Apple wanted to call Poppy and Ginny on the way home. Her finger wavered over one name, then the other. But even if the conversation started with news of the trip, it would end with talk of her father, and the rest.
She endured the excitement alone until she was home. She jogged upstairs and rifled through the drawer of her desk for her passport. It wasn’t there, so she tried the next drawer, then the next, and was glad when she found the little navy wallet tucked in the bottom one. She opened it – relieved to see that its expiry was years away.
She flicked through, spying the most recent trip, seven years ago, and she stiffened, remembering the Maldives: that once idyllic, now shameful, week with Paul.
Passport good, she messaged Veronica.
Excellent. And I’ve just purchased us all a rug at the croquet. Tilly & Quentin coming, Jackson’s bringing Arabella. See you there.
Fuck, came a message from Jackson. Veronica bought tix to croquet without asking. What a bore. You are coming.
Noah’s taking me.
I’m sitting with you.
Apple sat down at her desk, scooped Frankie up and draped him across her lap. A piece of tan calf leather was pegged under the foot of her sewing machine. She released it and slid it across the dog’s little back to check once more that the size was right – it seemed so small. The tailored rectangle folded down to his middle like she hoped. She switched on the Bernina and began sewing buckles to straps then attaching them to the leather.
‘Here’s your fancy bun, sausage.’
She fastened the coat around Frankie then set him on the ground. At first he did nothing but stare confusedly up at her, then he twisted in a circle, trying to see himself, before galloping across the room and rolling on the carpet. Apple wondered if he was celebrating or lamenting his new garb.
He bolted back across the room and jumped up on the chair.
‘Thanks, Charlie. The Bernina made light work of that leather, didn’t it Frankie?’
She stroked his head in the pool of light from the sewing machine and Frankie licked her face before she put him down again. Then she collected the leftover leather, smoothing the soft calf skin that was too beautiful to discard.
She draped it across her hand, flexed her fingers, and an idea came. She got up to find a pair of lambskin gloves that Ginny and Poppy had given her for her twenty-first birthday, then examined them: a driving style – fingerless, with ventilation holes at the joints and knuckles and a small strap that fastened at the wrist.
‘Would a glove help or hinder a man’s croquet game?’ she asked Frankie.
19
The Peninsula Croquet Meet for Childhood Leukaemia was held annually at Red Hill – inland on the Mornington Peninsula, an hour and a half from town: expensive estates, vineyards, truffle farms. Apple searched the address, packed a picnic into her ute, and returned to the apartment for her trench.
‘Knock knock?’ someone called through the open door.
Apple returned to find a stranger in a suit on the threshold, a kind smile on his face. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Andrew,’ he said. ‘I have Jill Beauchamp in the car. We’re taking you to Red Hill.’
Apple stared. ‘Hang on.’ She closed the door and dialled Charlie’s number.
‘Hello?’ he answered.
‘Why is Andrew at my door?’
‘To bring you to the meet.’
‘I’m driving.’
‘Can you be driven instead?’ Charlie had a smile in his voice. ‘You won’t be able to enjoy the Pimm’s if you drive.’
Apple sighed. ‘Fine.’
She apologised to Andrew when she reopened the door. ‘Charlie forgot to tell me you’d be coming.’
‘Well, whenever you’re ready.’
She found her coat and Andrew led the way before he swung open the door of the Bentley.
‘Apple! Hello!’ Jill waved from the rear seat as she shuffled to make room. ‘This is my best friend, Becky.’
‘Hi.’ Apple recognised her friend from the birthday.
‘Ooh, I love that asymmetric zip up the back of your dress!’ Jill tried to see as Apple slid into the car. ‘Oh feel it, it’s so thick but stretchy, and that folded one-shoulder-strap detail . . .! So elegant in jet black.’ She fingered the shoulder then sat back, breathless. ‘Where’s it from?’
Apple laughed a little. ‘Oh . . . I made it.’
‘Shut. Up.’ Jill peered close. ‘No way. You are straight fire. I’m speechless.’
‘Oh, my picnic.’ Apple unclipped her belt again. ‘Sorry, it’s in my car—’
‘Silly! There’ll be catering. Haven’t you ever been?’
‘Um, no . . .’ Apple refastened her belt, feeling foolish.
‘You’ll love it. It’s like the polo but with dapper argyle and Pimm’s instead of La Martina and Peroni. It’s so much more civilised and everyone is there.’
Jill’s chatter filled the entire journey, and Apple liked her guilelessness, her lack of trying to be anyone other than exactly who she was.
An hour and a half from the city, they turned into a driveway lined by cypresses, ‘HUNTINGTON’ in large letters on the high iron gates.
‘Is this . . .?’
‘The Huntingtons’ house? Yes.’ Jill said as Andrew found a parking space behind a hedge. ‘Have you met Heidi?’
‘I have. This is her place?’
‘One of the family’s. They host the tournament here every year.’
Apple tried to glimpse the sprawling mansion behind the neatly pruned trees.
‘You’ll have a ball,’ Jill was saying. ‘Guests buy a picnic space, or two, or ten, and it’s for a good cause, though Daddy says it’s just a tax write-off and an excuse to dress up and drink.’ She grinned. ‘Personally, I’m here for the Pimm’s and the perving.’
‘Fun.’
A path flanked by a hedge led to a vast lawn with a lake in the distance. Picnic rugs lined the perimeter of a croquet court, and arching ivory domes and parasols made canopies; feathered papier-mâché flamingos were staked in the grass like proud, blushing mascots.
A waiter with a bottle of Perrier-Jouët stood beside a vacant rug with a little sign that read ‘Beauchamp’.
‘Champagne then Pimm’s?’ Jill handed Apple a glass.
Her phone pinged. A message from Poppy. We need to talk. Apple’s heart sank. She didn’t want to leave for Vietnam without talking to her sister, but neither did she really feel like talking to her.
‘No phones. It’s a tech-free event,’ Jill complained, as a waiter delivered a tray of club sandwiches to the rug.
‘That’s rubbish,’ Becky said. ‘No one cares.’
‘It was just my sister.’ Apple put her phone away.
‘Is she coming?’ Jill clapped. ‘Squad!’
‘No, she’s not.’
‘Oh.’
‘Here come the players!’ A megaphone announced.
Jill jumped to her feet. ‘Go, Charlie!’
He was striding across the lawn with the players, trousers cuffed above soft-looking leather shoes, a demi-mitt on one hand from which he swung a mallet back and forth.
‘Charlie!’ Jill yelled again, and his head turned, eyes searching the crowd before he found them and smiled, dipping his hat.
‘Such a show-off.’ Jill giggled. ‘He thinks he’s an athlete, an Olympian.’
‘I love that man in his croquet kit.’ Becky sighed.
‘Yuck,’ Jill said.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Apple heard someone call, and she glanced back to see that it was Jackson: cruising across the lawn – an aviator jacket over a short dress, arms swinging as she broke into a jog, knocking down a flamingo as she gave Apple a rough hug.
‘Motherfucking papier-mâché birds. What the hell’s with them all?’
‘It’s from Alice in Wonderland!’ Jill said brightly. ‘The Queen of Hearts plays croquet with flamingos, remember? It’s the one rule of backyard croquet: there must be flamingos!’
‘Never read it.’ Jackson tried to stake the bird back in the ground and Apple realised how much she’d missed her, their time at the store.
‘Where’s Arabella?’
‘Back there. Bumped into a colleague. Can’t believe this thing, full fucking Brideshead.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Jill grinned.
‘Well, well.’ Veronica was sauntering across the grass. ‘Deserting our rug so soon?’
‘You ran off to speak to people you obviously liked better than us,’ Jackson said.
‘And I hope you’re not getting drunk, Apple. You’re flying out tomorrow.’
‘Where?’ Jackson asked.
‘To our manufacturing sites.’
‘Vietnam.’ Apple felt contrite.
‘Screw you. When are you going to pay for me to holiday, V?’
‘When you stop being such a brat. God, I’d forgotten how boring this event is; it’s been years. There’s never one interesting person to talk to.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Jackson said.
Veronica was peering out at the green. ‘See that tall, dweeby player? His father owns an art gallery. That’s his son who felt me up at an opening.’
‘At an opening of your vagina?’
‘Don’t be lewd.’
‘I’m being lewd? That boy looks twenty-five – max.’
‘Mother issues.’
‘Grandmother issues.’
Veronica’s laugh tinkled. ‘He wasn’t bad. I’d go again.’
Jackson looked appalled and Veronica gave her a condescending pat without taking her eyes from the green.
‘Off they go!’ The announcer said, and the women craned their necks to watch the first player hit the ball.
‘Your friend wins every year,’ Veronica said.
‘Charlie?’ Apple said.
‘The Huntingtons’ pride and joy. How hilarious and pitiful.’
‘Does he still want you?’ Jackson asked.
‘What?’ Apple said. ‘Don’t be silly. And shh, his sister’s right there.’
Jackson glanced at Jill – away on the edge of the rug – and lowered her voice, repeating, ‘Does he still want you?’
‘He’s doesn’t want Apple. He’s with horrible Heidi Huntington.’ Veronica frowned. ‘Steer clear, they’re all mad.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My mother and I have been dressing the lot of them for the best part of a century! I must say, that’s been the best thing about dropping the couture and going ready-to-wear – far fewer nutters.’
‘We still attract loads of nutters,’ Jackson said.
‘Nothing like it was. Nothing like when these people were crawling all over themselves to get in the door. I do not miss it.’
‘There she is.’ Someone pressed close and Apple felt cold air on her neck before Noah kissed it.
Veronica regarded him. ‘I’ve seen you naked.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I presume it was you rutting with Apple out front of my warehouse?’
‘It better have been.’ He scooped Apple up and kissed her on the mouth before setting her back down, gripping her backside. ‘I remember it well.’
‘I don’t need to see round two.’ Veronica shooed him. ‘But it was amusing. Thank you.’
‘How was your lunch?’ Apple glanced at him.
‘Fine, boring, family. Weather’s good. Stellar turnout.’
‘Hi Noah.’ Becky appeared, holding a small bunch of grapes. She held his gaze as she put one in her mouth. ‘They’re muscat. Yum. Want one?’
She plucked one from the bunch and Noah took it in his teeth with a grin. ‘God, I could do with a drink.’
‘Shall I get it?’ Becky offered.
‘All good, there’s the waiter.’
Apple’s glass was empty too. She accepted a Pimm’s, bobbing the shaft of cucumber in the cocktail.
‘Our prancing pony is going to win and strut all the way home.’ Noah was staring out at the green.
‘I hear Charlie always wins.’
‘The Huntingtons rig it.’
‘Do they?’
‘Of course not. But you’d think so. Beauchamp, the smart arse.’
When there was a break in play, Jill jumped up, surveying the growing crowd on her rug.
‘Who’s single? You, you, you.’ She grasped the wrists of her friends, others followed, and she sailed away, calling, ‘We need to find some cuties!’
‘Kids.’ Noah pulled Apple down into his lap.
By five in the evening, Apple was tipsy, Noah was drunk and Charlie had just won.
‘Whoop-di-do!’ Noah hooted at the sky. ‘Beauchamp takes the crown, what an upset.’ He nosed Apple’s hair. ‘Can I pleasure you some place?’
‘No, thanks.’ Apple kissed his ear.
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’re surrounded by hundreds of people.’
‘There’s hundreds of metres of hedge over there.’
‘Hold the applause!’
It was Charlie, and Noah punched a fist in the air then into his friend’s shoulder.
‘You swing that mallet like I swing my dick, my friend.’
Charlie frowned. ‘Someone’s had a few Pimm’s.’
‘Only you drink Pimm’s.’ Noah swayed a little. ‘That lolly water offers nothing but a sugar high. What’s this?’ He grabbed Charlie’s hand, prodding a perforated fingerless mitt. ‘Fancy accessories for the win?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’ Charlie stroked the soft tan calf skin, meeting Apple’s gaze. ‘I still haven’t thanked you for this – a very unexpected and most welcome gift in the mail. The leather’s veritably buttery.’
‘I’d made Frankfurt a little coat. The leftover leather was too lovely to waste. I figured if anyone was owed a gift from the Bernina, it was you.’
‘You made that?’ Noah said. ‘Jesus, that’s a bit intimate.’
‘How?’ Apple frowned.
‘How’d you know his size?’
‘I guessed. There’s give there.’
‘Good damn guess.’ Noah looked the thing over.
‘Fits like a glove.’ Charlie was smiling.
‘There’s Tom, been trying to find him all day.’ Noah pushed between them, off into the crowd. Apple didn’t like him drunk.
‘Someone’s had too many,’ Charlie said.
‘Yes,’ Apple replied, then added, ‘I liked your – putting? – style.’
‘Putting, hitting . . . clocking? I really will have to stop winning, it’s embarrassing. People must think I have nothing better to do than practise my game.’
‘Isn’t that all you do? Play games every day?’
‘Don’t be mean.’
She reached to wipe a dirty mark on his forehead. ‘Grub.’
He smiled down at her and she quickly looked away, eyeing the Spanish Mission mansion sprawling in the distance.
‘This is one of the Huntingtons’ places?’
‘Yes . . . Bit of an eyesore, this one. But it’s big – they like big.’
‘The garden’s beautiful.’
‘It’s by an American landscaper. She did the entry to Georgia’s flagship too. Do you want to see it? Everyone’s heading there for the party.’
Uplights illuminated trees surrounding the mansion. Floating candles shimmered on a moat-like water feature, and waiters moved from guest to guest, drinks and hors d’oeuvres aloft.
‘Oh my God, Charles.’ Heidi was suddenly there, gown trailing. ‘You invited Michael?’
Charlie hesitated. ‘Who?’
‘I just saw him, Michael Brodhurst. I told you not to invite him.’
A tired, angry sadness Apple hadn’t seen before appeared on Charlie’s face and there was a pause before he said, ‘Heidi, you know he has nothing to do with anything.’
‘Charles! His dad completely undermined the Abercrombie deal.’
‘So? Michael didn’t.’
‘So? I told you, it’s a standing “no” to
all Brodhursts. Dad will be furious. You have no idea what Michael did, what he might have done.’
‘Yes, I do, actually. So do you. So does your dad. It wasn’t Michael’s fault, he had nothing to do with that side of the business.’ Charlie touched Heidi’s waist. ‘Michael’s one of my oldest friends, Heidi; one of our oldest friends.’
‘And his family are spineless arseholes,’ Heidi spat.
‘That’s not Michael’s fault.’
‘Charlie, he’s not fucking invited. Tell him to leave. I want you to tell him now.’
Apple hadn’t moved, partly out of fear of Heidi, partly out of wanting to help but not knowing how – it was far from her place.
‘I won’t tell him to leave, he’s a friend.’
‘I’m your girlfriend!’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Oh, shut the fuck up.’
‘I’m going to get a car to take us back to town.’
‘Why would you do that? We’re staying all weekend!’
Apple slipped away.
Concealed by the crowd, she glanced back, heart speeding, stomach sick. Her phone was ringing. She saw Poppy’s name and she closed her eyes, her mind too addled for the conversation her sister wanted, but wanting to hear her voice nonetheless.
‘Poppy?’ She hurried around the corner of the house.
‘Apple?’
‘How are you?’
There was silence, Apple’s friendly tone perhaps not what her sister expected.
‘I can’t believe how rude you’ve been, avoiding me,’ Poppy said.
Apple kept on down the path.
‘I’m so upset about the way you’re dealing with all this, Apple.’
‘Please, Poppy, I just, I don’t want to talk about this, not now.’
‘You’re acting like a child.’
Apple choked out an exhausted laugh, tears welling. ‘You’re acting like the child.’
‘By wanting something owed to me? What’s mine? What’s best for you, me, us?’
‘How on earth do you know what’s best for me?’
‘A few hundred thousand wouldn’t hurt!’
‘It might!’
‘You’re insane.’
‘Poppy . . .’ Apple wished she’d let the call ring out. ‘I spoke to Charlie. He sympathised. It’s toxic to take contaminated money. Money’s like any relationship. Do you invite bad relationships into your life? No. This is toxic. I don’t want anything to do with it.’
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 19