Quentin and Tilly stared as she strode towards them, confidence shaky, fabric dangling. She felt inexperienced and underqualified.
‘What’s that?’ Tilly asked.
Apple reached for a pencil, glancing around for a Loom lookbook. She found one and slid it in front of her, turning pages. ‘Loom is high-end, right? Obviously, you know that, you design it.’
‘Sure,’ the others said.
Apple stopped when she reached a picture of a model in a Loom short black dress and a boyfriend blazer draped to her thigh. ‘This look is neat. Agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘So I’m thinking what we need . . .’ – Apple lightly traced her pencil over the model’s foot – ‘is just a little conflict. A clash. Your designs are lovely, perfect, your designs are Loom. But it’s almost too much of the one thing if we go the same way with the footwear. Do you know what I mean?’
She took the scrap of leather, laying a corner of it across the model’s foot.
‘I think we need something “uglier” than what you’ve done – if we’re going to win over Veronica. Shoes are new for her and I think she wants them to feel new, not more of the same. We need juxtaposition, conflict . . . grittiness? Something that contrasts with the understated elegance of Loom’s clothes.’ The scrap of fabric looked imperfect and artless. It would work. ‘Squint,’ she said.
The others stepped back to get some perspective.
‘So we’re talking dust, dirt, utility?’ Quentin’s eyes narrowed.
‘We could do some military booties,’ Tilly said.
Quentin was nodding. ‘I feel the Loom clientele is conservative and a bit prissy, so technically this shouldn’t work. But it could, in the sense that they all kind of wish they weren’t conservative and prissy – is that it? Like they’d all secretly love the opportunity to make their friends think twice about them.’
Apple was glad they were already making the idea their own. ‘Sure.’
‘It could be genius, who knows?’ Quentin sighed. ‘Take it. Footwear is your portfolio if you’ll have it. Take it away!’
The sound of Veronica’s heels on the steel stairs made Apple look up.
Outside it was dark and she was confused. She hadn’t moved from her chair since her meeting with Quentin and Tilly. The day was over and she felt robbed of time; she was so used to counting down the hours in the store.
‘Look at you three, working in the gloom.’ Veronica powered on the lights. ‘How did you go? Success?’
Apple dropped her pencil and flexed her wrist. Veronica stared at the wad of sketch paper beside her.
‘Good Lord. You are a studious little anomaly.’
‘I’m nervous,’ Apple said. ‘I’ve taken us a little off-brand.’
Veronica frowned. ‘Show.’
Apple presented the ripped fabric, framed on the first page of her book. ‘That’s it. That explains the idea.’
Veronica took the book and flicked through it. When she reached the final page, she hesitated. ‘Yes. I think I like it.’
‘You do?’
She patted Apple’s shoulder then strode back to the stairs. ‘See you here tomorrow. Expand the idea, take it across a variety of styles.’
After she’d gone, Tilly swung around in her chair and clapped her hands. ‘Well, would you believe it? Honestly, thank God, well done.’
‘Thank God,’ Quentin moaned. ‘We’ve been coming back to the fucking shoes for months. And you know, I just realised I know you.’
Apple thought of Emmaline Gray and her anxiety spiked.
‘Are you the Collins Street store manager?’
‘Oh,’ Apple said. ‘Yes.’
‘Your voice was so familiar, but I always thought you were saying April on the phone! I wish my parents had given me a colourful name. I’d have liked Purple Rain!’
Apple was glad that the store was the only place Quentin recognised her from, but wondered if this made her seem like an imposter, inadequate.
‘From shop girl to designer? How does that happen?’
‘I design a little . . . at home,’ Apple almost wanted to mention Emmaline Gray to prove her worth, but if Tilly or Quentin had heard anything about her time there it wouldn’t be her worth that they’d think of first. ‘I guess Veronica was kind enough to consider trialling me in the real world. Lucky me.’
‘From a hobby to a whole season of shoes?’ Tilly said. ‘Wow, here to help any time.’
‘I’m sure I’ll take you up on that.’
‘Do you want to hear the latest?’ Jackson asked when Apple answered the phone a week later.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Nine thirty, I open the doors. Crazy bitch reeking of peroxide and Chanel No. 5 comes in brandishing a pair of leather pants she’d bought last week and complains that the leather cleaning specialist she’d taken them to couldn’t remove the nail lacquer she’d spilled down the leg, and that if it were quality leather the lacquer would have come off, wants a full fucking refund! Kill me, I beg you to bring death to my mind and body.’
‘I like your mind and body.’
‘Can you believe I’ve called you daily with a new desperate whine? I feel like you must have been the bringer of peace in this place. It’s been like the zombie apocalypse since you left.’
‘You have a crack at being the bringer of peace.’
‘LOL. I’m a known warmonger. How’s it going out your way, anyway?’
Apple swivelled in her soft leather chair, gazing about the high-ceilinged space. Winter sun flooded through the skylights and windows, one left open a crack to let in the fresh bay breeze.
‘It’s awful.’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘It’s amazing.’
‘Don’t brag.’
‘I’m pinching myself. I’m in here in my own tailor-made pants, whatever shoes I like, F-all make-up, and I have a pencil in my hand almost every hour of the day.’
‘Thanks, arsehole. But seriously, what do you actually do? Like, are you doing clothes?’
‘I’ve been working on the shoe line. Just designing, contacting manufacturers, discussing feasibility, all that.’
‘What a mind fuck. Knowing what heel heights work and what shapes hold a foot upright – completely different beast to patternmaking.’
Apple rested her knees against the desk. ‘I can’t believe how quickly things can change. The store is already beginning to feel like a very distant dream.’
‘You know it’s still my reality?’
‘But you’re indispensable. Women love when you give them attention. You’re magnetic, and you love loving or hating every person who walks through that door.’
‘Don’t sweet talk me from your ivory tower.’
Apple sighed.
‘You know, the only thing that makes me want to stick around is that soon I’ll be selling the wares of a ball-tearingly hot designer. Hurry up. Deliver.’
Apple heard the downstairs door open.
‘I have to go. V’s here.’
‘Enjoy your posh fucking day.’
Veronica clanked up the stairs.
‘This just arrived for you.’ She put a box on Apple’s desk – matte white, lid embossed with a feather print and ‘P&L’.
Apple smiled as she read the handwritten swing tag and Veronica glanced away before peering back. ‘What is it?’
A thick piece of letterpressed card lay among grey speckled duck feathers inside. ‘My sister’s wedding invitation.’
Veronica reached out. ‘What’s old is new. Letterpress is so on-trend.’
Apple’s phone rang and they saw Poppy’s name.
‘You can answer it.’ Veronica sighed. ‘Tell her congratulations, or whatever they say. It’s hardly going to last, it never does . . .’ She wandered away.
Apple picked up her phone and said, ‘Invitation has landed. I love it.’
There was a wait.
‘Oh, oh yes,’ Poppy said. ‘That’s . . . that’s
good you like it.’ She was distant, distracted. ‘Can you talk? In private?’
Apple got up from her chair and mimed to Veronica that she was going downstairs. Once down, she stepped outside.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Dad,’ Poppy said. ‘He died.’
Goosebumps spread. ‘What?’
‘He died.’
Apple blinked, seeing nothing.
‘God,’ she said. ‘How?’
‘Cancer. He died a few days ago. Someone called Mum. Mum called me.’
‘Is she okay?’
‘A bit upset, but also kind of . . . relieved-sounding.’
Apple stared down at the pavement, bricks cold against her back.
‘What shall we do?’ Poppy said.
‘I don’t know . . . I guess nothing. Is there anything to do?’
‘Do we go to the funeral?’
Apple’s skin prickled. ‘No.’
‘Good, I don’t want to.’
There was silence.
‘Anyway,’ said Poppy after a while, ‘that’s all, I guess.’
Apple’s mind felt somehow full and empty: there was too much to take in but nothing really to think about. ‘Bye, then.’
She stood a while, arms heavy by her sides, until the steel door opened and Veronica appeared. ‘What’s wrong?’
Apple wasn’t sure.
‘You haven’t taken lunch yet.’ Veronica glanced at her watch.
‘It’s almost three. Go eat, then take the rest of the day. You’ve been here late every night and look like a ghost. It’s ghastly. Bye.’
‘I’m fine—’
Veronica shooed her like a bird. ‘Go to Café Carel – it’s barely ten minutes’ drive. They make a cure-all gruyere croque monsieur.’
If Veronica hadn’t given her directions, Apple wouldn’t have found the cafe hidden in Albert Park’s affluent backstreets. The sign over the building was faded, but the peeling plastic outdoor table settings were all taken.
She sat in the ute, wanting to get out but feeling unsure how. She wanted to open the door but her arms were like jelly. A sob rose up. She tried to swallow it but it hurt, and the sob escaped, then another. She tried to catch her breath but she was crying, gulping, head on the steering wheel as her body convulsed, tears stinging before they freckled her pants.
Her phone rang – Poppy’s name again.
‘Hey.’ She tried to catch her breath.
‘Hey.’ Poppy sounded hoarse. ‘Are you crying too?’
Apple sobbed.
Poppy wailed.
‘I feel so awful!’ Apple said.
‘I want to be sick! I feel so shocked. And sad.’
‘We didn’t even know him.’
‘He was the only fucking Dad we’ll ever have.’
‘I feel so angry.’
‘I’m so angry!’
Apple felt a lifetime of grief and rage wash over her. She thumped the steering wheel. An empty silence soon settled and she slid back in her seat, staring ahead vacantly.
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘I love you.’
There was silence.
‘I’m going to call Mum again,’ Poppy soon said, sniffing.
‘Tell her I love her, too.’
Apple held the phone in her lap, her gaze drifting to the people in the cafe. There were too many thoughts to be had, but it seemed better to have none at all, and she doubted there was anything worth thinking anyway. It was over. Her dad had never been there for her, and now he never would be. Nothing and everything had changed. She felt both deeply sad and deeply relieved.
A man dressed in a striped apron and tatty loafers smiled as Apple opened the door to Café Carel. ‘Table for one?’
‘I was sent by a friend.’ Apple managed a smile, conscious of her red, mottled face. ‘Something about a gruyere croque monsieur?’
‘The cure-all!’ He beamed. ‘There’s a little seat right there in the window with your name on it. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right with you.’
Apple thanked him and moved through the crowded tables, angling for the small space that overlooked the street. Something touched her hand. She glanced down.
‘Wouldn’t it be more comfortable here?’
Charlie was smiling up at her from a table.
At first Apple stood dumbly, then she laughed and bent forward to hug him as words tumbled out, her mind scrambled. ‘It’s here, around here, your house. I forgot. But then I always think of it when I drive through because it’s so close to work now. Noah mentioned your family, your house—’
‘And here we are. The family.’ Charlie presented his sister, and an older man Apple didn’t recognise.
‘Hello, sorry.’ She pushed hair from her face. ‘What is this place? My boss told me . . . Does everyone know about it but me?’
‘Only everyone in this neighbourhood. And that’s such great news that you’ve started designing. Noah told me.’ Charlie pulled out a chair. ‘Let’s celebrate.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t, I’ll leave you to your family.’ Apple made to move.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He took her hand. ‘Sit. This is Richard, my dad, and by Jill’s squeal when you entered I’m confident you remember each other.’
‘I didn’t squeal, Charlie. I just said, “It’s Apple!”’
‘It’s Jill!’ Apple beamed, sliding into her seat.
Richard Beauchamp looked not unlike his children and Apple knew she’d like him.
‘Will you be joining us for caffeine and macarons?’ he said. ‘I try to take the kiddies out for a treat once a week when I can. Partake in our little ritual?’
‘Join us kiddies.’ Charlie tried not to smile.
Richard waved a hand around, beckoning the waiter. ‘What do you feel like?’
‘Your regular order is on its way, Richard, and the lady has requested the cure-all.’ The waiter busily dusted a crumb from their table. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘Not for me,’ Apple said.
‘What’s the cure for?’ Charlie asked as the waiter left. ‘Or do you just love their croque monsieur as much as we do?’
‘The cure?’ Apple began. ‘Well . . . my dad just died.’ She heard herself laugh, brief and strange, before her gaze fell to the table.
There was silence before Charlie’s hand rested on her shoulder. ‘Oh, Apple.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, fearing the emotion his kindness invited. ‘I don’t know . . . I didn’t know him, not at all, it’s just . . .’
‘You never knew him?’ Richard rested his chin on his hand.
Apple shook her head, swallowing. ‘He left us when I was little. He was an alcoholic. He . . .’ Tears welled and she grabbed a serviette, blotting her face, shaky hand fanning. ‘Anyway.’
Her smile wobbled as Richard reached out his worn, warm hand to pet her tense, cold one. They stayed that way a while until he spoke.
‘You know, I’m proud of my family. We’ve been blessed in many ways, but it hasn’t all been plain sailing. The Beauchamps have had generations of blunders and embarrassment. It’s just that living in the public eye means we’ve had to do a good job of hiding it.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘All families are broken somewhere along the line.’
‘You should be proud of your family.’ Apple lifted her gaze to Charlie. ‘I think you can certainly be proud.’
He put an arm over her shoulders. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I am now.’ She smiled gently, and he looked relieved.
‘I think you need one of their hot chocolates as well as the food – they’re an equal if not superior cure-all, made with organic cream. Waiter!’
Their food came and they sat there for the rest of the afternoon. When staff began wiping tables and stacking chairs, Apple felt suddenly forlorn, sad that it was ending and that the Beauchamps wouldn’t be taking her home with them.
‘I hope we didn’t hijack your afternoon,’ Charlie said as they gath
ered outside. ‘I’m just so sorry – about your news.’ He touched her face, and Apple suppressed an urge to close her eyes and hold his hand against her cheek.
‘Your family was exactly what I needed.’
Charlie looked doubtful. ‘Well, you certainly brightened their day.’
Jill hugged Apple from behind.
‘Can I offer you a lift, Apple?’ Richard said. ‘We walked from the house, but I can have the driver bring the car around if you need to go somewhere.’
‘Apple has her own transport, Dad.’ Charlie clapped Richard’s back. ‘Let’s let her go.’
‘But thank you anyway. And thank you for . . . well, thanks . . .’ Apple trailed off. She waved goodbye, feeling she should hurry away, prove she had somewhere better to be.
When she reached her Morris, she glanced back to see the Beauchamps ambling away down the tree-lined street together: Jill, all grown woman, was tucked happily under her father’s arm, and Apple felt a hollow pang as she drew her gaze away.
17
Apple tried to feed the parking meter on Collins Street and a coin fell. She caught it and stuffed it breathlessly into the slot.
‘Hello.’ She answered her phone as she hurried down the street.
‘Hey,’ Poppy said.
They’d spoken again on the night they got the news of their father’s death, but not in the days since.
‘How are you?’
‘Are you in the city, by any chance?’
‘Um, yes, but not for long. I’m buying shoe samples on Flinders Lane.’
‘Text me where,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ll tram down.’
Apple was at the counter paying when Poppy appeared, tucking her hair hurriedly behind her ears.
‘You only do that when you’re excited or nervous,’ Apple said.
‘Only do what?’
‘This.’ Apple started tucking hair behind her ear, and Poppy frowned then chaperoned her out the door. They hugged when they were on the street.
‘What is it?’
Poppy swallowed, tucking her hair again. ‘A lawyer called.’
Apple adjusted her grip on the paper shopping bag.
‘A lawyer called and said that you and I are entitled to contest Dad’s will.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Poppy cleared her throat. ‘Dad was worth a few million.’
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 17