Apple frowned.
‘If you and I were to contest his will, we could get thousands, hundreds of thousands.’
Apple felt strange, light-headed, inexplicably repelled by Poppy’s words. ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’
‘Dad left his estate to his wife,’ Poppy said. ‘But we can contest it.’
‘What are you saying? It sounds awful.’
‘It’s no more awful than our father. We should definitely do it. That man robbed us of so much. Remuneration is the least we deserve.’
Apple felt like she was in a dream, the pace of things a little too fast, and she didn’t like the hunger in Poppy’s voice, the need.
‘This isn’t right.’
‘What isn’t?’ Poppy said. ‘What Mum said over coffee was right: think what we could do with the support – the wedding, your career, my career.’
‘No.’ Apple said faintly. ‘I don’t like this. I’m not thinking about it.’
‘There’s nothing to think about. We’re his only descendants. We just have to talk to the lawyers. It’s an easy win.’
‘It doesn’t feel like winning.’
‘Well, it is. Can you sit down?’ Poppy sat on a nearby bench, hand outstretched, but Apple stepped away, feeling vaguely claustrophobic, panicked.
‘I have to go. I have to work.’ She hurried away up the street. Veronica gave a little clap as Apple started unpacking booties, ballet flats, boat shoes, brogues, mules and pumps onto her desk.
She lifted a heeled gladiator. ‘Phenomenal Puccis. Did you get them all in my size?’
‘All thirty-nines,’ Apple said. ‘They’re yours once I’m done.’
Veronica slid into a pair of kitten-heel mules and stalked around in them. ‘I can’t believe these are back. The Olsens, Céline. What do you think? I find them foul.’
Apple shrugged, not in the mood for banter. ‘Can I borrow your cloth scissors?’ she asked Quentin.
‘They’re freshly honed.’ He handed them over.
She left Veronica to admire the new samples, then rifled through a secondary selection she’d collected on the way home from the boutiques. She’d raided two charity shops and filled a canvas tote with expendable secondhand pairs, and now Quentin’s scissors took the old collection mercilessly apart, exposing the lining and composition.
‘Your vintage investigation is quite unnecessary and considerably rank.’ Veronica stood over Apple. ‘Our manufacturers are there to worry about that; you don’t need to make the damn shoe.’
‘I’m learning.’ Apple didn’t look up.
‘Your thoroughness is exhausting. What do you think of this Miu Miu pump, anyway? The three-inch block heel is as inelegant as dogs’ balls, but they’ve refined it with these considerable ballerina ribbons. I don’t know, though, I’m not quite convinced.’
Apple took the shoes, welcoming the distraction, as thoughts of Poppy and her revelation had started seeping pervasively in. ‘They’re not classic, if that’s what you’re saying,’ she said. ‘But they’d suit someone, an Anna Dello Russo type, and with the girth of that heel and the ribbon fastening, you could probably run in them.’
Veronica sniffed, discarding them on the table. ‘Dello Russo? The Japanese Vogue editor? I like her style, but I’m not convinced; those shoes are beyond me.’
At day’s end, Apple stuffed her bag with the old shoes and a pair of pliers; she wasn’t in the mood for working on Poppy’s dress at home, but needed a distraction. She threw the bag on the passenger seat of the Morris and put the ute into gear. Suddenly Noah appeared, his face framed in the passenger window.
‘I’ve been watching you.’ He glanced up at the second floor. ‘You didn’t once notice.’
‘Was I supposed to?’ Apple was glad to see him.
‘You look sexy when you’re concentrating.’ He climbed into the car. ‘Made me want to see you concentrate while I kiss you.’
Apple brought her nose to meet his, felt his stubble graze her chin.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he said. ‘Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages, and you haven’t answered my texts.’
‘Sorry, I know . . . It’s been . . . I’ve just been so consumed by this new role. It’s great, but—’
Noah slid a hand under her hair. His fingers stroked the nape of her neck, before his palm cupped the back of her head and he kissed her. ‘I’ve felt deprived. Now I’m starving. Feel my dick. Feel how starving.’
Apple laughed, reluctantly.
‘Don’t laugh at my dick, you’ll make it go down.’ He was smiling.
‘That’s fine. I’m tired.’
‘It’s not fine.’ Noah unclipped her seatbelt, drew her towards him, and his mouth went to her throat. He paused then raised his head again so that they were eye to eye, and used the tips of his fingers to slide her eyelids closed.
‘What?’
‘Shh. Think about whatever it is that’s stopping you from wanting me to take your clothes off . . . and tell me when you’re thinking about it.’
Apple thought about Poppy, lawyers, her dead dad.
‘Are you thinking about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now ball it up and throw it away.’
A faint smile appeared on Apple’s face.
‘I’ve opened the window,’ Noah said. ‘Throw it out.’
‘It’s out,’ she said. ‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Now in place of all of those thoughts: my rock hard dick. My rock hard dick, no one else’s.’
‘Can’t it be someone else’s?’
‘Don’t rile me.’ Noah kissed her mouth, throat, chest, arm, and Apple responded, needing his uncomplicated urgency. She batted the gearstick out of the way and he pulled her long across the seats, sliding her legs around him as he unfastened his pants.
‘Can you see a middle-aged woman climbing into a four-wheel drive?’ she asked. ‘Walking around? Anywhere?’
Noah peered up. ‘Nope. It’s dark.’
‘Look again. It could be my boss.’
Noah pulled off his shirt, brushing Apple’s mouth with his stomach as he jammed the shirt through the window so it hung like a curtain.
‘A man’s shirt in my window will be like a red rag to a bull.’
‘Give a fuck.’ Noah yanked it down, tore aside Apple’s knickers and thrust inside.
They left the Morris at the warehouse and headed home in the comfort of Noah’s four-wheel drive, stopping off for takeaway en route. Ginny phoned as they were climbing out of the car to pick up the food. Apple leaned against the door, waving Noah on.
‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Hello, darling. How are you? I was a bit worried about you – I just spoke to Poppy.’
Apple had balled the thoughts up and thrown them out the window. She didn’t want to find and unfurl them. ‘Mum, I—’
‘Don’t worry. I’m as shocked as you are about all this inheritance madness, but I was concerned when Poppy said you refused to talk about it. I thought maybe you’d like to speak to me. It must feel complicated.’
‘I don’t need to talk, Mum, there’s nothing to say.’ Apple could see Noah paying inside the Malaysian shop and wished he’d hurry, give her an escape. She climbed back into the car and started the engine and heater.
‘The money could be a help, sweetie. It’s the least you and Poppy are owed.’
‘We’re not owed anything,’ Apple said as Noah got in. ‘Sorry, Mum, I have to go. Love you.’
Noah placed the food at Apple’s feet and she dropped the phone in her lap and sighed as she tugged at a shred of oily roti from the bag.
‘What aren’t you owed?’ Noah put the car in gear.
Apple chewed before replying. ‘My dead father’s money.’
‘Your dad died?’
Apple ate some more bread. ‘Yes.’
‘Jesus. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ she said, then wondered. ‘What would you do?’
‘What about?’ Noah glanced over.
‘About money that wasn’t intended for you. Would you fight to get it?’
‘Probably.’ He shrugged. ‘If it was rightfully mine. That’s how half the world gets rich: fighting and inheritance. Get what you can, I say.’
Apple pulled the oily bag of bread onto her lap and ate compulsively the rest of the way home. By the time they reached her front door she was full: of bread, uncertainty and an unmistakable, swelling loneliness.
18
Apple’s Morris was still parked out the front of the Loom warehouse when Noah dropped her there the following day. As she climbed from his car, she noticed something hanging from the wing mirror.
‘Did we leave that there?’ Noah reversed up beside her and gazed at the flimsy lace thong dancing in the bay breeze.
‘Did we leave underwear hanging on my car? Why would we do that?’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ He reached out to squeeze her arse. ‘Have a good day, honey. Oh, and everyone’s going to the croquet tournament on the weekend, and I have tickets for us.’ He waved, driving away as Apple used a stick to lever the lingerie from her car to a bin.
Laughter rang down from the studio as she let herself in, and when she reached the top of the stairs, Veronica hooted. Quentin looked momentarily contrite before he cackled too, and Tilly tried to look apologetic.
‘Good morning.’ Apple strolled to her desk and pulled out her sketchbook. ‘Is something funny?’
‘Don’t pretend.’ Veronica could barely speak for laughing. ‘If you’re going to rut in plain view of my establishment, prepare to atone. You’re going to be ambushed by stray knickers all week, the same way I was ambushed by the muscular arse of that redhead last night. Your brazenness shocks me, March.’
A message from Jackson appeared on her phone. Warning. Veronica proving how depraved she is by decorating your car with panties. Thought was so funny she called store this morning just to divulge how especially hilarious gag was. PS: You’re a slut.
Apple glanced at Veronica. ‘Been doing some PR for your stunt?’
‘No one gets laid in public unless they want to get caught.’
‘Shut up,’ Apple said, louder than she’d expected.
‘Ooh,’ Veronica mocked, but quieter, and everyone went back to what they’d been doing.
Apple felt bad for not laughing. The gag was hardly funny, though she could have just tittered. But she didn’t even want to smile. Noah’s body had filled the bed all night, and his words filled her mind – along with Poppy’s and Ginny’s. She couldn’t rid her thoughts of the father she’d never known, of courts, of legal proceedings, of the widow she’d never seen, hoped never to.
She put on headphones and didn’t move from her desk until the clock showed midday. She left the warehouse without saying goodbye. When she arrived at Café Carel she was relieved to find it heaving; she needed the anonymity of the backstreet haunt.
She was halfway to the door when she heard a voice and smiled, in spite of herself.
‘So this is going to be your regular now?’ Charlie said, and she turned to find him watching her, an olive green cap pulled low, newspaper spread as he sipped his espresso at a table outside. ‘Well?’
Apple tried to think of something funny to say, but felt too addled, and when she opened her mouth his phone rang. He answered it and motioned for her to sit. She hesitated, unsure if even Charlie’s energy would be enough to ease her mood – she didn’t want to burden him with it otherwise.
He glanced up, frowning, motioning again, and she sank into the chair opposite.
Charlie laughed at something the caller said, fingering the brim of his cap, and Apple took off her coat and sunglasses. Freckles of sunlight fell through the overhanging plane tree, warming the fine wool of her sweater.
‘Gruyere croque monsieur, please?’ she asked a passing waiter.
Charlie was putting his phone away. ‘I think you’re lying about working, I think you come all the way out here just to be seen at Café Carel with the pretentious Albert Park set.’ He leaned over the table to peck her cheek and Apple smelled coffee.
‘Glass houses,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if this was your fifth cafe stint of the day.’
‘Third. That’s work. And I’ve just set up another meeting on the green.’
‘Golf?’
‘You think I’m that smarmy and common? Croquet, please – a civilised British game that gets everyone in the right mood, especially with a little Pimm’s to carry things along.’
‘You’re so hoity-toity.’ Apple prodded his shin with her toe and he snatched her ankle.
‘Don’t kick.’ He gripped, and she smiled. She was aware that she could shake him off but she was enjoying the grasp, the—
The waiter set down Apple’s lunch and she pulled her leg away.
‘Would you like to share?’ She offered Charlie her toasted sandwich.
‘No, thank you. I have a lunch meeting soon – God, I can’t remember where.’ Charlie rubbed his eyes. ‘My assistant will know. Some Italian bistro, top end of town.’
‘Sounds awful,’ Apple said, and was surprised when Charlie sighed, lolling his head back.
‘I do wonder sometimes. Look at you, your life – you create things, every day. You go off into your imagination and come out with something new, something no one else could ever replicate, and sometimes . . .’ He pulled off his hat to scruff his hair. ‘Sometimes I just feel like a glorified maintenance man.’
‘I don’t feel bad for you.’
‘I know.’ He sighed again. ‘I don’t deserve it.’
‘Apple laughed. ‘You’re the happiest person I know.’
‘I am not. My life’s sending me prematurely grey. Look.’ He bent his head.
‘Oh yes, there’s quite a farm of white, wiry ones.’
‘Is there?’ Charlie drew back and she laughed.
‘You’ve got a very rich, virile head of hair.’
‘Thank God for that.’
The waiter delivered another coffee and Charlie leaned back, taking her in.
‘So this can no longer be my hiding spot,’ he said. ‘You’ve found me.’
‘And now this is my hiding spot.’
‘I can share . . . Who are you hiding from?’
‘I don’t know,’ Apple said. ‘No one, really.’
Charlie picked up a half of her toastie and took a bite. ‘I just told you my concerns. Tell me yours.’
‘What were yours? Imaginary grey hairs?’
‘They’re real.’
He was gazing at her, smile soft, and her uneasiness bloomed, Charlie’s attention eroding her ability to conceal her discontent.
She scrunched a serviette. ‘I feel crap.’
‘Why?’
Apple explained, then said, ‘And so now Poppy wants us to contest the will, but I just can’t stand it, the idea of it, of any of it.’
Charlie waited, his expectant gaze egging her on, and Apple kept going, despite not wanting to.
‘Is something wrong with me? Poppy’s excited because she thinks she can use the money for the wedding and a business, and that I could use it to start my own business too. And that’s a great theory, but the whole thing feels so foul, ugly and desperate, and like, I want to run so far away . . . Is it . . .? Am I being crazy?’
‘Of course not,’ Charlie said without pause. ‘That’s exactly how I’d feel. “Poisonous pennies” is what my grandfather used to say, “Don’t deal in poisonous pennies.” Dad says it too, though I admit he’s not the purist Gramps was. Money’s just like any other relationship, at least that’s what I think. If it’s a negative one, it will sap you, leave you with nothing. You should always avoid negative deals, and not take money from someone you don’t trust; don’t trade in things you don’t believe in . . . It’s commonsense.’
Apple thought about it before leaning back with a sigh. ‘Your family seems so . . . perfect.’
/> Charlie’s smile was doubtful. ‘Hardly, but I do like these principles. You have to live with yourself first and foremost, behave in a way you feel proud of. I’m sure that’s commonsense to you too.’
Apple gazed at him, liked how at ease he seemed, how self-assured.
‘I just have no doubt that everything you need, you will receive. I wouldn’t waste time looking for it in places that don’t inspire.’
A smile crept onto Apple’s face. Her hand fell to the table and she patted Charlie’s hand. ‘I should have spoken to you yesterday.’
He gently squeezed her hand, and Apple’s eyes fluttered closed, the winter sun warm on her back.
‘Damn, duty calls.’ Charlie suddenly stood. ‘This is far more gratifying than talking to old men about nothing, but no rest . . .’ He left a kiss on her cheek, hesitating. ‘Will I be seeing you at the croquet tournament? The charity match?’
‘Yes, Noah mentioned it.’
‘Oh good. Well, come, I’d like you . . . It would be nice, anyway, to see you.’ Charlie said, walking backwards, finally breaking her gaze to step down the kerb.
Apple watched him drive away and finished her food alone, flicking through the newspaper before wiping her fingers on a napkin. She left money on the plate, then returned to her ute to see that Poppy had called, leaving a voicemail. Apple sat a while, debating whether to listen, her finger hovering over the button before she pressed it.
‘Apple, it’s me,’ the message began, and Poppy sounded like she’d been crying. ‘I, I feel really annoyed about your attitude to all of this. You’re being selfish and—’
Apple hung up and put the phone down, wondering what to do. Finding no answer, she started the car.
Veronica beckoned when she returned to the warehouse.
‘Apple. Is your passport valid?’
Apple was halfway to her desk. ‘I—’
‘Make sure it is, else we’ll have to get it expedited. Feel like getting away?’
Getting away was exactly what Apple felt like.
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, bewildered. ‘What are . . .? Where am I going?’
‘Vietnam,’ Veronica said simply. ‘Manufacturing screwed up. I’d planned for you to go later in the year but now you’ll go at once, with Tilly. Shoes are new to all of us, so best if you’re together and Tilly will show you the ropes. The flight’s on Monday.’
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 18