’m so proud of him. I’m so proud of you. This is . . . it’s so lovely.’

  ‘Apple, I’m engaged!’

  ‘Stop saying it!’ Apple was laughing. ‘Have you told Mum?’

  ‘I’ll call her now. I’m staying at Lachie’s tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow, love you.’

  ‘Love you. I can’t believe this.’

  Poppy hooted before the line went dead.

  Apple sank the phone against her chest, stare vacant. Someone was close behind.

  Henri laughed when she started. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Apple said. He was alone.

  ‘Hello,’ he said and touched her cheek, and she remembered his forwardness, his European liberalism from that first night, which she probably would have liked were she someone else, someone not so apprehensive, so self-conscious. ‘Have you been crying?’

  She laughed, faintly, brushing her cheek. ‘Oh no, it’s fine, I’m fine.’

  He gazed into her eyes in the same intimate way, then slid his hand into hers. ‘Can I take you for a drink?’

  ‘I can’t, my friends—’

  ‘Your friend’s girlfriend arrived. She told me to say she didn’t need you anymore.’

  V’s found someone else, came a message from Jackson. You should make a night of it w Ken Doll. His accent alone would make me come. Bye Barbie.

  ‘Two Zubrówka and apple, one without ice,’ Henri ordered.

  They’d walked five minutes to the upper east side of town, to a watering hole on the ground floor of an ornate four-storey Georgian-style building.

  ‘How is your work?’ he said.

  Apple peered around the small bar. She couldn’t remember if he knew what she did. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘That was my boss back there, the one you almost went home with.’

  Henri frowned.

  ‘Veronica.’

  ‘Oh, she’s not my type, no, not . . . She was . . . forceful? This is not for me.’

  Apple liked the way he said things.

  ‘How are Alex and Mitzi?’ She surprised herself by remembering his siblings’ names.

  ‘They are good, very good. Alex read his first book to me. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Mitzi started school. She has many boyfriends, as I understand.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  Henri reached to press the soft mound of her chin with his thumb. ‘It is good that I am seeing you again,’ he said. ‘You have very beautiful hair.’ He touched her braid.

  Apple absorbed his golden Nordic skin, his gleaming teeth, his breath smelling of apple juice. She thought of Poppy, wished they were together, and she couldn’t believe what had happened – the surprise made her feel strangely alone, disoriented.

  She didn’t want to be here.

  ‘You are very beautiful all over,’ Henri said.

  She didn’t want to be here but Veronica had found someone else, Jackson was probably home now with Arabella, and Poppy . . .

  Apple glanced down at her drink, toying with the little straw before she met Henri’s gaze. ‘You are honestly the only man I know who could pull this jacket off,’ she said, reaching to finger the lapel of his dark velvet blazer.

  He smiled broadly, leaning in to kiss her.

  Apple pulled back with a laugh.

  He didn’t smile. ‘This is funny?’

  ‘We only just got here.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Do we have to move so quickly?’

  ‘We have moved quicker.’

  Apple didn’t want to succumb so easily, didn’t know if she wanted to succumb at all. Her sister’s phone call had stirred up unease, fragments of despair, and as she sat wondering what to do she realised that in doing nothing, just sitting there, she was being left behind.

  Henri came for her again and she didn’t pull away. He kissed her and she raised her hand to touch the faint stubble on his cheek, knowing it was possible to enjoy these things she so rarely allowed herself – being touched, felt, brought close.

  ‘Come upstairs.’

  ‘What’s upstairs?’ Apple pressed her forehead against Henri’s.

  ‘A surprise.’

  ‘A good surprise?’

  ‘Of course.’ Henri took her hand, and Apple let herself be led into the lobby.

  He put his arm around her as they passed the concierge, then he pressed the elevator button, gazing down at her as they waited.

  ‘Is it a restaurant?’

  ‘There is food.’ Henri smiled. The elevator opened, he swiped a card, and the doors closed them in. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘What do they have?’

  ‘Most things.’

  ‘Jam on toast?’

  ‘What kind of jam?’

  Apple laughed. ‘They have jam?

  ‘What kind do you want?’

  ‘Marmalade, or blackberry.’

  ‘There is marmalade.’ The doors opened and Henri walked ahead. ‘I have the orange and whisky marmalade, I have the grapefruit and ginger marmalade, I have . . .’ He turned back to Apple, who was still in the elevator. ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘This is your house?’

  ‘It’s the penthouse, my apartment.’ Henri came to scoop her up and she decided not to resist. He set her down on the carpet inside. ‘I do not believe in coercion, but I think, why sit on a hard stool listening to the not-so-good jazz when you can enjoy a soft lounge and whatever music you like?’

  Apple glanced back at the elevator, her heels sinking into thick carpet. ‘This is coercion.’

  ‘I thought you would like the surprise.’ Henri walked back into the elevator. ‘But let us go back down and we will start again.’

  Apple stayed still, gazing at the panorama of the city – a vista of light and movement through the succession of tall windows running the length of the expansive studio, where chandeliers made shadows on carved cornices.

  ‘This is nice.’ She slid from her shoes and walked across to the window. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Henri sniffed, then said, slowly, ‘I like the older buildings. It is like back home, what I am used to. It is the memory in the walls, I think – I have nev
er been friendly with the modernism. Another Zubrówka?’

  Racks of bottles and glasses were suspended over a marble bar. Apple hesitated at the chaise opposite, watching him place tumblers on the counter.

  She sat down, adjusting the hem of her dress.

  ‘It is an excellent dress,’ he said.

  Apple glanced down at it, its seeming elegance, and wondered if she was going to be able to live up to the sensuality and confidence it implied.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She watched him take his time shaving ice at the bar. He wasn’t someone she could pursue, she knew that.

  He was too perfect on the outside, with not enough within, but Poppy’s phone call had been unsettling. She realised that the reason she was there in Henri’s apartment was that she was afraid of being left behind. Her little sister was quickly moving forward, and although sleeping with Henri wasn’t going to take Apple anywhere, it felt like something, something that was better than the nothing she’d been doing all these years.

  She’d only been in love once. That had been seven years ago, when she’d been barely more than a teenager. She closed her eyes now, wishing that the years had made her more than this, had brought her out of herself instead of sending her further within.

  An old explorer’s map papered the wall beside her and she touched the small flag that pinned Switzerland.

  ‘Do you miss home?’ she asked.

  Henri glanced up. ‘Yes . . . and no. I have family here, this makes it almost like my new home. My father is a good businessman, but also a good friend. I am lucky in this, I think. Are your family all here?’

  ‘Yes, my mother and sister.’

  He went to the fridge, returning with a herb for their drinks. ‘Your father?’

  ‘He left when I was about three,’ Apple said.

  ‘Why?’ Henri asked without hesitation, and Apple wondered if this was the kind of conversation she wanted to be having.

  ‘I don’t know, weakness?’ she murmured. ‘He was an alcoholic.’

  Henri shook his head, tut-tutting. ‘It is sad how many men have this weakness. Men are weak. I can say it because I am one. I had a strong mother and father, and although they are no longer together, I am glad that neither was weak in the mind. I find this to be the worst of all the things.’

  Apple smiled, not at the sentiment of his words but at how he said them: his solemnity undermined by the unintended sensuality of his accent.

  His fingers danced over bottles before finding what they wanted. ‘When I first saw you, I thought you were like that South African actress, what is her name? Charlize . . . Theron.’

  ‘She’s American.’

  ‘She’s South African, and you are very much like her.’

  ‘There’s a ubiquity there, I suppose,’ Apple said, but appreciated his kindness.

  ‘U-bi-quit-y? What does it mean?’

  ‘Ubiquitous means, um, everywhere, common.’

  ‘Common? You are not common. Charlize is not common. You’re both beautiful.’

  Apple stood, wanting to move without knowing where. ‘You have a nice bed.’

  Henri glanced at the four-poster across the room, regular perhaps for a European bachelor but make-believe here, in Apple’s city.

  ‘Handmade,’ he said. ‘And the view from there is excellent.’

  Apple gazed up at the high ceiling as she walked, gripping the bedpost when she reached it, fingers clasping the finely scalloped wood. She crawled up onto the doona, down plumping around her as she settled and gazed out at the dimly lit gardens sprawling below.

  She was about to sleep with a man she’d probably never see again, and her dear little sister was about to sleep with the man she’d be with for the rest of her life. She thought of Loom, of returning there on Monday, to the unchallenging banality that came with the place she’d turned up to almost daily for so many years and felt cold. She tugged a mohair blanket from the end of the bed, wondering where the music was that Henri had promised.

  ‘The stereo?’ she called.

  ‘There are controls. On the small table next to the bed.’

  Apple fiddled until music filled the room. Her body responded, welcoming the rhythm that was more confident than her own. Henri placed a tray of drinks on the bed, leaned against a post and folded his arms, his eyes navigating Apple’s body.

  He bent forward to flick at the hem of her dress. ‘Again, this dress is very good. Few women in this country know how to do the elegance. You are one of them.’

  Apple’s heart beat quickly. She guessed this was foreplay and wondered if she ought to be seductive or coy, to advance or recede, wondered what he wanted, what she wanted, felt shame that she didn’t know when surely she should by now.

  ‘Where is it from?’ Henri stroked the fabric and she realised that perhaps this wasn’t foreplay, that this was his sartorial obsession. ‘I must buy anything special like this online, which is most things.’

  Apple wished again that she hadn’t worn it.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said.

  Henri’s intrigue seemed to heighten, and Apple knew she should have said it was someone’s, anything to stop the conversation.

  ‘It is a secret? You are keeping your shopping secrets?’ He was coming towards her and Apple guessed she was about to be kissed, but Henri was trying to see her collar tag.

  ‘No designer?’ His laugh was disbelieving. ‘Impossible. This is not an average piece.’

  Apple stared at the fabric that covered her, felt annoyed at herself for wearing this dress laced with so much memory, and even more annoyed at Poppy for unearthing the cases – the things that needed to stay buried.

  She fingered her hem, felt fraying, felt the inferior stitches, and decided to harness the anger, let it override the trepidation and fear. She yanked at the weak stitching, it snapped, and the dress fell, cloth without form.

  ‘That is a shame.’

  ‘It isn’t. It was nothing.’

  ‘It didn’t look like nothing.’ Henri eyed her body. ‘But this is not nothing, either.’

  His hands were eager, and Apple felt grateful, grateful that his touch began to silence her mind and awaken her body.

  ‘This is indeed something.’ His hands slid beneath the lace that covered her bottom, and Apple touched her mouth to his, wanting fewer words and more feeling – wanting to be felt and to feel.

  She caressed his throat, soft, all but smooth, then fought with his collar, the tiny tight buttons of his shirt; slid her hands inside to feel the warm bare skin, the unmistakable masculinity. She closed her eyes, sensed the strength of his arms when she slipped his sleeves away, and his shoulders rippled beneath her touch as he came for her, needing her, and she basked in the feeling she’d feared would never come.

  ‘I want you,’ she said.

  3

  Apple sat on the tram, the remnants of her dress scrunched in her hand.

  She’d drunk the coffee Henri had made, and eaten the toast, but the relative expansiveness and escapism of the night before had shrunk with daylight and her desire to leave had become almost desperate. She’d borrowed a jumper and tennis shorts and regretted it, hoped it didn’t mean she’d have to see him again.

  She picked at the threads of her once-was dress until she reached her stop, then hurried down the street, the stray arm of an old, unpruned azalea scratching her leg as she unlocked her front door.

  Frankfurt skittered across the floor, ears flapping.

  ‘Hello cheeky,’ she said. ‘Poppy?’

  There was silence. Apple led the dog to the kitchen, scooped meat from a tin. She listened to him eat as she drank water and stared out at the small brick-paved courtyard. She wondered if Poppy would move in with Lachie right away.

  Her bedroom light was still on from the night before and she switched it off. Daylight illuminated the mess she’d left, clothes lolling from the suitcase that Poppy, then she, had raided. Textures and colours were slumped on top of one another,
and she dropped down to join them.

  One at a time she lifted each piece and put it away. She knew what she was going to do with them, that they weren’t long for this world, but still she was surprised to feel a vague nostalgia – a pride in them.

  A kimono had wide sleeves and a matching belt – brocade flowers in olive green and white on pink silk. Now she would have cropped the sleeves and shortened the length, probably have avoided experimenting in the Japanese style altogether. Still – it had beauty.

  She’d made a cream boyfriend sweater in wool that she’d learned to sew with silk thread. The oversized style was still relevant, and she fingered the detailing, the chunky weaves of wool she’d plaited by herself and fastened like military sashes in an X across front and back.

  A mid-length A-line skirt was made with taffeta, and Apple remembered stripping the crisp navy fabric by hand, layering it in lengths to look like feathers – the shape full, textured, tasselled.

  The pale angora pieces were at the bottom of the case, the trans-seasonal sets she’d detailed with silk. The fluttering fine silk, trimmed and panelled; the plush, undyed yarn of a blouse, a tank, a collared knit, and a T-shirt that had at first brought so much praise.

  Now shame swelled and Apple dropped the pieces, closing them inside the suitcases. Frankfurt loped onto one, looking worried, his brown eyes watching her as he made to lie down. She carefully lifted him off and picked up a suitcase in each hand.

  She went out through the courtyard and into the laneway at the back, propped the cases by the rubbish bins then stood looking at them. Frankie began to mewl in the courtyard. Apple gathered him up as she went back in, saying, ‘They’re no good to me now.’

  He licked her face, but it was barely a comfort.

  The mornings were starting to cool, and Apple left her jacket on as she turned on the heating and the music in the store. She was half an hour early, as she tried to be on Mondays so that she had time to remedy the various failures of the casual staff from the day before.

  Harriet’s Loom would never have opened on a Sunday, but nowadays Veronica thought weekend trade too lucrative to ignore, and she didn’t like the obsolescence that being closed on the weekend implied. But as neither she nor Apple wished to work seven days, Sunday had become the day when those less qualified ruled the roost.